Книга - A Ceo In Her Stocking

A Ceo In Her Stocking
Elizabeth Bevarly






“A few hours till dinner? You must be home earlier than usual then.”

She meant for the comment to be teasing. Evidently, Grant wasn’t the workaholic she’d assumed he was if he ended his office hours early enough to have some relaxation time before dinner. The realization heartened her. Maybe he did have something in common with his twin.

But Grant didn’t take the comment as teasing. “Yeah, I am, actually,” he said matter-of-factly. “But there wasn’t anything at the office I couldn’t bring home with me, and I thought maybe you—and Hank, too, for that matter—I thought both of you, actually, might … um …”

Somehow, she knew he’d intended to end the sentence with the words need me, but decided at the last minute to say something else instead. Something else that clearly hadn’t yet formed in his brain, though, because no other words came out of his mouth to help the thought along.

But Clara had trouble figuring out what to say next, too, mostly because she was too busy drowning in the deep blue depths of Grant’s eyes to be able to recognize much of anything else.

* * *

A CEO in Her Stocking is part of the Accidental Heirs duet: First they find their fortunes, then they find love


A CEO in Her Stocking

Elizabeth Bevarly






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Table of Contents

Cover (#ud44c30ad-326f-559b-bbc9-7ff418c7dc14)

Introduction (#uf3f39f7f-f0a7-5f68-bc1f-da3ed21c9365)

Title Page (#u44307e2e-7229-52cd-aaa2-cae5fd130339)

About the Author (#u4194da1a-6920-570c-b5fb-537389a06084)

Dedication (#u675a2ec6-4d94-50e5-b904-8b39ec1e1824)

Prologue (#ulink_5a7481a1-eef4-5074-9833-841a4b05f511)

One (#ulink_f5084a67-23c7-5761-8c66-b3f58f5c8027)

Two (#ulink_52556ca6-ffcc-53a9-aace-1b644414096d)

Three (#ulink_3c4483db-b45e-51d4-8d77-40660ed5b2be)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ELIZABETH BEVARLY is a New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of more than seventy novels and novellas. Her books have been translated into two dozen languages and published in three dozen countries, and she hopes to someday be as well traveled herself. An honors graduate of the University of Louisville, she has called home places as diverse as San Juan, Puerto Rico, and Haddonfield, New Jersey, but now writes full-time in her native Kentucky, usually on a futon between two cats. She loves reading, movies, British and Canadian TV shows and fiddling with soup recipes. Visit her on the web at www.elizabethbevarly.com (http://www.elizabethbevarly.com), follow her on Twitter or send her a friend request on Facebook.


For David and Eli, the people who made Christmas even better than it already was.


Prologue (#ulink_6b020af3-7a65-569f-92d8-0e893d569511)

Clara Easton was dabbing one final icing berry onto a poinsettia cupcake when the bell over the entrance to Tybee Island’s Bread & Buttercream rang for what she hoped was the last time that day. Not that she wasn’t grateful for every customer, but with Thanksgiving just over and Christmas barely a month away, the bakery had been getting hammered. Not to mention she had to pick up Hank from his sitter in... She glanced at the clock. Yikes! Thirty minutes! Where had the day gone?

With luck, the customer was someone who’d just remembered she needed a dessert for a weekend party, and Hey, whatever you have left in the case is fine—I’ll take it. But the visitor was neither a she nor a customer, Tilly, the salesclerk, told Clara when she came back to the kitchen. It was a man asking for her as Miss Easton. A man in a suit. Carrying a briefcase.

Which was kind of weird, since no one on the island called her anything but Clara, and few if any of her customers were business types—or men, for that matter. Moms and brides pretty much kept Bread & Buttercream in business. Clara was intrigued enough that she didn’t take time to remove her apron before heading into the shop. She did at least tuck a few raven curls under the white kerchief tied on her head pirate-style.

Though the man might have fit right in on the island with his surfer dude good looks, he clearly wasn’t local. His suit was too well cut, his hair too well styled, and he looked completely out of his element amid the white wrought-iron café sets and murals of cartoon cupcakes.

“Hi,” Clara greeted him. “Can I help you?”

“Miss Easton?” he asked.

“Clara,” she automatically corrected him. Miss Easton sounded like a Victorian spinster who ran a boardinghouse for young ladies required to be home by nine o’clock in order to preserve their reputations and their chastity.

“Miss Easton,” the man repeated anyway. “My name is August Fiver. I work for Tarrant, Fiver and Twigg. Attorneys.”

He extended a business card that bore his name and title—Senior Vice-President and Probate Researcher—and an address in New York City. Clara knew probate had something to do with wills, but she didn’t know anyone who had died. She had no family except for her son, and all of her friends were fine.

“Probate researcher?” she asked.

He nodded. “My firm is hired to find heirs who are, for lack of a better term, long-lost relatives of...certain estates.”

The explanation did nothing to clear things up. From what Clara knew about the two people who had exchanged enough bodily fluids to produce her, whatever they might have for her to inherit was either stolen or conned. She would just as soon have them stay long lost.

Her confusion must have shown on her face, because August Fiver told her, “It’s your son, Henry. I’m here on behalf of his paternal grandmother, Francesca Dunbarton.” His lips turned up in just the hint of a smile as he added, “Of the Park Avenue Dunbartons.”

Clara’s mouth dropped open. She’d spent almost a month with Hank’s father four summers ago, when she was working the counter of Bread & Buttercream. Brent had been charming, funny and sweet, with the eyes of a poet, the mouth of a god and a body that could have been roped off in an Italian museum. He’d lived in a tent, played the guitar and read aloud to her by firelight. Then, one morning, he was gone, moving on to whatever came next in his life.

Clara hadn’t really minded that much. She hadn’t loved him, and she’d had plans for her future that didn’t include him. They deliberately hadn’t exchanged last names, so certain had both been that whatever they had was temporary. They’d had fun for a few weeks, but like all good things, it had come to an end.

Except it didn’t quite come to an end. When Clara discovered she was pregnant, she felt obliged to contact Brent and let him know—she’d still had his number in her phone. But her texts to him about her condition went unanswered, as did her messages when she tried to call. Then the number was disconnected. It hadn’t been easy raising a child alone. It still wasn’t. But Clara managed. It was her and Hank against the world. And that was just fine with her.

“I didn’t realize Brent came from money,” she said. “He wasn’t... We weren’t... That summer was...” She gave up trying to describe what defied description. “I’m surprised he even told his mother about Hank. I’m sorry Mrs. Dunbarton passed away without meeting her grandson.”

At this, August Fiver’s expression sobered. “Mrs. Dunbarton is alive and well. I’m afraid it’s Brent who’s passed away.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Clara was struck dumb. She tried to identify how she felt about the news of Brent’s death and was distressed to discover she had no idea how to feel. It had just been so long since she’d seen him.

