He got to his feet so quickly that his chair scuttled backward across the floor and nearly toppled. It was the thought of failure that managed to clear his mind of Dream Zoey. No matter how tempting, that Zoey was a figment of his imagination. A logical but meaningless manifestation of his body craving the touch of a woman. Not craving Zoey Hartford specifically. That was just a mind trick, and he needed to ignore it. Because dreams weren’t real, damn it.

It was after eight when he got to Zoey’s that night, and he was surprised when Hazel came out of the shop as he parked the car. She seemed surprised to see him, too.

“Hi, Mike!”

“Hey, kid. Are you making over Mom’s workspace now? I heard you’re big on redecorating.”

She giggled. “As if. I can’t even talk her into repainting the place!” He chuckled, impressed that Hazel had even tried. She held up her phone. “I just needed her permission to babysit for Mary this weekend. But if you’re going in there, be careful. She’s on a rampage, but it’s not my fault. G’night.” She headed to the house without offering any explanation for her mom’s mood.

He tapped on the door, then went into the shop. He couldn’t see Zoey, but he could hear her. She was off in the corner storage room, tossing things around and cursing a blue streak. He took his usual seat, setting the bottle of chardonnay on the worktable. It sounded as if boxes were being kicked or wrestled with in the storage room, but he did not offer to help. Safer to keep his distance. He managed to keep himself from flinching when she stomped back into the workshop. Her head snapped up when she saw him, then she dropped the armful of small boxes on the table.

“Oh, good—you’re here. Open that bottle, will you? I need your legal expertise.”

“My legal expertise? For what?” The only legal work he’d done for her had been when she and Chris bought—and then sold—their house. And he’d processed her dad’s will and got this place into her name. But there weren’t any loose ends with anything that he was aware of. He’d very intentionally avoided getting involved in the divorce proceedings, other than referring her to a good divorce attorney in Geneva.

“What do you know about zoning laws?” She pulled a couple of plastic glasses from the cupboard and opened the twist-off cap on the wine bottle.

“Zoning? For what?”

“Is it really illegal for me to have a business here?”

Mike blinked. The question was straight out of left field, and it took him a moment to switch gears.

“I’m lost,” he admitted. “Why would you think that? What’s happened?”