From the Start

  By the time she punched out, she’d made the decision: She’d pack her car, hit I-80, and make the seven-hour drive during what was left of today.

  Of course, today had slid into tomorrow about an hour ago—which meant she’d be arriving to a slumbering household. She pulled into the driveway and parked by the basketball hoop standing guard at the edge of the cement. Always her brothers’ first stop whenever they happened to be home at the same time. Their cousin Seth usually joined in, too. He’d lived with Dad and Raegan for over a year now.

  Drawn shades and closed blinds blocked all the front windows of the house—all but one. Her window, second floor, curtains pulled aside, as if the house slept with one eye open. Kate grinned as she stepped from her car, warm breeze skittering over her bare arms. She made quick work of unloading her suitcase, entering through the door she knew she’d find unlocked at the side of the garage, hunting around for the house key Dad usually kept hidden behind a decorative wood Welcome Home knickknack on top of the fuse box.

  She slid the key into the doorknob, a trill of delight vibrating through her even as travel weariness chipped away at the last of her energy. There was just something about this place . . . and the uncanny way it untangled knotty emotions before she’d even entered the house.

  An apple-cinnamon scent wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside, as familiar as the lineup of shoes in the entryway. She lugged her suitcase up the split foyer’s few steps, careful not to bang it against the wall, and treaded into the living room.

  She didn’t have to turn on any lights to know the spacious room probably looked much the same as it had last Christmas—minus the ornament-laden tree. Brown leather couch with throw pillows in earthy shades, fireplace mantel packed with family photos, a smattering of books and magazines splayed across the coffee table. The living room opened into a dining room, where tall patio doors peeked out on the moonlit backyard.

  Thump.

  Kate froze at the sound coming from upstairs. Who had she woken? Her fingers tightened around her suitcase handle as she waited.

  Silence.

  She let out her breath and padded toward the stairway, up the steps, then down the hallway leading to her bedroom. She stopped off at the bathroom—brushed her teeth, traded her contacts for glasses, and debated whether to dig around in her suitcase for pajamas. She was already wearing comfy cotton shorts and a T-shirt. Close enough.

  Within minutes, she stood in front of her bedroom door and turned the knob—slowly. Pushed the door open—slowly. No creaking. My room. My bed . . . her luxurious, full-of-pillows, antique king-sized canopy bed. The one she’d have in her townhouse now if it wasn’t way too big.

  She abandoned her suitcase just inside the bedroom door and walked to the bed. She couldn’t see much—only shadows in the dark.

  Did it smell different in here? Sort of . . . musky? Masculine?

  Huh. Maybe Dad was trying out a new air freshener.

  She slipped off her glasses and laid them on the bedside table. Inched back the covers, lowered onto the mattress, pulled up her feet . . . stretched, rolled . . .

  Hit a wall. A warm . . . muscled . . . moving wall.

  The sound of springs bouncing joined her breathless gasp as the man—WHAT?—flew from the bed. The sudden movement and her own panic ended with her snarled in sheets and then thudding to the floor, too shocked to even squeal.

  “What . . . in . . . the world?”

  Yes, definitely a man’s voice. And not Dad’s. Or Seth’s.

  She kicked free of the sheet that’d come off the bed with her, shoved her hair from her face, and looked up. A man’s form stood frozen on the other side of the room.

  He was in my bed. He was in my bed and he’s not wearing a shirt. He was in my bed and he’s not wearing a shirt and now he’s coming over here . . .

  She scrambled backward and bumped into the bedside table, knocking her glasses to the floor. She grabbed and fit them in place, then jumped to her feet.

  “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head or anything when you fell?” He rounded the bed. “Are you going to scream?”

  Like she could play twenty questions when her heart was Fred Astaire–ing it up inside her chest.

  Fight or flight? Fight or flight?

  She slapped at the light switch on the wall, but instead of the light turning on, the ceiling fan hummed to life. The man in the bed must’ve heard her huff of frustration, though, because he reached for the lamp on the bedside stand, dim light pushing against the dark.

