“Of course he can, dear. He just always does,” she said. “He can fix anything.”

And what did it say that talking to the dog park’s surprise tarot reader’s son was the best option Chelle had? Bad things, it said very bad things.

But what other choice did she have? Too many people depended on the foundation for Chelle to just give up without a fight. And if that meant talking to random strangers with super problem-solving powers…so be it.

This was nuts. And she was doing it anyway.

“As long as we can meet in public”—Chelle said, wondering what in the world she was doing—“then I’m in.”

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Nash

It was noon on a Tuesday, and Nash was at St. George’s Park on a mission for his mom instead of meeting with a cosmetics buyer with the biggest luxury retail store in Australia. The buyer was interested in stocking Beckett Cosmetics’ products, a deal that would improve the company’s bottom line by 15 percent. That wasn’t just a lot of zeroes, it was the kind of growth that could take Beckett Cosmetics to the next level in the international market.

It was a fucking massive deal.

That’s why he should have told his mom “no” when she’d called last night, instead of rearranging his entire schedule to accommodate this “teeny tiny little favor,” as she’d put it.

But he hadn’t.

Now, here he was freezing his balls off as the first snow of the season fell, looking for a woman his mom had said needed his help.

Fuck. He was such a sucker.

Grumbling to himself, Nash rounded a bend in the treelined asphalt path and stopped a few steps beyond the reach of an eighty-pound lab testing its leash and its owner’s strength while doing its best to get to a squirrel that was staring down at it from a just-high-enough branch. The dog’s owner, meanwhile, was searching one-handed through the pockets of her thick wool coat while standing next to a giant, steaming mound of poop that only a dog of the lab’s size could produce.

“Damn it,” she grumbled.

After switching his to-go cup of coffee to his right hand, Nash reached into one of the inside pockets of his coat and pulled out one of the plastic poop bags he’d stuffed in there, because his mom would forget hers every time she went on a walk with her demon Jack Russell-chihuahua mix. “Need one of these?”

“Oh my God, yes,” the woman said with a relieved smile. “Thank you!”

“No worries.” He handed the bag over. “You know, they make these poop bag holders that clip right onto the leash so you don’t have to worry about forgetting them when you leave the house for a walk. Or you could leave some right next to the leash as a visual cue. Or you could—”