The bag of groceries Jen dragged home was heavier than it first seemed. Possibly due to the fact she’d lugged the damn thing across town by means of public transportation.

“You’ve heard of Uber, yes?” she mumbled aloud as she fumbled with the key to her apartment.

Dropping the heavy bag to the floor, she shoved it with her feet until it was far enough inside for the door to close.

Alone at last, she slumped against the wall and flung her purse onto a Parsons table along with her keys.

The day had been nonstop hellacious, but she was determined to leave all that shit at the door and concentrate on her much-needed me vacation.

Taking a deep breath, she inhaled and then exhaled loudly before heading to the guest room to change out of her work clothes.

It took only minutes to slip off the business suit and hang it up. Wearing nothing but her underwear, she brushed the suit with a lint brush and inspected it for problems.

Her shoes were next. Wiping the heels off with a soft cloth, she lined them up on the fourth shelf of a shoe cabinet and surveyed her footwear collection.

Her eyes swept the bedroom she’d transformed into a dressing room. Two clothing racks hung with smart suits, blouses, and skirts lined two walls. An impressive antique carved mahogany cheval mirror took up a corner. A cumbersome wardrobe was crammed with the assortment of accessories and handbags she used to complete her look.

Removing her simple jewelry, Jen placed the pearl earrings and silver bracelet she’d worn into a crystal dish.

Next, she removed her lingerie and tossed everything in the hamper. Getting her laundry sorted out was one of the many things she had planned for her time off.

Jen surveyed the room once more. Assured everything was neat and tidy, she strolled buck-naked from the room, picked up the grocery bag, and moved it further along the entry hall. The minute she entered the living room and her very quirky shabby chic home came into view, all her tension vanished.

In her bedroom, she removed the pins from her hair then bent over and violently shook her head until nothing remained of the tightly styled chignon she preferred for work. Just like so many other things, she didn’t want people to judge her by her hairstyle, and while something shorter might have been easier, the truth was that she preferred her hair long. So she’d learned how to manage the heavy locks into something she called ‘business severe.’

From an overflowing basket of clean laundry she’d never put away, Jen fished around till she found some comfy undies, a shirt, and some yoga pants.

Her room was a certifiable mess—as usual. She saved her OCD-light behaviors for the office and let her inner slob have free rein at home. Best of both worlds!

Stepping over the towel from this morning’s shower, she swept a stack of magazines off the bench at the foot of her bed, stepped into a pair of sensible white panties, and plopped down. She stretched out her legs in front of her then rotated her ankles to release the pops and cracks a day in heels had caused.

Remembering John’s frustrated scowl when she left the office was only going to make her feel bad, so she pushed the image aside—for now.

Not as easily dismissed was a late afternoon phone call from Ryan. He began by apologizing, but she didn’t know why and then moved into a free-form tirade about his mom and something about the twins being a terror before ending with what she was relatively sure was an invitation for dinner. As in a date. Next Friday.

She informed him she’d be on vacation. As if that somehow explained her turning him down.

He promised to behave.

She got pissy.

In the end, she agreed not to change her number or leave town in the next week, but that was all the ground she gave.

Whatever. She shrugged and pushed everything aside except her plans for the next ten days.

Bra in place, she pulled a top over her head made from some soft, nubby material that was comfy as hell. The stretchy yoga pants slid on with ease.

She stood and hugged herself with both arms.

“Now this is what I call a vacation wardrobe.” She chuckled.

Dragging the groceries across and around her normal clutter, Jen unloaded a week’s worth of nutritionally bankrupt junk food onto the kitchen table and tried to straighten up as she put the stuff away.

She flipped on the sound system in the living room as she went about her vacation pre-gaming and enjoyed her current favorite, a station that played early 90’s music.

Rocking along to “Suicide Blonde,” she expressed her love of all things INXS then danced her way through an embarrassing “Achy Breaky Heart” that would make Billy Ray groan.

With a remote control doing double duty as a microphone, she paraded around her apartment and belted out “Hold On,” her absolute favorite Wilson Phillips ballad.

“I’m on vacay, bitches,” she hollered into the air of her apartment. Punching her fist above her head, Jen grunted, “Yes!”