  And then he was standing in front of her, all six-foot-who-knew of him. Gym shorts. Sandy hair tousling under the fan’s whirring. Eyes so ridiculously blue-green the Pacific might as well give up. The faintest scar carved into the corner of one eyebrow, however, probably expelled him from flawless territory.

  “Uh . . . hi?” Sleepy confusion huddled in his voice.

  Her heartbeat finally began to steady. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  The man’s sheepish discomfort shifted into an almost-smirk—great, add dimples to the list—and he brushed a pillow feather from his shorts. “Who am I and what do I want? Did I wake up in a poorly scripted detective show?” He raked his fingers through his hair.

  “You’re not my dad. Or my sister. Or my cousin—”

  “Astute.”

  She folded her arms now. “So who are you?”

  “Colton Greene.” He said it as if it explained everything.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Actually, now that she thought about it, maybe it did sound at least a little familiar. Did he live in Maple Valley? Was he some friend of Seth’s? A visitor she’d heard Dad talk about?

  He tipped his head to one side. Shrugged. “Well, anyway, I’m a guest. Not an intruder or anything.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Uh . . . because I was asleep.” He drawled his words. “I’m not wearing a shirt. What kind of thief comes in half-dressed and goes to bed instead of, like, making off with the china and silver?”

  “I don’t know. Could be your MO.”

  He mimicked her folded-arms pose. “All right, you nailed it. They call me the Narcoleptic Burglar.” He did droll amazingly well. “Now whatcha gonna do?”

  Was sinking into the floor an option? “Listen, you . . .” You what? Come on, she was a writer. Shouldn’t the whole sentence-forming thing work better than this?

  He cocked one eyebrow, waiting, his amusement so obvious it was practically a third person in this little exchange.

  But that’s when her bedroom door flung open and Raegan spilled into the room. And Logan.

  Wait . . . Logan?

  “Kate!” Raegan flung herself at Kate for a hug. “We heard a thump and voices and . . .” She stepped back, eyes widening. “You met Colton.”

  Colton stepped forward. “Oh, she skipped the meeting part and went straight to getting into bed with—”

  He clamped his lips together when Kate threw him a glare. Which she promptly turned on Raegan when her sister let out a snort. And then on to Logan. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in LA?”

  Logan pulled her into a hug. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”

  “You could’ve told me you were coming home.” Despite the annoyance in her voice, she hugged her brother.

  “Thought it’d be fun to surprise you when you came home for the festival.” Logan glanced at Colton. “Sorry we gave Colton your bedroom, but this is the only one in the house with a king-sized bed. Guess you got a bigger surprise than planned.”

  Bigger indeed. The man was the size of a lumberjack. Or a linebacker. Or . . .

  Her mind hitched on that last thought. Linebacker. Football.

  Ohhhh. Colton. Greene.

  It wasn’t Dad she’d heard say the name. It was Breydan. All those times when he talked to her about football. Showed her the bobbleheads of his favorite players that lined the windowsill in his bedroom.

  Somewhere
in the recesses of her obviously not so quick-on-the-draw brain she’d known Logan had a football player friend. But apparently putting two and two together took extra skills in the muddle of a post-seven-hour drive.

  Colton Greene. The NFL quarterback. The one in the headlines.

  In her bedroom.

  “So now do you believe I’m not a burglar?” He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile she might’ve called half-cute if she wasn’t wholly mortified.

  Raegan laced her arm through Kate’s. “C’mon, let’s go wake up Seth and have a late-night snack. We’ve got a tub of cookie dough in the freezer.”

  They were nearly out the door when Colton’s voice sounded behind them. “Welcome home, Kate.”

  Welcome home, indeed.

  3

  All right, Charlie, what we’re doing right now, it’s between you and me and good ol’ Aunt Jemima here. That’s it.”

  The sound of a man’s deep voice stopped Kate in her tracks, just shy of turning the corner that led into Dad’s kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee had been enough to lull her from sleep and lure her down the hallway. But in her just-woken-up state, she had somehow forgotten that it wasn’t just family staying in the house.

