Page 15 of All Signs Point to Malibu

“Yep,” I say awkwardly as I release her.

She heads back toward her house. “Good luck with the pool, dear!” she calls over her shoulder.

Alone, I look at the crack in the concrete and my gut tightens with an eerie, sinking sensation. It’s not my psychic abilities at work. This is more of an ominous vibe, as though the crack in the pool could be a sign of things to come...

Hours later, I hang freshly laundered sweaters on the treadmill in my state-of-the-art home gym, which is full of equipment I have no idea how to use. The sales rep at Fitness City must have made his monthly commission off me. But if I want sports clients, I need to get sporty. Or at least give the impression that I know what I’m talking about. Probably should scuff up some of the weights before the VIP party, when I’ll be touring potential athletic clients through the facility.

I mean Icouldactually use the equipment. Right now, my health maintenance strategy is to avoid fried foods and hope for the best. But I hate working out and despite countless efforts, I’m not a huge sports fan.

Before the incident with Warren, I had zero interest in pro-athlete clients. I can bullshit my way through most industries, with some minor research, but sports seemed to have too many variables, too many unknowns, so it seemed too risky to fully trust my glimpses.

But after that day in the airport, something switched in my thinking. I tried to resist it, but I couldn’t quiet the nagging voice that said maybe I could use my gift for more than success in business—my clients’ and my own. Maybe there was a better purpose. Maybe I could—and should—use my gift in a more altruistic way.

After all, I’d saved Warren’s life. Maybe preventing other injuries would balance out my karma a little. Make me feel less like a fraud for never having to implement the success strategies I advise my clients.

The front gate intercom sounds and I glance at my watch. Jensen Pools and Lawns—right on time.

I hit the intercom button on the wall and static sounds before a muffled voice announces their presence. Great, something else broken.

Upstairs, I open the front door and step outside as I hear the maintenance van drive up to the house. I wait and smile at the sound of Mr. Jensen’s toolbox coming around the corner.

Only it’s not Mr. Jensen.

My mouth gapes and I blink several times, but he’s still there.

Liam Jensen.

My ex, dressed in a polo shirt with a company logo on it, approaches and scans the property. He stops in front of me and I almost reach out to touch him to make sure he’s real. With my “condition,” hallucinations seem like just one step away.

“Hails, long time,” he says with a familiar slow smile that used to make my heart thunder. Apparently still does. My health tracker can shut up anytime now.

“I was just in my gym,” I say lamely to explain the loud, rapid beeping coming from my wrist. Technically, it’s not a lie.

“Good to see you,” he says, his gaze drifting over me. I glance at my athleisure wear—I may not work out, but I can appreciate the comfort of yoga clothes—and quickly try to tame my unruly hair.

“Is it?” Jesus, Hailey—sound more desperate. “I mean, good to see you too... What are you doing here?”

“Dad’s crews were out on other jobs, so he sent me to check out your pool.”

Right. He works for his father. Or at least he used to in high school. Now he’s a big shot architect in New York.

“Oh right... I’ll show you out back.”

I lead the way toward the backyard pool and Liam follows, an impressed look on his handsome face as he takes in my view.

“Ocean view, like you always wanted. I remember driving to the beach every weekend and you’d always talk about owning one of these homes one day.”

“Set goals and...” I stop and laugh, embarrassed. “Sorry, occupational hazard.” Try to be normal, Hailey. “When did you get back in town?”

“A few days ago,” he says and I can’t decipher how he feels about it. But I know how I feel. Sucker punched that this is the first time I’ve seen him. Not that I expect to be his first stop when he’s in town, but a quick text would have been nice.

“I was on the plane when the tremor hit. Had to circle the airport for over an hour.”

An uneasiness settles in the pit of my stomach at the mention of the earthquake. “How long are you staying?”

“Not sure...at least a year.”

My head whips toward him and I get a neck cramp. “What happened in New York? I thought you were designing the new skyscrapers along Seventh Avenue?”

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