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select a few promising ones for her to call. Three calls yielded three appointments, which came as a big surprise. As she spoke to each owner, her hopes rose.
    Mallory and Ben were right—people in this town really didn’t like Max Schumm. They’d chosen to fizbo instead of listing with him or another firm. Each was willing to listen to her pitch, so she’d set up times to meet with them that afternoon.
    House one belonged to George and Sheila Ryan, an older couple ready to sell their Illinois home and become residents of a Florida retirement community.
    The door opened, revealing a man with gray hair, enough wrinkles to be wise, and a friendly face.
    Giving him her most confident smile, Juliana held out her hand. “Hi. I’m Juliana Kelley. You must be Mr. Ryan.”
    He shook her hand then held the door open wider. “Come on in, young lady. Call me George. Please.”
    The place was an antiquer’s dream. Most of the furniture had to be older than she was. A lot older. If they agreed to list with her, she’d offer them a ton of suggestions on staging the place, the first being to sell or store some of the rather overcrowded furnishings. But other than having too much clutter—little wonder because they’d owned the place since they’d built it when Kennedy was in office—it had loads of potential. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Newer replacement windows. A nice, large corner lot. The walls even appeared freshly painted in neutral tones—a good choice to please potential buyers.
    “Thanks so much for agreeing to speak with me.” She opened her planner and pulled out one of her business cards Ben had made for her using Amber’s template for Carpenter Contracting. He’d switched out the hammer-and-screwdriver logo for a simple green shamrock and changed all the personal info to fit her. While it might have been a hasty job, it was good enough for her to use for now. Soon she’d have enough cash flow to order some from a print shop and could perhaps take the time to design something more flashy.
    George took the card and squinted at it.
    His wife came in from the kitchen, holding a pair of reading glasses. She passed them to her husband and smiled at Juliana. “Hi. I’m Sheila.”
    “Hi, Sheila. A pleasure to meet you.”
    “Can I get you some tea?”
    “No, thank you.”
    After donning the glasses and perusing Juliana’s card, he passed it to his wife. “So you think you can sell our house better than we can?”
    Taking a deep breath, Juliana launched into the pitch she’d worked up and then practiced repeatedly with the Ladies. She outlined all the things a good Realtor could do to help them, from finding the right list price to staging to screening the people she’d allow into their home. Judging from the way Sheila kept nodding along with every point Juliana made, she was already on her side. George merely stared at her, stroking his chin with his thumb and index finger as though giving all she proposed great consideration.
    It was a good start.
    A knock at the door interrupted a question he’d only begun to ask.
    “Excuse me.” He went to the front door and peeked out one of the three small oval windows near eye level. Then he opened the door.
    “Mr. Ryan? Hi. I believe we had an appointment.”
    Juliana froze, the familiar baritone washing over her in relentless waves. Her heart leapt in her chest, pounding a rough rhythm that made her light-headed.
    No. No way.
    She turned to find Connor Wilson standing on the front porch.
    Her mind split, heading two directions. On one hand she was thrilled to see him again. On the other, she wished he’d never shown up. There was no question why he was here—he’d also decided to try getting his own customers among the fizbos. She’d never dreamed she’d be competing with him for listings. Naïve on her part considering she’d met him at Max’s seminar.
    Where had he been the last few weeks? She’d found herself searching each male face she passed at the