“As your son is Brent Dunbarton’s sole heir, everything that belonged to him now belongs to Henry. A not insignificant sum.”

Not insignificant, Clara echoed to herself. What did that mean?

“One hundred and forty-two million,” August Fiver said.

Her stomach dropped. Surely she heard that wrong. He must mean one hundred and forty-two million Legos. Or action figures. Or Thomas the Tank Engines. Those things did seem to multiply quickly. Surely he didn’t mean one hundred and forty-two million—

“Dollars,” he said, clearing that up. “Mr. Dunbarton’s estate—your son’s inheritance—is worth in excess of one hundred and forty-two million dollars. And your son’s grandmother is looking forward to meeting you both. So is Brent’s brother, Grant. I’ve been charged by them with bringing you and Henry to New York as soon as possible. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”


One (#ulink_dd9418d0-67cb-58f8-aade-54c6a5c6c98f)

Clara had never traveled north of Knoxville, Tennessee. Everything she knew about New York City she’d learned from television and movies, none of which had prepared her for the reality of buildings dissolving into the sky and streets crammed with people and taxis. Even so, as the big town car carrying her, Hank and Gus—as August Fiver had instructed her to call him—turned onto Park Avenue, Clara was beginning to get an inkling about why New York was a town so nice they named it twice.

Ultimately, it had taken four days to leave Tybee Island. Packing for a toddler took a day in itself, and Clara had orders that weekend for a birthday party, a baby shower, a bunco night and a wedding cake. Then there were all the arrangements she needed to make with Hank’s preschool and covering shifts at Bread & Buttercream. Thank goodness the week after Thanksgiving was slow enough, barely, to manage that before the Christmas season lurched into gear.

Looking out the window now, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The city was just...awesome. She hated to use such a trite word for such a spectacular place, but she couldn’t think of anything more fitting.

“Mama, this is awesome!”

Clara smiled at her son. Okay, maybe that was why she couldn’t think of another word for it. Because awesome was about the only adjective you heard when you had a three-year-old.

Hank strained against the belt of the car seat fastened between her and Gus, struggling to get a glimpse at the passing urban landscape, his fascination as rabid as Clara’s. That was where much of their alikeness ended, however. Although he had her black curls and green eyes, too, his face was a copy of Brent’s. His disposition was also like his father’s. He was easygoing and quick to laugh, endlessly curious about everything and rarely serious.

But Clara was glad Hank was different from her in that respect. She’d been a serious little girl. Things like fun and play had been largely absent from her childhood, and she’d learned early on to never ask questions, because it would only annoy the grown-ups. Such was life for a ward of the state of Georgia, who was shuttled from foster home to children’s home to group home and back again. It was why she was determined that her son’s life would be as free from turbulence as she could make it, and why he would be well-rooted in one place. She just hoped this inheritance from Brent didn’t mess with either of those things.

The car rolled to a halt before a building of a dozen stories whose stone exterior was festooned with gold wreaths for the holidays. Topiaries sparkling with white lights dotted the front walkway leading to beveled lattice windows and French doors, and a red-liveried doorman stood sentry at the front door. It was exactly the kind of place where people would live when they were the owners of an industrial empire that had been in their family for two centuries. The Dunbartons could trace their roots all the way back to England, Gus had told her, where they were distantly related to a duke. Meaning that Hank could potentially become king, if the Black Death returned and took out the several thousand people standing between him and the throne.

The building’s lobby was as sumptuous as its exterior, all polished marble and gleaming mahogany bedecked with evergreen boughs and swaths of red velvet ribbon. And when they took the elevator to the top floor, the doors unfolded on more of the same, since the penthouse foyer was decorated with enough poinsettias to germinate a banana republic. Clara curled her arm around Hank’s shoulders to hug him close, and Gus seemed to sense her anxiety. He smiled reassuringly as he rang the bell. She glanced at Hank to make sure he was presentable, and, inescapably, had to stoop to tie his sneaker.

“Mr. Fiver,” she heard someone greet Gus in a crisp, formal voice.

Butler, she decided as she looped Hank’s laces into a serviceable bow. And wow, was the man good at butlering. He totally sounded like someone who was being paid good money to be cool and detached.

“Mr. Dunbarton,” Gus replied.

Oh. Okay. Not the butler. Brent’s brother. She couldn’t remember what Brent’s voice had sounded like, but she was sure it hadn’t been anywhere near as solemn.

Laces tied, Clara stood to greet their host, and... And took a small step backward, her breath catching in her chest. Because Hank’s father had risen from the grave, looking as somber as death itself.

Or maybe not. On closer consideration, Clara saw little of Brent in his brother’s blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair. Brent’s eyes had laughed with merriment, and his hair had been long enough to dance in the ocean breeze. The salient cheekbones, trenchant jaw and elegant nose were the same, but none were burnished by the caress of salt and sun. And the mouth... Oh, the mouth. Brent’s mouth had been perpetually curled into an irreverent smile, full and beautiful, the kind of mouth that incited a woman to commit mayhem. This version was flat and uncompromising, clearly not prone to smiles. And where Brent had worn nothing but T-shirts and baggy shorts, this man was dressed in charcoal trousers, a crisp white Oxford shirt, maroon necktie and black vest.

So it wasn’t Zombie Brent. It was Brent’s very much alive brother. Brent’s very much alive twin brother. The mirror image of a man who had, one summer, filled Clara with a happiness unlike any she had ever known, and left her with the gift of a son who would ensure that happiness stayed with her forever.

A mirror image of that man who resembled him not at all.

* * *

She wasn’t what he’d expected.

Then again, Grant Dunbarton wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected the mother of Brent’s son to be. His brother had been completely indiscriminate when it came to women. Brent had been indiscriminate about everything. Women, cars, clothes. Friends, family, society. Promises, obligations, responsibilities. You name it, it had held Brent’s attention for as long as it interested him—which was rarely more than a few days. Then he’d moved on to something else. He’d been the poster child for Peter Pan Syndrome, no matter how old he was.

Actually, Grant reconsidered, there had been one way his brother discriminated when it came to women. All of them had been jaw-droppingly beautiful. Clara Easton was no exception. Her hair was a riot of black curls, her mouth was as plump and red as a ripe pepper and her eyes were a green so pale and so clear they seemed to go on forever. She was tall, too, probably pushing six feet in her spike-heeled boots.

She might have looked imperious, but she had her arm roped protectively around her son in a way that indicated she was clearly uncomfortable. Grant supposed that shouldn’t be surprising. It wasn’t every day that a woman who’d been spawned by felons and raised in a string of sketchy environments discovered she’d given birth to the equivalent of American royalty.

Because the Dunbartons of Park Avenue—formerly the Dunbartons of Rittenhouse Square and, before that, the Dunbartons of Beacon Hill—were a family whose name had, since Revolutionary times, been mentioned in the same breath with the Hancocks, Astors, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. Still, Grant admired her effort to make herself look invulnerable. It was actually kind of cute.