  It all came flooding back now. The football player. Logan and Charlie. And the incident that newly topped her list of most embarrassing moments. Crawling into bed with Colton Greene. What were the chances anyone in her family would ever let her live that one down?

  Colton’s voice carried to her now. “ . . . can’t tell your dad since he’s such a health nut. So this stays a secret.”

  What stays a secret?

  Kate inched forward, carpet tickling her bare feet, and peeked around the corner. Adorable three-year-old Charlotte stood at the island counter on a chair. Though Logan’s adopted daughter didn’t resemble the Walker clan—not with those reddish Shirley Temple curls and green eyes—that didn’t alter her rank as family darling.

  Next to Charlie, Colton held a bottle of syrup, lifting it higher and higher as he poured it over a plate piled with waffles, Charlie’s giggles mixing with the sound of trilling birds outside the window over the kitchen sink.

  And oh, the sound of those giggles. . . . Charlie still didn’t talk much—a fact that had to concern Logan. But she didn’t have to form sentences to make obvious her affection for Colton. Her upward gaze was downright adoring.

  Apparently this wasn’t the first time the man had interacted with her niece.

  “All right. Syrup—check. Walnuts and banana slices—check. I can’t think of anything we’re missing.” Colton dabbed his finger through the syrup and licked it off. A navy blue T-shirt stretched taut over shoulders that seemed even wider this morning. “Anything else you want with your insanely unhealthy breakfast?”

  Instead of answering, Charlie mimicked Colton’s taste of syrup, licked her lips, and grinned up at him, pink-and-white polka-dot pajamas hanging loose over her toddler frame. Hello, Kodak moment.

  Colton bent his legs to stand eye level with Charlotte. “You can tell me if there’s anything else you want, honey.”

  His gentle words balanced in the air, and for a moment Kate thought Charlotte might actually respond verbally. Come on, Charlie. Let us hear your voice.

  Instead, Charlotte leaned over to kiss Colton’s cheek and then wrapped her arms around his neck. He responded immediately, pulling her the rest of the way to him. “It’s okay. You’ll talk when you’re ready. Besides, we’re already simpatico, you and me, words or no words.” He tapped her nose, then shifted her around to his back. “Piggyback ride to the table, m’lady.”

  Kate hugged her arms to herself, a disconcerting warmth wiggling through her, along with the realization that she couldn’t go into the kitchen looking like this. She still wore the clothes she had slept in—baggy blue pants that didn’t quite reach her ankles and a T-shirt. Her brown hair spilled from a messy ponytail, and her glasses kept sliding down her nose.

  “Oh, hey, I know what we forgot,” Colton said, snapping his fingers as he rose from setting Charlie down at the table. “Whipped cream.” He moved toward the fridge, jeans and bare feet visible now.

  Uh, yeah, she’d come back for coffee later. Like after she’d dressed properly. Put in her contacts. Traded bedraggled for at least halfway put together.

  But Charlie picked that moment to look away from Colton, her jade eyes hooking on Kate’s peeking around the corner. Next thing she knew, Charlie was clambering from her chair and hurling herself toward Kate.

  Instinct opened her arms for her niece, knees bending. When she rose, she brought Charlie with her. “Charlie Walker, my favorite girl in the world.” Over Charlie’s shoulder she saw Colton’s expression move from surprise into a half smile that carved dimples into his cheeks.

  Okay, so maybe there were worse things than being seen in her pajamas. She tightened her arms around Charlie, gaze roaming around the room—stainless steel appliances, a collection of pots hanging over the center island, swirls of beige, copper, and brown in the floor’s ceramic tiling. Granite counters and cherry cupboards wrapped around the room.

  Streaming rays through the patio doors filled the open space. In the distance, the sun lit the rural landscape that embraced the spot Mom and Dad had picked to build their house—a few miles outside Maple Valley, a rolling ravine covered with a tangle of blue ash, buckeye, and shagbark hickory trees descended into a twisting creekbed.

  Her gaze pulled back at Colton’s cough. He stood in front of her now, can of whipped cream in one hand, damp tips of his hair evidence he’d recently showered. But hadn’t shaved. A perfect five o’clock shadow covered his chin and cheeks. “Hey.”