This was what she needed. A chance to pull back and get her shit in order. She had major projects on the terrace and in her grandmother’s old greenhouse plus a stack of books up to her knees sitting on her TBR list.

She couldn’t think about work or John’s growing co-dependence on her to guide him through the dating maze.

And she couldn’t think about Ryan or his unnerving connection to tantric sex. Doing so wouldn’t lead to anyplace good.

One delivered pizza—pepperoni with extra cheese—later, she was stuffed and far enough into her chill zone to set up camp on the sofa with her favorite blanket, the TV remote, a bottle of incredibly cheap red wine from Trader Joe’s, and the secret stash of M & M’s she kept in a Ziploc bag under a bunch of junk in the side table drawer.

Life was good.

She dozed off around one in the morning during a marathon binge watch of Friends.

* * *

Ryan caught sight of his and John’s reflection in a window as they stood side by side in the same pose—chins lowered and arms crossed. They were annoying the shit out of a work crew as they took a walk-through of the storefront and had stopped to survey a design plan propped up by a makeshift easel.

“Half the gear we offer won’t translate well in a showroom, so we’re doing a lounge area with table video where customers can browse the big-ticket stuff. The Lloyd branded kayaks are backordered, and the full camp package, the family of four model, is setting sales records.”

John grunted to let him know he had heard what he said.

“What’s this?” he asked with a finger pointed at the layout.

Ryan leaned in and checked before responding. “Uh, that’s something new. Added a kid zone.”

“Really?” John remarked with an air of interest.

“Yeah,” Ryan assured his brother. Chuckling, he drawled, “Chelsea Matthews made an impression on me! Butterfly nets, telescopes, fossil dig equipment. Kids are curious about everything. We can have a blast with a special section just for the young.”

“And young at heart. I’d add that to the marketing. Not everyone can go spelunking or climb a mountain.”

“Good point,” he murmured. On his phone, he entered a quick note to talk to the design team about access for the disabled and products for seniors that could carry the Lloyd seal.

“Chelsea’s really something.”

His brother’s observation made Ryan’s brow arch. He fed his long hair behind both ears and fixed John with a sober look.

“I like that you like this woman and her kid, bro. Not exactly eloquent but you know what I mean.”

John smirked. “I have no goddamn idea what I’m doing. All I know is that I can’t wait to get to work every morning just to see Samantha and talk to her. She’s all I think about.”

“This thing is serious, then. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” John grumbled. “Is that how it works? Does thinking about someone all the time mean it’s serious? Shit, Ryan. Feels damn serious to me, but I’m not the only one in this thing. Samantha is hard to read. And you know I’m not good with shit like that to begin with.”

Does thinking about someone all the time mean it’s serious? Ryan was asking himself the very same question about Jen. He’d gone from snark-fueled fuckery for the hell of it to being more than a little obsessed with anything concerning the uptight woman.

“And Mom. Jeez. She’s making it worse.”

“Brought it on your own damn self,” Ryan muttered. “You shouldn’t have told her anything. Now we’re both under the microscope, you dipshit.”

“Sorry. I told you I’m not good at this.”

John stared at him before quietly asking the million-dollar question about the King Kong-sized monkey in the room.

“So what’s up with you and my assistant?”

Ryan pursed his lips and snarled. “How the hell do you put up with that picture-perfect bullshit she has going on? Do you know she lines up her pens?”

“I’ve never had the occasion to poke around her office, and frankly, Ryan, so the fuck what?”

“John,” he muttered. “Her junk drawer is just … unnatural. Nobody can possibly be that organized or so neat all the damn time.”

“And this bothers you, why? Because you’re trying to see if she fits?”

“Whoa, dude. That’s deep. Especially for you.”

His brother gave new life to the Lloyd smirk. “Despite common misunderstanding, I do not in fact have Asperger’s. It’s not a fucking crime to be shy.”

“You aren’t shy when it comes to the business,” Ryan reminded him. “And don’t pay attention to that garbage. You’re a late bloomer is all,” he said with a good-natured chuckle and a slap on his brother’s back.

“Uh, yeah. Nice dodge. You didn’t answer my question about Jen.”

Fuck.

What was he supposed to say? I’m thinking about fuck loving her into a coma twenty-four seven? Or maybe he should admit to the thousand and two erotic thoughts he entertained about her mouth.