And then there was the boy. He was going to be a problem. Except for his hair and eye color—both a contribution from his mother—he was a replica of his father at that age. Grant hoped his own mother didn’t fall apart again when she saw Henry Easton. She’d been a mess since hearing the news of Brent’s drowning off the coast of Sri Lanka in the spring. It had only been last month that she’d finally pulled herself together enough to go through his things. Then, when she came across the will none of them knew he’d made and discovered he had a child none of them knew he’d fathered, she’d broken down again.

This time, though, there had been joy tempering the grief. There was a remnant of Brent out there in the world somewhere. In Georgia, of all places. Grant had been worried they’d need a paternity test to ensure Henry Easton really was a Dunbarton before they risked dashing his mother’s hopes. But the boy’s undeniable resemblance to Brent—and to Grant, for that matter—made that unnecessary.

“Ms. Easton,” he said as warmly as he could—though, admittedly, warmth wasn’t his strong suit. Brent had pretty much sucked up all the affability genes in the Dunbarton DNA while they were still in the womb. Which was fine, because it left Grant with all the efficiency genes, and those carried a person a lot further in life. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You, too,” he told Henry.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Dunbarton,” Clara said, her voice low and husky and as bewitching as the rest of her.

A Southern drawl tinted her words, something Grant would have thought he’d find disagreeable, but instead found...well, kind of hot.

She nudged her son lightly. “Right, Hank? Say hello to Mr. Dunbarton.”

“Hello, Mr. Dunbarton,” the boy echoed dutifully.

Grant did his best to smile. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Dunbarton. You can call me...”

He started to say Uncle Grant, but the words got stuck in his throat. Uncle wasn’t a word that sat well with him. Uncles were affable, easygoing guys who told terrible jokes and pulled nickels from people’s ears. Uncles wore argyle sweaters and brought six-packs to Thanksgiving dinner. Uncles taught their nephews the things fathers wouldn’t, like where to hide their Playboys and how to get fake IDs. No way was Grant suited to the role of uncle.

So he said, “Call me Grant.” When he looked at Clara Easton again, he added, “You, too.”

“Thank you...Grant,” she said. Awkwardly. In her Southern accent. That was kind of hot.

She glanced at her son. But Henry remained silent, only gazing at Grant with his mother’s startlingly green eyes.

“Come in,” he said to all of them.

August Fiver did, but Clara hesitated, clearly not confident of their reception, her arm still draped around her son’s shoulder.

“Please,” Grant tried again, extending his hand toward the interior. “You are welcome here.”

Clara still didn’t look convinced, but the intrepid Henry took an experimental step forward, his gaze never leaving Grant’s. Then he took a second, slightly larger, step. Then a third, something that pulled him free of his mother’s grasp. She looked as if she wanted to yank him back, but remained rooted where she stood.

“My mother is looking forward to meeting you,” Grant said, hoping the mention of another woman might make her feel better. But mention of his mother only made her look more panicked.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Easton?”

By now, Henry had followed Fiver through the door, so the three of them looked expectantly at Clara. She glanced first at her son, then at Grant. For a moment, he honestly thought she would grab her son and bolt. Then, finally, she strode forward. Again, Grant was impressed by her attempt to seem more confident than she was. This time, though, it didn’t seem cute. This time, it seemed kind of...

Hmm. That was weird. For a minute there, he felt toward Clara the way she must have felt when she roped her arm protectively around her son. But why would he feel the need to protect Clara Easton? From what he’d learned about her, she was more than capable of taking care of herself. Not to mention that he barely knew her. And he wouldn’t be getting to know her any better than he had to after this first encounter.

Sure, it was inevitable that their paths would cross in the future, since his mother would want to see as much of Henry as possible, and Clara would be included in that. But Grant didn’t have the time or inclination to be Uncle Grant, even without the Uncle part. He and Brent might have been identical in looks, but they’d been totally different in every other way. Brent was always the charming, cheerful twin, while Grant was the sober, silent one. Brent made friends with abandon. Grant’s few friends barely knew him. Brent treated life like a party. Grant knew it was a chore. Brent loved everyone he ever met. Grant never—

Clara Easton walked past him, leaving in her wake a faint aroma of something spicy and sweet. Cinnamon, he realized. And ginger. She smelled like Christmas morning. Except not the Christmas mornings he knew now, which were only notable because they were a day off from work. She smelled like the Christmas mornings of his childhood, before his father died, when the Dunbartons were happy.

Wow. He hadn’t thought about those Christmas mornings for a long time. Because thinking about mornings like that reminded him of a time and place—reminded him of a person—he would never know again. A time when Grant had been staggeringly contented, and when his future had been filled with the promise of—

Of lots of things that never happened. He didn’t usually like being reminded of mornings like that. For some reason, though, he didn’t mind having Clara Easton and her cinnamon bun–gingerbread scent remind him today. He just wished he was the kind of person who could reciprocate. The kind of person who could be charming and cheerful and made friends with abandon. The kind who treated life like a party and loved everyone he met.

The kind who could draw the eye of a woman like Clara Easton in a way that didn’t make her respond with fear and anxiety.

* * *

As Clara followed Grant Dunbarton deeper into the penthouse, she told herself she was silly to feel so intimidated. It was just an apartment. Just a really big, really sumptuous apartment. On one of the most expensive streets in the world. Filled with art and antiques with a value that probably exceeded the gross national product of some sovereign nations. She knew nothing of dates or styles when it came to antiques, but she was going to go out on a limb and say the decor here was Early Conspicuous Consumption.

Inescapably, she compared it to her two-bedroom, one-bath apartment above the bakery. Her furniture was old, too, but her Midcentury Salvage wasn’t nearly as chic, and her original artwork had been executed by a preschooler. Add to that the general chaos that came with having said preschooler underfoot—and also rocks, puzzle pieces and Cheerios underfoot—and it was pretty clear who had the better living space. She just hoped Hank didn’t notice that, too. But judging by the way he walked with his eyes wide, his neck craned and his mouth open, she was pretty sure he did.

“So...how long have y’all lived here?” she asked Grant. Mostly because no one had said a word since she and Hank and Gus entered, and she was beginning to think none of them would ever speak again.

Grant slowed until she pulled alongside him, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the upside, she could see his face. On the downside, she could see his face. And all she could do was be struck again by how much he resembled Brent. Well, that and also worry about how the resemblance set off little explosions in her midsection that warmed places inside her that really shouldn’t be warming in mixed company.

“Brent and I grew up here,” he said. “The place has been in the family for three generations.”

“Wow,” Clara said. Talk about having deep roots somewhere. “I grew up in Macon. But I’ve been living on Tybee Island since I graduated from college.”

“Yes, I know,” he told her. “You graduated from Carson High School with a near-perfect GPA and have a business administration degree from the College of Coastal Georgia that you earned in three years. Not bad. Especially considering how you worked three jobs the entire time.”

