The air in the Rosedale nursery was thick with the scent of fresh white paint and the expensive, powdery aroma of high-end baby detergents. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the golden sunlight was cutting through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the space where Julian Sterling was currently on his hands and knees.
He was assembling a Swedish-designed crib that had more parts than a jet engine, his fingers raw from tightening hex bolts. Usually, Julian had people for this—teams of assistants, a property manager, a specialized handyman. Now, he had only a set of confusing instructions and the watchful, emerald eyes of the woman sitting in the velvet armchair.