Oh, yeah. All that was bound to go down smooth with John.

Not.

“I don’t think there is an answer. She assumes an awful lot about me and …”

“You assume a lot too. Those cracks about her pens and junk drawer. What is the problem, man? Jenna Carlton is what mom would call a smart cookie. For all you know, she could be putting on an act. Nothing to see here.”

He led John far from the workmen and leaned against a wall with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets.

“What are you saying? She’s sandbagging everyone? That doesn’t sound like her.”

The tell was in how fast his brother’s eyes dropped away and the kidlike way he toed a pile of construction debris on the floor. What the hell was going on?

“Um, no. I’m just pointing out that business is a man’s world and maybe Jen has figured out the best way for her to navigate the corporate jungle.”

Okay. He wasn’t stupid and could tell when reading between the lines was necessary. John was suddenly way more in touch with his fellow humans than Ryan was used to.

Because of Jen?

Or Samantha?

Probably both.

“You know,” John said as he smoothed his tie for no reason. “It wouldn’t hurt to be nicer to her. Women like that nice shit.”

Nah, it was too funny not to, so Ryan exploded with laughter. “Oh, my god! Are you giving me chick advice? John! Do you realize how fucking great this is?”

John puffed out his chest, instantly reminding Ryan of their dad and the way he liked to play the clueless nerd with the heart of gold. In some weird way, the fit was natural.

“I’m just saying you need a different approach with Jen. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

Ryan slapped his brother’s back and gave him a hearty dude hug.

“I worried coming back to the city would be a shitty move,” he confessed. “But I gotta tell you, man. So far? Best decision I’ve made in a long time.”

“I’m glad, Ryan. Traipsing around the world is your job ... I know that. But I’ve missed you.”

“Likewise, brother. I know you have to get back to the office, but I need to ask. Have you invited Samantha to mom’s dinner get-together?”

John groaned and made a pained face. “No. And I’m totally gonna eat it on this one ’cause Jen made a dinner reservation for Friday night too.”

“What the hell for?”

He rolled a shoulder. “It was her way of keeping me focused while she’s gone. I guess she thought a week was enough time to find my balls, man up, and ask for a real date.”

“Oh,” Ryan muttered. “I see. And then Mom ups the ante with a command performance. Can I help?”

The pithy sneer his brother gave made Ryan jolt.

“Help? Dude! Save yourself first! Have you asked Jen to this little soiree?”

Yeah ... and then there was that.

“I might have mentioned it before she went off radar.”

“Did she agree?”

The astonishment in his brother’s voice didn’t offer much confidence. Ryan shrugged.

“Yeah, uh ... that remains to be seen.”

“And how do you plan to contact her, Sherlock? She won’t answer her phone or check her email.”

He scoffed. “I’m going to knock on her door, of course.”

John started. “You know where she lives?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you remember? After the museum, you took off, and we shared a car ride.” What in the fucking hell was going on in John’s mind? “What am I missing?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John said although he was acting like someone on a covert mission. “I should go. Give me a call later and maybe we can grab dinner.”

“What’s Samantha up to tonight?”

“If that’s your way of asking for an update, here it is. School nights are all about Chelsea. We message after the kid goes to bed. I send a car to drive her to work in the morning. She resists, and I persist per Jen’s guidance. She had lunch with me yesterday, and we sort of discussed doing something this weekend with Chelsea. Not having much luck taking it to the next level where it’s just her and me. So the easiest answer to your inquiry is that I’m a ball-less wonder and can’t seem to find my way home.”

They shook hands. “Well put, Mr. Lloyd.”

John chuckled. “What do the kids say? Fuck my life? Yeah. That.”

Ryan waved him off with a short laugh. John was changing, and he really was glad. Acknowledging that their dad’s death and John being suddenly thrust into the CEO’s seat had effectively shut his brother’s whole life down, he did the math and grunted. It only took eighteen years.

It worked for Ryan because he believed that at the end of the day—it was never too late.

Jen marched with an empty mug, her footsteps on the hardwoods in the high Wellie boots sounding like a seal slapping along as she headed from the terrace into the black and white tile kitchen.