Clara told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Families like the Dunbartons didn’t open their door to just anyone. “You had me checked out, I see.”

“Yes,” he admitted without apology. “I’m sure you understand.”

Actually, she did. When it came to family—even if that family only numbered two, like her and Hank—you did what you had to do to protect it. Had August Fiver not already had a ton of info to give her about the Dunbartons, Clara would have had them checked out, too, before allowing them access to her son.

“Well, the AP classes in high school helped a lot with that three-years thing,” she told him.

“So did perseverance and hard work.”

Well, okay, there was that, too.

Grant led them to a small study that was executed in pale yellow and paler turquoise and furnished with overstuffed moiré chairs, a frilly desk and paintings of gorgeous landscapes. The room reeked of Marie Antoinette—the Versailles version, not the Bastille version—so Clara was pretty sure this wasn’t a sanctuary for him.

As if cued by the thought, a woman entered from a door on the other side of the room. This had to be Grant’s mother, Francesca. She looked to be in her midfifties, with short, dark hair liberally streaked with silver and eyes as rich a blue as her sons’. She was nearly as tall as Clara, but slimmer, dressed in flowing palazzo pants and tunic the color of a twilit sky. Diamond studs winked in each earlobe, and both wrists were wrapped in silver bracelets. She halted when she saw her guests, her gaze and smile alighting for only a second on Clara before falling to Hank...whereupon her eyes filled with tears.

But her smile brightened as she hurried forward, arms outstretched in the universal body language for Gimme a big ol’ hug. She halted midstride, however, when Hank stepped backward, pressing himself into Clara with enough force to make her stumble backward herself. Until Grant halted her, wrapping sure fingers around her upper arms. For the scantest of moments, her brain tricked her into thinking it was Brent catching her, and she came this close to spinning around to plant a grateful kiss on Grant’s mouth, so instinctive was her response.

Was it going to be like this the whole time she was here? Was the younger version of herself that still obviously lived inside her going to keep thinking it was Brent, not Grant, she was interacting with? If so, it was going to be a long week.

“Thanks,” she murmured over her shoulder, hoping he didn’t hear her breathlessness.

When he didn’t release her immediately, she turned around to look at him, an action that caused him to release one shoulder, but not the other. For a moment, they only gazed at each other, and Clara was again overcome by how much he resembled Brent, and how that resemblance roused all kinds of feelings in her she really didn’t need to be feeling. Then, suddenly, Grant smiled. But damned if his smile wasn’t just like Brent’s, too.

“Where are my manners?” he asked, his hand still curved over her arm. “I should have taken your coat the minute you walked in.”

Automatically, Clara began to unbutton her coat...then suddenly halted. Because it didn’t feel as if she was unbuttoning her coat for a man who had politely asked for it. It felt as if she was unbuttoning her shirt—or dress or skirt or pants or whatever else she might have on—so she could make love with Brent.

Wow. It really was going to be a long week. Maybe she and Hank should just head home tomorrow. Or even before dinner. Or lunch.

She went back to her buttons before her hesitation seemed weird—though, judging by Grant’s expression, he already thought it was weird. Beneath her coat, she wore a short black dress and red-and-black polka dot tights that had felt whimsical and Christmassy when she put them on but felt out of place now amid the elegance of the Dunbarton home.

She and Hank should definitely leave before lunch.

Her plan was dashed, however, when Francesca, who had stopped a slight distance from Hank but still looked like the happiest woman in the world, said, “It is so lovely to have you both here. I am so glad we found you. Thank you so much for staying with us. I’ve asked Timmerman to bring up your bags.” Obviously not wanting to overwhelm her grandson, she focused on Clara when she spoke again. “You must be Clara,” she said as she extended her right hand.

Clara accepted it automatically. “I’m so sorry about Brent, Mrs. Dunbarton. He was a wonderful person.”

Francesca’s smile dimmed some, but didn’t go away. “Yes, he was. And please, call me Francesca.” She clasped her hands together when she looked at Hank, as if still not trusting herself to not reach for him. “And you, of course, must be Henry. Hello there, young man.”

Hank said nothing for a moment, only continued to lean against Clara as he gave his grandmother wary consideration. Finally, politely, he said, “Hello. My name is Henry. But everybody calls me Hank.”

Francesca positively beamed. “Well, then I will, too. And what should we have you call me, Hank?”

This time Hank looked up at Clara, and she could see he had no idea how to respond. They had talked before coming to New York about his father’s death and his newly discovered grandmother and uncle, but conveying all the ins and outs of those things to a three-year-old hadn’t been easy, and she still wasn’t sure how much Hank understood. But when he’d asked if this meant he and Clara would be spending holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas with his new family, and whether they could come to Tybee Island for his birthday parties, it had finally struck Clara just how big a life change this was going to be for her son.

And for her, too. It had been just the two of them for more than three years. She’d figured it would stay just the two of them for a couple of decades, at least, until Hank found a partner and started a family—and a life—of his own. Clara hadn’t expected to have to share him so soon. Or to have to share him with strangers.

Who wouldn’t be strangers for long, since they were family—Hank’s family, anyway. But that was something else Clara had been forced to accept. Now her son had a family other than her. But she still just had—and would always just have—him.

She tried not to stumble over the words when she said, “Hank, sweetie, this is your grandmother. You two need to figure out what y’all want to call her.”

Francesca looked at Hank again, her hands still clasped before her, still giving him the space he needed. Clara was grateful the older woman realized that a child his age needed longer to get used to a situation like this than an adult did. Clara understood well the enormity and exuberance of a mother’s love. It was the only kind of love she did understand. It was the only kind she’d ever known. She knew how difficult it was to rein it in. She appreciated Francesca’s doing so for her grandson.

“Do you know what your father and Uncle Grant called their grandmother?” Francesca asked Hank.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. What?”

Francesca smiled at the No, ma’am. Clara supposed it wasn’t something a lot of children said anymore. But she had been brought up to say no, ma’am and no, sir when speaking to adults—it was still the Southern way in a lot of places—so it was only natural to teach Hank to say it, too. One small step for courtesy. One giant step for the human race.

“They called her Grammy,” Francesca told Hank. “What do you think about calling me Grammy?”

Clara felt Hank relax. “I guess I could call you Grammy, if you think it’s okay.”

Francesca’s eyes went damp again, and she smiled. “I think it would be awesome.”

Now Clara smiled, too. The woman had clearly done her homework and remembered how to talk to a child. A grandmother’s love must be as enormous and exuberant as a mother’s love. Hank could do a lot worse than Francesca Dunbarton for a grandmother.

“Now, then,” Francesca said. “Would you like to see your father’s old room? It looks just like it did when he wasn’t much older than you.”

Hank looked at Clara for approval.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” she told him. “I’d like to see your dad’s room, too.” To Francesca, she added, “If you don’t mind me tagging along.”

