Three hours before the annual Cancer Treatment Center fund-raiser, Morgan Tremayne wasn’t wearing the hand- beaded designer dress and kill-me-now Manolo Blahnik sandals. She wasn’t walking into the Winstead Salon and Spa with the other socialites. She wasn’t applying the makeup she hadn’t worn in months. Instead, she was jammed under the kitchen sink of her late grandmother’s Victorian, grey sludge squishing between her fingers as she tightened the lugs on the garbage disposal.

She swiped at the sweat dripping down the side of her face. Ugh. The glamorous life of a landlord made even more challenging by the overly curious, determined-to- help nine-year-old sprawled across Morgan’s chest. Morgan wasn’t sure what was more difficult—repairing the disposal or trying to do so without knocking Brandon Monroe in the head.

“Okay.” Morgan grunted as her arms and fingers went numb. Given the positions she found herself in these days, she could hire out as a contortionist with Cirque du Soleil. “Turn the faucet on. Slowly this time,” she added as a touch of panic kicked in her belly at the thought of having to start over for the third time. She was already behind schedule.

Brandon scooted out, the buckle of his plastic tool belt clacking against the cabinet. Morgan took a deep breath as cool air swooped in under the sink. She lifted her head as Brandon rose up on tiptoe. Seconds later, water rushed through the pipes. “Now flip the switch on the disposal.” Fingers crossed.

The grinding of the blades above her head may as well have been a performance by a philharmonic given the surge of joy it produced. Morgan twisted her way out of the cabinet.

“It works.” Brandon dropped down to Morgan’s level, a huge smile on his pale, round face.

“It works.” Morgan got to her feet and turned off the disposal before washing up. “Just be careful next time, okay? We can’t afford to lose any more spoons.”

Brandon plucked the mangled teaspoon, this week’s weapon of mass destruction, off the floor and examined it with a narrowed gaze. Morgan wanted to ask what the poor spoon had done to deserve such a horrible end. Not that the utensil was the first sacrifice made in the name of mechanical investigations. As much as Morgan appreciated Brandon’s quest for knowledge, it was only a matter of time before professionals would have to be called in for repairs.

No wonder Morgan’s bedside reading consisted of Dare to Repair and Home Maintenance for Dummies.

“We don’t have to tell Nico and Angela, do we?” Brandon’s voice lowered to a whisper as he asked about his foster parents.

“We don’t have to. But you know the rules. Secrets are as bad as lying, and we don’t lie in this house.” Morgan glanced out the window, searching for the lightning strike headed her way. No lies? Guilt and anxiety made her heart spin like an out-of-control slot machine that never paid off. She hadn’t lied exactly. She just hadn’t confided in anyone how dire her financial woes were or how far she’d gone to solve them.

“O-kay.” Brandon rolled his eyes as Morgan’s cell phone buzzed. As she read the text from Angela and Nico that they were on their way home, Morgan’s schedule shifted back on track and the tension in her chest eased.

All she had to do once she reached her apartment over the garage in the backyard was shower off the remnants of the day’s repairs, wash and dry her hair, unearth some makeup —if she could find it—and cram herself into the stunning and outrageously expensive dress her mother had bought her.

Grief surged in her chest. Her mom wouldn’t see her in the dress she’d painstakingly chosen. Her mom wouldn’t be there as Morgan attended her first charity event as chairwoman of the Tremayne Foundation. Her mom wouldn’t be there for anything. It had been almost a year, but Morgan wondered when the feeling of loss would lessen. Or if she’d ever stop missing her mother so much she ached.

“Got your repair journal, Brandon?” She couldn’t dwell. No time. Morgan picked up her grandfather’s old toolbox before someone tripped on it, and set it on the table. “Make note of how we fixed the disposal before you forget.” A renewed gleam brightened Brandon’s face as he skipped out of the room, tool belt slipping down his narrow hips, the deformed spoon still clutched in his hand.

So far Nico Fiorelli’s suggestion that Brandon keep a repair journal had prevented any repeat experiments. How one little boy could cause such innocent destruction in such a short amount of time was a question that as yet remained unanswered. Not so long ago, Brandon hadn’t been able to get out of bed. The chemotherapy to treat his stage two kidney cancer had been so intense he’d ended up in the emergency room three different times and been bedridden for weeks. All the more reason to consider Brandon’s current hands-on curiosity a blessing.

Morgan scrubbed tired hands down her face. What she wouldn’t give for a six-pack of Red Bull about now. Instead, she settled for making a cup of coffee.

Time to gear up and raise more money in one night than the Tremayne Foundation ever had before. Her mother would expect nothing less, and Morgan needed nothing less. It was the only way out of the mess she’d made. Besides, every second she spent worrying about money was energy stolen from the kids and the work she still needed to do.

Morgan had just grabbed her travel cup of coffee when footsteps sounded behind her and eight-year-old Kelley Black ran to her, her poofy ice blue princess dress billowing around her thin frame.

“Can’t I come to the party with you?” Kelley plucked at the hem of Morgan’s shirt. “I have a pretty dress, too. I’ll be good. I promise. I won’t get sick or anything.”