“Need more coffee,” she griped. Someone needed to invent the coffee hose. Some sort of nozzle thingy she could hook to the coffeemaker and haul around the apartment with her. Save her the trouble of the constant back and forth.

She started a fresh pot of her latest Trader Joe’s obsession—medium roast blend from Kenya—and washed the dishes in the sink while she waited. The rest of her place might qualify as a bombsite, but that didn’t mean her kitchen and bathrooms weren’t hospital clean. She had to draw the line someplace.

Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she turned around and leaned against the counter. The first thing her eyes fell on was her phone connected to a charger and shoved out of the way on the counter.

Every single damn day, she struggled against the growing impulse to check in. Her problem was deciding who she’d check in with.

She could pretend her only thought was of John, but she’d be lying so badly her nose was sure to grow several inches.

It was that scruffy beast Ryan Lloyd and his simmering sexuality that had her thong in a knot.

“Simmering sexuality,” she murmured aloud. “Oh, my god. What’s happening to me?”

The enticing aroma of the roasted blend filled the small kitchen. It was easy to admit with a hallelujah-style chorus that she had a thing for coffee. Hot, iced, leftover, reheated, flavored, frozen—it was all good. In fact, if picked apart, it was clear from appearances that after college, her only substantial relationship had been with old Joe.

Good ol’ Joe. He didn’t care which wardrobe she grabbed from or whether her hair was up or down. Coffee was a uniter, not a divider—men, women, heck, even dogs loved coffee.

Dogs? How did she know dogs liked coffee?

Jen chuckled.

Because she’d seen it on Instagram—her other guilty pleasure.

Speaking of which, she poured a liberal stream of the piping hot brew into her gigantic mug and eyed her cell phone. The digital card for her camera was jammed with the pictures she’d been snapping of her new project, and that was great, but if she wanted to get something up on her Instagram, she’d either need to upload the pics to her computer and go from there, or…

She lifted the mug and took a feeble sip so as not to scorch her lips or tongue. Ah, that first mouthful of fresh brew!

The stupid cell phone continued to taunt her.

Another sip, this one bigger, warmed her as it slid down her throat.

Shit.

Jen put the mug down with a thud and snatched the damn phone off the charger. She dismissed the warning scold from her mind. She could turn it on, access the camera, shoot a few pics, and get them up on Instagram—all without checking her email or texts. Or she could trample all over her written-in-stone requirement that separated work and her personal life. The choice was all hers.

Did she want to know?

Know what? her conscience muttered. Whether the cute boy with the quirky outlook on life had sent her a note.

She sniggered. It wasn’t just about John anymore. Yeah, she was fully invested in adding another heart to her cupid tally board, but the tree hugger with the mesmerizing blue eyes who invaded her thoughts and dreams was what led Jen to consider breaking the rules.

Bending from the waist, she shook her messy hair then gathered it into a tangled tail as she straightened. The coffee combined with the morning’s exertions had made her overheat. Twisting the tail into a tight knot, she tucked in the wispy strands and got back to business.

Tucking in her grimy t-shirt seemed like overkill, so she brushed it off, slid the phone into her pocket, grabbed the mug, and slap, slap, slapped her way from the kitchen and back outside.

The second Jen stepped through the wide, glass-paned French doors onto the L-shaped terrace, she remembered why she loved this place. It was the reason she’d survived living in the city.

The Carltons were a family of pioneers, explorers, entrepreneurs, and daredevils. All were colorful characters.

During the early 1900’s, her great-grandparents made the jump from farm to city and opened a general store. This apartment had been used by them and their descendants ever since. The unusual corner apartment on the top of a three-story Beaux Arts-style building included a wide, private terrace on two sides of the building large enough to accommodate a rooftop greenhouse and an extensive garden.

Her parents had lived here in the early days of their marriage while Mom finished medical school. And her older brother, Dave, took up residence for nearly a decade during his urban warrior phase. Now he owned a ranch-style house in Tennessee where he ran a horse farm.

A horse farm, go figure.

But she wasn’t an explorer, a pioneer, or an entrepreneur. She was just Jen with a business degree. Her choices were limited to struggling small town job markets or life in a sprawling metropolis.