“Of course not. Maybe your uncle Grant will come with us. You can, too, Mr. Fiver, if you want to.”

Clara turned to the two men, expecting them to excuse themselves due to other obligations, and was surprised to find Grant looking not at his mother, but at her, intently enough that she got the impression he’d been looking at her for some time. A ball of heat somersaulted through her midsection a few times and came to rest in a place just below her heart. Because the way he was looking at her was the same way Brent had looked at her, whenever he was thinking about...well... Whenever he was feeling frisky. And, wow, suddenly, out of nowhere, Clara started feeling a little frisky, too.

He isn’t Brent, she reminded herself firmly. He might look like Brent and sound like Brent and move like Brent, but Grant Dunbarton wasn’t the sexy charmer who had taught her to laugh and play and frolic one summer, then given her the greatest gift she would ever receive, in the form of his son. As nice as Grant was trying to be, he would never, could never, be his brother. Of that, Clara was certain. That didn’t make him bad. It just made him someone else. Someone who should not—would not, could not, she told herself sternly—make her feel frisky. Even a little.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunbarton,” Gus said, pulling her thoughts back to the matter at hand—and not a moment too soon. “But I should get back to the office. Unless Clara needs me for anything else.”

She shook her head. He’d only come this morning to be a buffer between her and the Dunbartons, should one be necessary. But Francesca was being so warm and welcoming, and Grant was trying to be warm and welcoming, so... No, Grant was warm and welcoming, she told herself. He just wasn’t quite as good at it as his mother was. As his brother had been, once upon a time.

“Go ahead, Gus, it’s fine,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. We appreciate it.”

He said his goodbyes and told the Dunbartons he could find his own way out. Clara waited for Grant to leave, too, but he only continued to gaze at her in that heated way, looking as if he didn’t intend to go anywhere. Not unless she was going with him.

He’s not Brent, she told herself again. He’s not.

Now if only she could convince herself he wouldn’t be the temptation his brother had been, too.


Two (#ulink_a4e40372-87bd-55f1-8abd-a52bee326a50)

Unfortunately, as Francesca led them back the way they’d all come, Grant matched his stride to Clara’s and stayed close enough that she could fairly feel the heat of his body mingling with hers and inhale the faint scent of him—something spicy and masculine and nothing like Brent’s, which had been a mix of sun and surf and salt. It was just too bad that Grant’s fragrance was a lot more appealing. Thankfully, their walk didn’t last long. Francesca turned almost immediately down a hallway that ended in a spiral staircase, something that enchanted Hank, because he’d never seen anything like it.

“Are we going up or down?” he asked Francesca.

“Down,” she said. “But it can be kind of tricky, and sometimes I get a little wonky. Do you mind if I hold your hand, so I don’t fall?”

Hank took his grandmother’s hand and promised to keep her safe.

“Oh, thank you, Hank,” she gushed. “I can already tell you’re going to be a big help around here.”

Something in the comment and Francesca’s tone gave Clara pause. Both sounded just a tad...proprietary. As if Francesca planned for Hank to be around here for a long time. She told herself Francesca was just trying to make things more comfortable between herself and her grandson. And, anyway, what grandmother wouldn’t want her grandson to be around? Clara had made clear through Gus that she and Hank would only be in New York for a week. Everything was fine.

Francesca halted by the first closed door Clara had seen in the penthouse. When the other woman curled her fingers over the doorknob, Clara felt like Dorothy Gale, about to go from her black-and-white farmhouse to a Technicolor Oz. And what lay on the other side was nearly as fantastic: a bedroom that was easily five times the size of Hank’s at home and crammed with boyish things. Brent must have been clinging to his childhood with both fists when he left home.

One entire wall was nothing but shelves, half of them blanketed by books, the other half teeming with toys. From the ceiling in one corner hung a papier-mâché solar system, low enough that a child could reach up and, with a flick of his wrist, send its planets into orbit. On the far side of the room was a triple bunk bed with both a ladder and a sliding board for access. The walls were covered with maps of far-off places and photos of exotic beasts. The room was full of everything a little boy’s heart could ever desire—building blocks, musical instruments, game systems, stuffed animals... They might as well have been in a toy store, so limitless were the choices.

Hank seemed to think so, too. Although he entered behind Francesca, the minute he got a glimpse of his surroundings, he bulleted past his grandmother in a blur. He spun around in a circle in the middle of the room, taking it all in, then fairly dove headfirst into a bin full of Legos. It could be days before he came up for air.

Clara thought of his bedroom back home. She’d bought his bed at a yard sale and repainted it herself. His toy box was a plastic storage bin—not even the biggest size available—and she’d built his shelves out of wood salvaged from a demolished pier. At home, he had enough train track to make a figure eight. Here, he could re-create the Trans-Siberian Railway. At home, he had enough stuffed animals for Old McDonald’s farm. Here, he could repopulate the Earth after the Great Flood.

This was not going to end well when Clara told him it was time for the two of them to go home.

Francesca knelt beside the Lego bin with Hank, plucking out bricks and snapping them together with a joy that gave his own a run for its money. She must have done the same thing with Brent when he was Hank’s age. Clara’s heart hurt seeing them. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. This meeting with her grandson had to be both comforting and heartbreaking for Francesca.

Clara sensed more than saw Grant move to stand beside her. He, too, was watching the scene play out, but Clara could no more guess his thoughts than she could stop the sun from rising. She couldn’t imagine losing a sibling, either. Although she’d had “brothers” and “sisters” in a couple of her foster homes, sometimes sharing a situation with them for years, all of them had maintained a distance. No one ever knew when they would be jerked up and moved someplace new, so it was always best not to get too attached to anyone. And none of the kids ever shared the same memories or histories as the others. Everyone came with his or her own—and left with them, too. Sometimes that was all a kid left with. There was certainly never anything like this.

“I can’t believe y’all still have this much of Brent’s stuff,” she said.

Grant shrugged. “My mother was always sure Brent would eventually get tired of his wandering and come home, and she didn’t want to get rid of anything he might want to keep. And Brent never threw away anything. Well, no material possessions, anyway,” he hastened to clarify.

When his gaze met hers, Clara knew he was backtracking in an effort to not hurt her feelings by suggesting that Brent had thrown away whatever he shared with her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Brent and I were never... I mean, there was nothing between us that was...” She stopped, gathered her thoughts and tried again, lowering her voice this time so that Francesca and Hank couldn’t hear. “Neither of us wanted or expected anything permanent. There was an immediate attraction, and we could talk for hours, right off the bat, about anything and everything—as long as it didn’t go any deeper than the surface. It was one of those things that happens sometimes, where two people just feel comfortable around each other as soon as they meet. Like they were old friends in a previous life or something, picking up where they left off, you know?”

He studied her in silence for a moment, and then shook his head. “No. Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”

Clara sobered. “Oh. Well. It was like that for me and Brent. He really was a wonderful person when I knew him. We had a lot of fun together for a few weeks. But neither of us wanted anything more than that. It could have just as easily been me who walked away. He just finished first.”