  “H-hey. Hi. Morning. Good. I mean, good morning.”

  He reached forward to ruffle Charlie’s hair. “Let me guess: The talking thing—doesn’t work so well pre-coffee.”

  “Astute.” She repeated the word he’d used last night.

  Oh, that smile. No wonder he’d landed on as many entertainment magazine covers as sports mags—a tidbit she’d learned from Raegan as they had stood around the kitchen munching on cookies with Logan and Seth into the wee hours of the morning. She’d heard all about how Colton had turned into the NFL’s media darling in the past few years, landed a starting spot when the Tigers’ former QB got injured. How he’d been the stuff of Super Bowl predictions.

  How it all ended with an injury last season. Apparently he’d just announced his retirement earlier this week. Is that why he’d come to Iowa with Logan?

  Instead of joining them in the kitchen last night, Colton had insisted on clearing out of Kate’s room. Once he’d transferred his stuff into Beckett’s old room, he’d never come back out.

  Kate lowered Charlie to the floor now. “You know Logan would develop a permanent tick if he saw what you are feeding his daughter.”

  Colton’s nose wrinkled as he cast a guilty glance toward Charlie’s plate. “It’s not that bad of a breakfast.”

  “It is if you’re planning to top it with that.” She nudged her head toward the canned whipped cream.

  “What’s wrong with this?”

  Charlie climbed back into her chair. “If you’ve gone to all the trouble to make waffles, it’s only right to top them with real whipped cream.”

  Colton looked from Kate to the can back to her. “Didn’t know Logan had a gourmet chef for a sister.”

  “Ha! Hardly. It’s just that when it comes to waffles, well, I have standards.” She moved to the fridge.

  “Then I really don’t know how to tell you this. . . .”

  She ducked her head in the fridge and spotted what she’d hoped to find. She pulled out the carton of whipping cream. “Tell me what?”

  “I didn’t make those waffles. They’re from a box in the freezer. The only thing I did was toast them.”

  “Colton Greene.” She let her jaw drop in exaggerated shock and shook her head. “I’d scold you further, but truthfully, breakfast is the only meal I
do with any kind of style. Lunch and dinner . . . it’s all PB&J and mac ’n’ cheese. Still, I think I’d better introduce you to the joys of real whipped cream.” The sound of Charlie’s fork scraping against her plate sounded behind them. Kate pointed to the pantry. “You get the powdered sugar, I’ll go hunting for the hand mixer.”

  Only minutes later, she had the mixer going and the cream was starting to fluff. Beside her, Colton took a drink of the coffee she’d poured. Sputtered. “What the—”

  “Dad must’ve made it.” Kate’s voice rose over the mixer. Her own mug was already half-empty. “He likes it muddy.”

  “Muddy? Try swamp-like.” Colton motioned to the bowl. “You do realize by the time you’ve got that ready, Charlie will be done eating.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. Little more sugar.”

  He lifted the bag of sugar and poured until Kate signaled for him to stop. She felt his gaze on her as she scraped the beaters along the edge of the bowl.

  “You’re the sibling who lives in Chicago, right?”

  “Yep.” A city she’d never expected to end up in. Writing stories she’d never expected to write.

  And for the hundredth time since that call from the foundation, bubbles of hope rose up and floated through her—though the reality of her financial situation poked at them.

  “So family order . . . Logan’s the oldest, then you, then the other brother—”

  “Beckett. He’s twenty-eight. Lives in Boston.” Lawyer on his way to partner.

  “And then Raegan.”

  “Yes, she’s the youngest.” Which meant she put up with her fair share of ribbing about her baby-of-the-family status and the fact that at twenty-five she still slept in her old daybed in Dad’s house.

  “And Seth . . . ?”

  Kate turned off the mixer. “Cousin who’s more like a sibling. He moved back to Maple Valley about a year ago, opened his own restaurant about a month back.” And because he’d poured so much of his own money into starting the business, he’d been living in Dad’s basement to save on rent. She unfastened one of the beaters from the mixer and handed it to Colton.