Dubbed Carlton Manor by her irreverent family, the turn-of-the-century luxury apartment made the decision to be a city dweller a foregone conclusion. And the rent was reasonable—hashtag giggle-snort.

The terrace was her escape from the day-to-day grind. Her earliest memories were of gardening with her grandmother, which led to her love of natural things and a green thumb others were jealous of. If she wanted to, Jen could have supplied the reception area at Lloyd with a weekly arrangement, no problem.

But her green thumb and inner slob were none of Lloyd Global’s business.

In the greenhouse, Jen smiled. She took a glorious mouthful of coffee and then set the mug down to reach for her phone.

An entire side of the greenhouse held tiered shelves for her collection of orchids. Aiming her camera, she zoomed in on a bloom called Barbara Belle and took several shots at different angles.

For a moment, the lemony scent from a yellow hybrid named Golden Elf surrounded her, and then the stronger aroma from the Lady of the Night flowers overtook her senses.

“Everyone looks beautiful today,” she told the plants. Spritzing a few of the blooms, Jen tended to her scent garden and hummed as she worked.

Checking the snapshots, she found one that was perfect and started an Instagram post.

“Look who was ready for her close-up,” she mumbled while typing. Quickly adding a few hashtags about gardening, she reviewed the post, found no errors, and pressed share.

Jen slid the phone into her bra, took the mug, and left the greenhouse. Should it concern her that with every slapping step she took in her Wellies a battle raged inside?

She really, really, really wanted to troll Ryan and see what he was up to.

Ugh.

Back at her work station on the terrace, she ditched the phone, grabbed a spade, and turned her attention to the landscaping design she’d meticulously researched and designed. When she was finished, the terrace garden would look and feel like a natural oasis in the midst of a busy city.

She checked her watch—still a few hours before the nursery would deliver the trees she planned to put in concrete planters. A crepe myrtle for color, a birch tree, and a small flowering dogwood were just what she needed to create her private sanctuary.

A bead of sweat tickled the channel of skin in the center of John’s back. He stretched one leg out and then changed his mind, but sitting straighter meant the sun shone directly in his eyes.

This was a joke, right?

Samantha reached for the vintage teapot he’d picked up at a local antique store and poured steaming liquid into his cup. “It’s called Lady Grey tea. Think of it as a cousin to Earl Grey but with different highlights and undertones.”

John moved heaven and earth to create a spot on the terrace where he and Samantha could have tea. She’d been delighted by his efforts and attention to detail. Watching her so effortlessly assume the hostess role as she poured their tea reminded John that she was the catch—not him.

He cleared his throat, knowing it was time to make his case. The one where his tea companion would come to see what a great parent he’d be.

Was he jumping the gun? Probably. But things were in motion that he simply had no choice but to deal with, so no time like the present.

His plan was simple. Though he’d much rather enjoy a quiet dinner with Samantha at Mama Rosa’s, his mother’s demand that he and Ryan turn up with their presumed significant others had put him and his brother in a tight spot.

Plus, he had no doubt that Samantha would not react favorably to being trotted out on an inspection tour when their relationship was still wet behind the ears.

Unless, of course, he managed to sweep the sexy single mom off her feet with a display of his parenting potential that he convinced himself was beyond awesome.

Once she fully understood what he brought to the picture, John was sure things would be smooth sailing with nothing but clear skies ahead.

He watched her take a small sip of the tea. The way she held the fancy cup looked completely natural.

She smiled into his eyes.

No time like the present.

“Chelsea has a brilliant mind.” He winced oh-so-slightly at the high-handed tone he used.

Samantha half laughed, half scoffed. “She’s seven. Her interests change almost daily.”

He chuckled at the dry, unamused expression she gave him.

“This year, it’s space travel, dinosaurs, and robots.” She gave a little shrug. “Next year, it could be tutus, leotards, and ballet slippers. You just never know.”

He plowed ahead without stopping to consider what Samantha was trying to tell him.

“I pulled a few heavy-duty strings and got Chelsea a spot in a special session at NASA’s Space Camp.”

Samantha’s teacup hit the saucer and rattled slightly. “Say what?”

“Space Camp,” he crowed with self-satisfaction. “It’s in Alabama. Typically, the seven-year-olds only participate in the family camp activities, but I figured since she’s beyond the kiddie stuff, a shot at a real training session would be better.”