She tried not to chuckle at her wording. Brent finishing first was pretty much par for the course. Not just with their time together, but with their meals together. With their walks together. With their sex together. Yes, that part had been great, too. But he was never able to quite...satisfy her.

“He was always in a hurry,” Grant said.

Clara smiled. “Yes, he was.”

“He was like a hummingbird when we were kids. The minute his feet hit the ground in the morning, he was unstoppable. There were so many things he wanted to do. Every day, there were so many things. And he never knew where to start, so he just...went. Everywhere. Constantly.”

Brent hadn’t been as hyper as that when she met him, but he’d never quite seemed satisfied with anything, either, as if there was something else, something better, somewhere else. He told her he left home at eighteen and had been tracing the coastline of North America ever since, starting in Nome, Alaska, heading south, and then skipping from San Diego to Corpus Christi for the Gulf of Mexico. When she asked him where he would go next, he said he figured he’d keep going as far north into Newfoundland as he could, and then hop over to Scandinavia and start following Europe’s shoreline. Then he’d do Asia’s. Then Africa’s. Then South America’s. Then, who knew?

“He was still restless when I met him,” she told Grant. “But I always thought his restlessness was like mine.”

He eyed her curiously, and her heart very nearly stopped beating. His expression was again identical to Brent’s, whenever he puzzled over something. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at Grant and not see Hank’s father. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d be looking at him forever. Yes, she was sure to see Grant again after she and Hank left New York, since Francesca would want regular visits, but Clara’s interaction with him would be minimal. Still, she hoped at some point her heart would stop skipping a beat whenever she looked at him. Odd, since she couldn’t remember it skipping this much when she looked at Brent.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I thought his restlessness was because he came from the same kind of situation I did, where he never stayed in one place for very long so couldn’t get rooted for any length of time. Like maybe he was an army brat or his parents were itinerant farmers or something.”

Now Grant’s expression turned to one of surprise. And damned if it didn’t look just like Brent’s would have, too. “He never told you anything about his past? About his family?”

“Neither of us talked about anything like that. There was some unspoken rule where we both recognized that it was off-limits to talk about anything too personal. I knew why I didn’t want to talk about my past. I figured his reasons must have been the same.”

“Because of the foster homes and children’s institutions,” Grant said. “That couldn’t have been a happy experience for you.”

She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised he knew about that, too. Of course his background check would have been thorough. In spite of that, she said, “You really did do your homework.”

He said nothing, only treated her to an unapologetic shrug.

“What else did you find out?” she asked.

He started to say something, then hesitated. But somehow, the look on his face told Clara he knew a lot more than she wanted him to know. And since he had the finances and, doubtless, contacts to uncover everything he could, he’d probably uncovered the one thing she’d never told anyone about herself.

Still keeping her voice low, so that Francesca and Hank couldn’t hear, she asked, “You know where I was born, don’t you? And the circumstances of why I was born in that particular location.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Which meant he knew she was born in the Bibb County jail to a nineteen-year-old girl who was awaiting trial for her involvement in an armed robbery she had committed with Clara’s father. He might even know—

“Do you know the part about who chose my name?” she asked further, still in the low tone that ensured only Grant would hear her.

He nodded. “One of the guards named you after the warden’s mother because your own mother didn’t name you at all.” Wow. She’d had no idea he would dig that deep. All he’d had to do was make sure she was gainfully employed, reasonably well educated and didn’t have a criminal record herself. He hadn’t needed to bring her— She stopped herself before thinking the word family, since the people who had donated her genetic material might be related to her, but they would never be family. Anyway, he hadn’t needed to learn about them, too. They’d had nothing to do with her life after generating it.

“And I know that after she and your father were convicted,” he continued in a low tone of his own, “there was no one else in the family able to care for you.”

Thankfully, he left out the part about how that was because the rest of her relatives were either addicted, incarcerated or missing. Though she didn’t doubt he knew all that, too. She listened for traces of contempt or revulsion in his voice but heard neither. He was as matter-of-fact about the unpleasant circumstances of her birth and parentage as he would have been were he reading a how-to manual for replacing a carburetor. As matter-of-fact about those things as she was herself, really. She should probably give him kudos for that. It bothered Clara, though—a lot—that he knew so many details about her origins.

Which was something else to add to the That’s Weird list, because she had never really cared about anyone knowing those details before. She would have even told Brent, if he’d asked. She knew it wasn’t her fault that her parents weren’t the cream of society. And she didn’t ask to be born, especially into a situation like that. She’d done her best to not let any of it hold her back, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job.

Evidently, Grant didn’t hold her background against her, either, because when he spoke again, it was in that same even tone. “You spent your childhood mostly in foster care, but in some group homes and state homes, too. When they cut you loose at eighteen, where a lot of kids would have hit the streets and gotten into trouble, you got those three jobs and that college degree. Last year, you bought the bakery where you were working when its owner retired, and you’ve already made it more profitable. Just barely, but profit is an admirable accomplishment. Especially in this economic climate. So bravo, Clara Easton.”

His praise made her feel as if she was suddenly the cream of society. More weirdness. “Thanks,” she said.

He met her gaze longer than was necessary for acknowledgment, and the jumble of feelings inside her got jumbled up even more. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.

Their gazes remained locked for another telling moment—at least, it was telling for Clara, but what it mostly told her was that it had been way too long since she’d been out on a date—then she made herself look back at the scene in the bedroom. By now, Francesca was seated on the floor alongside Hank, holding the base of a freeform creation that he was building out in a new direction—sideways.

“He’ll never be an engineer at this rate,” Clara said. “That structure is in no way sound.”

“What do you think he will be?” Grant asked.

“I have no clue,” she replied. “He’ll be whatever he decides he wants to be.”

When she looked at Grant again, he was still studying her with great interest. But there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Clara had no idea how she knew it, but in that moment, she did: Grant Dunbarton wasn’t a happy guy. Even with all the money, beauty and privilege he had in his life.

She opened her mouth to say something—though, honestly, she wasn’t really sure what—when Hank called out, “Mama! I need you to hold this part that Grammy can’t!”

Francesca smiled. “Hank’s vision is much too magnificent for a mere four hands. My grandson is brilliant, obviously.”

Clara smiled back. Hank was still fine-tuning his small motor skills and probably would be for some time. But she appreciated Francesca’s bias.

She looked at Grant. “C’mon. You should help, too. If I know Hank, this thing is going to get even bigger.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Grant Dunbarton looked rattled. He took a step backward, as if in retreat, even though all she’d done was invite him to join in playtime. She might as well have just asked him to drink hemlock, so clear was his aversion.

“Ah, thanks, but, no,” he stammered. He took another step backward, into the hallway. “I... I have a lot of, uh, work. That I need to do. Important work. For work.”

“Oh,” she said, still surprised by the swiftness with which he lost his composure. Even more surprising was the depth of her disappointment that he was leaving. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you later, then. I mean... Hank and I will see you later.”

He nodded once—or maybe it was a twitch—then took another step that moved him well and truly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Clara went the other way, taking her seat on the other side of Hank. When she looked back at the door, though, Grant still hadn’t left to do all the important work that he needed to do. Instead, he stood in the hallway gazing at her and Hank and Francesca.

And, somehow, Clara couldn’t help thinking he looked less like a high-powered executive who needed to get back to work than he did a little boy who hadn’t been invited to the party.

* * *

Grant hadn’t felt like a child since... Well, he couldn’t remember feeling like a child even when he was a child. And he certainly hadn’t since his father’s death shortly after his tenth birthday. But damned if he didn’t feel like one now, watching Clara and her son play on the floor with his mother. It was the way a child felt when he was picked last in gym or ate alone at lunch. Which was nuts, because he’d excelled at sports, and he’d had plenty of friends in school. The fact that they were sports he hadn’t really cared about excelling at—but that looked good on a college application—and the fact that he’d never felt all that close to his friends was beside the point.

So why did he suddenly feel so dejected? And so rejected by Clara? Hell, she’d invited him to join them. And how could she be rejecting him when he hadn’t even asked her for anything?

Oh, for God’s sake. This really was nuts. He should be working. He should have been working the entire time he was standing here revisiting a past it was pointless to revisit. He’d become the CEO of Dunbarton Industries the minute the ink on his MBA dried and hadn’t stopped for so much as a coffee break since. Staying home today to meet Clara and Hank with his mother was the first nonholiday weekday he’d spent away from the office in years.

He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even noon. He’d lost less than half a day. He could still go in to the office and get way more done than he would trying to work here. He’d only stayed home in case Clara turned out to be less, ah, stable than her résumé let on and created a problem. But the woman was a perfectly acceptable candidate for mothering a Dunbarton. Well, as an individual, she was. Her family background, on the other hand...

Grant wasn’t a snob. At least, he didn’t think he was. But when he’d discovered Clara was born in a county jail, and that her parents were currently doing time for other crimes they’d committed... Well, suffice it to say felony convictions weren’t exactly pluses on the social register. Nor were they the kind of thing he wanted associated with the Dunbarton name. Not that Hank went by Dunbarton. Well, not yet, anyway. Grant was sure his mother would get around to broaching the topic of changing his last name to theirs eventually. And he was sure Clara would capitulate. What mother wouldn’t want her child to bear one of the most respected names in the country?

Having met Clara, however, he was surprised to have another reaction about her family history. He didn’t want that sort of thing attached to her name, either. She seemed like too decent a person to have come from that kind of environment. She really had done well for herself, considering her origins. In fact, a lot of people who’d had better breeding and greater fortune than she hadn’t gone nearly as far.

He lingered at the bedroom door a minute more, watching the scene before him. No, not watching the scene, he realized. Watching Clara. She was laughing at something his mother had said, while keeping a close eye on Hank who, without warning, suddenly bent and brushed a kiss on his mother’s cheek—for absolutely no reason Grant could see. He was stunned by the gesture, but Clara only laughed some more, indicating that this was something her son did often. Then, when in spite of their best efforts, the structure he’d been building toppled to the floor, she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him into her lap and kissed him loudly on the side of his neck. He giggled ferociously, but reached behind himself to hug her close. Then he scrambled out of her clutches and hurried across the room to try his hand at something else.

The entire affectionate exchange lasted maybe ten seconds and was in no way extraordinary. Except that it was extraordinary, because Grant had never shared that kind of affection with his own mother, even before his father’s death changed all of them. He’d never shared that kind of affection with anyone. Affection that was so spontaneous, so uninhibited, so lacking in contrivance and conceit. So...so natural. As if it were as vital to them both as breathing.

That, finally, made him walk down the hall to his office. Work. That was what he needed. Something that was as vital to him as breathing. Though maybe he wouldn’t go in to the offices of Dunbarton Industries today. Maybe he should stay closer to home. Just in case... Just in case Clara really wasn’t all that stable. Just in case she did create a problem. Well, one bigger than the one she’d already created just by being so spontaneous, so uninhibited, so lacking in contrivance and conceit, and so natural. He should still stay home today. Just in case.

You never knew when something extraordinary might happen.


Three (#ulink_0cc18da8-9caa-5db1-8b62-fe07754a5a17)

Actually, something extraordinary did happen. On Clara and Hank’s second day in New York, the Dunbartons had dinner in the formal dining room. Maybe that didn’t sound all that extraordinary—and wouldn’t have been a couple of decades ago, because the Dunbartons had always had dinner in the formal dining room before his father’s death—but it was now. Because now, the formal dining room was only used for special occasions. Christmas Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, or those few instances when Brent had deigned to make time for a visit home during his hectic schedule of bumming around on the world’s best beaches.

Then again, Grant supposed the arrival of a new family member was a special occasion, too. But it was otherwise a regular day, at least for him. He’d spent it at work while his mother had taken Clara and Hank to every New York City icon they could see in a day, from the Staten Island Ferry to the Statue of Liberty to the Empire State Building to whatever else his mother had conjured up.

Grant had always liked the formal dining room a lot better than the smaller one by the kitchen, in spite of its formality. Or maybe because of it. The walls were painted a deep, regal gold, perfectly complementing the long table, chairs and buffet, which were all overblown Louis Quatorze.

But the ceiling was really the centerpiece, with its sweeping painting of the night sky, where the solar system played only one small part in the center, with highlights of the Milky Way fanning out over the rest—constellations and nebulae, with the occasional comet and meteor shower thrown in for good measure. When he was a kid, Grant loved to sneak in here and lie on his back on the rug, looking up at the stars and pretending—

Never mind. It wasn’t important what he loved to pretend when he was a kid. He did still love the room, though. And something inside him still made him want to lie on his back on the rug and look up at the stars and pretend—

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” he asked Hank, who was seated directly across from him, his neck craned back so he could scan the ceiling from one end to the other.

“It’s awesome,” the little boy said without taking his eyes off it. “Look, Mama, there’s Saturn,” he added, pointing up with one hand and reaching blindly with the other toward the place beside him to pat his mother’s arm...and hitting the flatware instead.

Clara mimicked his posture, tipping her head back to look up. The position left her creamy neck exposed, something Grant tried not to notice. He also tried not to notice how the V-neck of her sweater was low enough to barely hint at the upper swells of her breasts, or how its color—pale blue—brought out a new dimension to her uniquely colored eyes, making them seem even greener somehow. Or how the light from the chandelier set iridescent bits of blue dancing in her black curls. Or how much he wanted to reach over and wind one around his finger to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“Yes, it is,” she said in response to Hank’s remark. “And what’s that big one beside it?”