“You figured, did you?”

Pleased with himself, he launched into the Space Camp commercial. Sam wasn’t saying anything, but he assumed that was because she was so blown away.

It felt good to be so awesome.

“Had to negotiate because nine is the youngest they usually accept, but they made an exception for me.”

His chest puffed up, and he laid on a big, pleased-with-himself grin.

“So one of the astronaut recruits will be her buddy. A female,” he assured her.

Assuming her shocked expression was one of delight, John enthusiastically blurted out the entire scenario he’d created in his mind and explained the favors called in and the billionaire swagger he ended up laying down to pull off the whole thing.

Absently spooning sugar into his teacup, he struggled to appear natural with the tiny, ornate implement in his big hand. He felt like a giant in a dollhouse.

Gulping a mouthful of tea, he enjoyed the overly sweet brew as it washed his tongue and slid down John’s throat. Not bad, he thought. Subtle but nice.

He observed his ginormous hand place the delicate teacup on its saucer and almost gave a victory hoot when the landing was successful. Things were going well!

“John,” Samantha prompted. “What are you doing?”

Her tone sent his eyes to her face. She looked different somehow. Something about the way she held herself didn’t seem right. Her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her seat was a warning sign, but still thinking he was in the home stretch, he said the words running around in his head.

“Chelsea doesn’t have a dad.”

“I’m aware of this, John,” she hissed.

Ready to accept congratulations for his good-guy thinking, he reached for Sam’s hand, squeezed, and started to explain what a great father he’d be when she suddenly stood.

“I’m out,” she spat.

Whoa, what? “Sam?”

The glare she shot his way landed squarely on his heart.

Without another word or sound, she stomped away.

The unfortunate two or three minutes of head start that Sam got while he sat there stunned meant he would end up following after her like a lost puppy.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asked aloud. Everything had been going great. Or had it?

His knee bumped the small table as he stood. The tea set wobbled precariously, and for a brief second, he considered smashing the pot against the brick wall.

Not giving a shit what anyone thought, he bolted from his office and jogged along the hallway to the reception desk. Samantha was sitting with her back to him—rigidly—and made no effort to engage when he stepped into her space.

“Whatever it is, I’m sorry,” he began. Aware of the several pairs of eyes watching them didn’t stop him from considering the advisability of getting on his knees.

John held his breath when her chair swiveled, and she faced him. When she slowly stood, he had the distinct impression of watching a mythical creature—a being of godlike size—unfold in front of his eyes. Once she was standing straight and tall, he felt as though she towered over him.

He swallowed. Hard.

In a tone he recognized as one intended to announce her displeasure and her absolute power, she ripped into him.

“Despite your sexist assumption that I’m incapable of parenting my daughter, Mr. Lloyd,” she snarled, “let me assure you that I do not now, nor have I ever, needed anyone’s help.”

Oh, shit.

“You are a pompous …” she growled and shook, “asshat.”

A crowd had gathered to witness his downfall at the hands of an enraged mother who quite clearly wasn’t having any of his shit. He knew without looking that several cell phones were recording his humiliation for posterity.

“Where Chelsea is concerned, I make the decisions, Mr. Lloyd. Me. Am I making myself clear?”

She punctuated her yelling with what-the-fuck hand gestures and some finger pointing.

“But I thought, well, she needs a dad and all, and I …”

“Do you hear yourself?” she demanded.

Oh, god. He’d really fucked this up. Where the hell was Jen when he needed her?

“I don’t need your approval. Chelsea and I do just fine, thank you. And I do not need your help. Or your fancy limo or the favors you used. I’m not auditioning anyone to be her father. Understand?”

All he could manage was an awkward nod.

Samantha’s expression when her gaze swept around the reception area meant business.

“Before any of you post something online, consider your future at Lloyd Global.”

Jesus. She was impressive, he thought. Hell. She wasn’t even looking at him, but her tone made his balls shrivel.

He began to stutter an apology when she bent over, picked up her purse, and slung the strap over her shoulder as she straightened and pushed him out of her way.

“I’m going home now,” she barked.