“Jupiter,” he said.

“Very good,” Grant told him, unable to hide his surprise and thankful for something else to claim his attention that didn’t involve Clara. Or her creamy skin. Or her incredible eyes. Or her soft curls. “You’re quite the astronomer, Hank.”

“Well, he’s working on it,” Clara said with a smile. “Those are the only two planets he knows so far.”

Grant’s mother smiled, too, from her seat at the head of the table. “I have the smartest grandson in the universe. Not that I’m surprised, mind you, considering his paternity.” Hastily, she looked at Clara and added, “And his maternity, too, of course!”

Clara smiled and murmured her thanks for the acknowledgment, but his mother continued to beam at her only grandchild. Only in more ways than one, Grant thought, since Hank was also likely the only grandchild she would ever have. No way was he suited to the role of father himself. Or husband, for that matter. And neither role appealed. He was, for lack of a better cliché, married to his business. His only offspring would be the bottom line.

“I also know Earth,” Hank said, sounding insulted that his mother would overlook that.

Clara laughed. “So you do,” she agreed.

Frankly, Grant couldn’t believe a three-year-old would know any of the things Hank knew. Then again, when Grant was three, he knew the genus and species of the chambered nautilus—Nautilus pompilius. He’d loved learning all about marine life when he was a kid, but the nautilus was a particular favorite from the start, thanks to an early visit to the New York Aquarium where he’d been mesmerized by the animal. If a child discovered his passion early in life, there was no way to prevent him from absorbing facts like a sponge, even at three. Evidently, for Hank, astronomy would be such a passion.

“Do you have a telescope?” Grant asked Clara.

She shook her head. “If he stays interested in astronomy, we can invest in one. He can save his allowance and contribute. For now, binoculars are fine.”

Hank nodded, seeming in no way bothered by the delay. So not expecting instant gratification was something else he’d inherited from his mother. Brent’s life had been nothing but a demand for instant gratification.

Yet Clara could afford to give him instant gratification now. She could afford to buy her son a telescope with his newfound wealth, whether he stayed interested in astronomy or not. But she wasn’t. Grant supposed she was trying to ensure that Hank didn’t fall into the trap his father had. She didn’t want him to think that just because he had money, he no longer had to work to earn something, that he could take advantage and have whatever he wanted, wherever and whenever he wanted it. Grant’s estimation of her rose. Again.

As if he’d said the words out loud, she looked at him and smiled. Or maybe she did that because she was grateful he hadn’t told her son that if he wanted a telescope, then, by God, he should have one, cost be damned. That was what Brent would have done. Then he would have scooped up Hank after dinner and taken him straight to Telescopes “R” Us to buy him the biggest, shiniest, most expensive one they had, without even bothering to see if it was the best.

As Hank and Francesca fell into conversation about the other planets on the ceiling, Grant turned to Clara. And realized he had no idea what to say to her. So he fell back on the obvious.

“Brent had an interest in astronomy when he was Hank’s age, too,” he told her. “It was one of the reasons my mother had this room decorated the way she did.”

“I actually knew that,” Clara said. “About the astronomy, not the room. He took me to Skidaway Island a few times to look at the stars. I’ve taken Hank, too. It’s what started his interest in all this.”

Grant nodded. Of course Brent would have taken her to a romantic rendezvous to dazzle her with his knowledge of the stars. And of course she would carry that memory with her and share it with their son.

“Hank is now about the same age I was when I started getting interested in baking,” she said. “My foster mother at that time baked a lot, and she let me help her in the kitchen. I remember being amazed at how you could mix stuff together to make a gooey mess only to have it come out of the oven as cake. Or cookies. Or banana bread. Or whatever. And I loved how pretty everything was after the frosting went on. And how you could use the frosting to make it even prettier, with roses or latticework or ribbons. It was like making art. Only you could eat it afterward.”

As she spoke about learning to bake, her demeanor changed again. Her eyes went dreamy, her cheeks grew rosy, and she seemed to go...softer somehow. All over. And she gestured as she spoke—something she didn’t even seem aware of doing—stirring an imaginary bowl when she talked about the gooey mess, and opening an imaginary oven door when she talked about the final product and tracing a flower pattern on the tablecloth as she spoke of using frosting as an art medium. He was so caught up in the play of her hands and her storytelling, that he was completely unprepared when she turned the tables on him.

“What were you interested in when you were that age?”

The question hung in the air between them for a moment as Grant tried to form a response. Then he realized he didn’t know how to respond. For one thing, he didn’t think it was a question anyone had ever asked him before. For another, it had been so long since he’d thought about his childhood, he honestly couldn’t remember.

Except he had remembered. A few minutes ago, when he’d been thinking about how fascinated he’d been by the chambered nautilus. About how much he’d loved all things related to marine life when he was a kid. Which was something he hadn’t thought about in years.

Despite that, he said, “I don’t know. The usual stuff, I guess.”

His childhood love was so long ago, and he’d never pursued it beyond the superficial. Even though, he supposed, knowing the biological classification of the entire nautilus family—in Latin—by the time he started first grade went a little beyond superficial. That was different. Because that was...

Well, it was just different, that was all.

“Nothing in particular,” he finally concluded. Even if that didn’t feel like a conclusion at all.

Clara didn’t seem to think so, either, because she insisted, “Oh, come on. There must have been something. All of Hank’s friends have some kind of passion. With Brianna, it’s seashells. With Tyler, it’s rocks. With Megan, it’s fairies. It’s amazing the single-minded devotion a kid that age can have for something.”

For some reason, Grant wanted very much to change the subject. So he turned the tables back on Clara. “So, owning a bakery. That must be gratifying, taking your childhood passion and making a living out of it as an adult.”

For a moment, he didn’t think Clara was going to let him get away with changing the subject. She eyed him narrowly, with clear speculation, nibbling her lower lip—that ripe, generous, delectable lower lip—in thought.

Just when Grant thought he might climb over the table to nibble it, too, she stopped and said, “It is gratifying.”

He’d just bet it was. Oh, wait. She meant the bakery thing, not the lip-nibbling thing.

“Except that when your passion becomes your job,” she went on, “it can sort of rob it of the fun, you know? I mean, it’s still fun, but some of the magic is gone.”

Magic, he repeated to himself. Fun. When was the last time he had a conversation with a woman—or, hell, anyone—that included either of those words? Yet here was Clara Easton, using them both in one breath.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she hastened to clarify. “I do love it. I just...”

She sighed with something akin to wistfulness. Damn. Wistfulness. There was another word Grant could never recall coming up in a conversation before—even in his head.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “I just look at all the stuff in the bakery kitchen and at all the pastries out in the shop, and, after work, I go upstairs to the apartment with Hank, and I wonder... Is that it? Have I already peaked? I have this great kid, and we have a roof over our heads and food in the pantry, and I’m doing for a living what I always said I wanted to do, and yet sometimes... Sometimes—”





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