“You’re quitting?” he squawked.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sam mumbled. “That's not what I said. Now," she growled. "Get out of my way.”

He stepped back but followed her to the elevator.

“Sam, please. I get that I fucked up.”

She stepped into the elevator and gave him a fierce glare. As the doors slid shut, she also flipped him off.

When he turned around, the reception lobby had cleared of people. He couldn’t blame anybody. He’d run for cover too after what they’d witnessed.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” John muttered disagreeably.

“We wouldn’t have to if you weren’t such a butthead,” Ryan growled in response.

They were rifling through Jen’s files in a desperate search for a phone number that might or might not actually exist.

“Are you sure she has a landline?”

“Yes,” John snapped. “I remember her saying the number had been in her family for decades. Now shut up and keep looking.”

Ryan gritted his teeth and returned to the task at hand. “Jesus, man. Did you check with HR? Maybe they have it.”

His brother openly scoffed and looked at Ryan as if he had a screw loose. “Oh, sure,” he sniped. “Just what I want after the scene I already caused. Frantic CEO desperately seeking confidential information on an employee.”

He had a point, so Ryan scowled some more and continued.

John sat at the desk and fired up the computer. Reflex made Ryan slap his brother’s hands.

“Dude. Seriously. Do NOT poke around her computer.”

“Is that a thing?” John asked.

“Fuck, yeah, it is,” he responded with a snort. “Would you go through Mom’s contacts?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“So turn that thing off before you do a stupid and step too far over the line.”

His brother exploded. “Fuck, Ryan! Do a stupid? Isn’t that why we’re doing this in the first place?”

Exasperated, Ryan slammed the file cabinet shut and glared at his older brother.

“Were you out of your mind?”

John hung his head. “Shut up. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“She’s seven, for Christ’s sake, you dumbass. And the program clearly said ages nine to eleven. Not only that, but it’s in Alabama! What the hell did you think Samantha would do? Thank you for sending her second grader to another state?”

“It’s Space Camp, Ryan. Not a prison ship. And the family program for her age group was lame. It wasn’t all that hard to pull some strings and get her a special accommodation.”

“You’re lucky Samantha didn’t have you arrested.”

Ryan saw his brother’s fists clench and knew he went too far with his last comment.

“I didn’t expect her to react the way she did,” John grumbled.

“Guess we’re shooting Mom’s dinner party in the foot, huh? Samantha won’t talk to you, and Jen has her phone turned off.”

“Which is exactly why we need that goddamn number! Fuck,” John growled.

Ryan looked around the tidy office. If Jen had a landline and the number was here someplace, it’d take a forensics team to find it.

“This is ridiculous.”

John glanced at him but didn’t concur or offer anything at all.

He put his hands on his hips and thought it through. They both needed to catch up with Jen. John because he screwed the pooch and ended up with a receptionist telling him to fuck off very publicly, and Ryan because well—because he was crushing big time and couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

“Screw this. I’m going to her place.”

“You can’t do that,” John growled. “She’ll remove your face if you invade her private time.”

“Fuck her private time. This is almost an emergency.”

“Whose emergency?” his brother asked with a smirk. “Mine or yours?”

“Nah,” Ryan replied. “Nuh-uh, brother. This one’s all you.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” John mumbled.

“Fine,” he drawled. Crossing his arms, he shook his head in disbelief. “She’s got me tied up in knots.”

“How’d she do that?”

“By ignoring me,” he answered although his mind elaborated on the statement by adding, And because she has the softest skin I’ve ever touched, and a mouth that’s a game changer.

“That’s rich coming from you. Denver house? A dog? What’s next? Religious cult? Vegan? You’re not winning any awards for being forthright.”

“Yeah, well, your shadow looms large, and a little brother has to do what he has to do.”

John winced. “Ryan. It’s not my shadow. It’s Dad’s.”

They each sighed. Greg Lloyd was one damn hard act to follow.

“You got the brains, and I got the tree-hugging shit. Some gene pool, huh?”

There wasn’t a lot either of them could add.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m starting to feel like a burglar,” he told John. “Time for a direction change. I’ll go to Jen’s house, and you steer clear of Samantha until we have a plan. Okay?”

He called for a car, and within twenty minutes, he was on his way to Jen Carlton’s apartment.