He knocked on the door. Wasn’t surprised she greeted him with a phone pressed to her ear, or when she held up a finger to bid him silent. She waved him inside, engrossed in conversation with someone named Gabby. From what Sam could make out, the woman, girl, whatever, had spent a wild, drunken night in Vegas and someone had snapped compromising shots that showed up on Twitter. Sam wasn’t into the social networking scene but he knew a lot of people who were and he knew that once something was on the Internet it was there forever. If something went viral it was either a blessing or, in this Gabby girl’s instance, a curse.

“Where was your bodyguard when this wild bunch talked you into playing strip pool in their suite?” Harper asked. A beat later she rolled her eyes. “I was afraid you were going to say that. First thing you need to do is to fire that irresponsible reprobate. His job is to keep you out of trouble, not to incite it or, in this case, play along. I don’t care if you begged him to. I don’t care if you’d been dying to see him naked. Yes, I know. Most bodyguards are built. Listen to me Gabby. Gabby! We need to concentrate on damage control. I’ll handle the bulk of it, but here’s what you’re going to do.”

Sam slipped off his coat and sat on the edge of the same red chair Mina had settled into yesterday. Rather than lose patience, he listened while Harper took calm control of a disastrous situation. Apparently Gabby was an up-and-coming star, a featured actress on a show being touted as the next Glee. She played a bubbly cheerleader type, a good girl, and that’s how her fans perceived her to be in real life. Salvaging her now-tarnished reputation struck Sam as a PR nightmare. Yet Harper was on fire, looking as though she were eating up every second of the challenge.

He didn’t get her. At. All.

When she finally signed off, her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. “What’s up, Rambo? I’ve got a crisis to spin.”

Sam rose, not quite towering over her, but making his presence known. Holding Harper’s attention was a challenge in itself. “That text I sent you last night.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It was nothing. Seriously. I sent a couple of e-mails and texts, pitched the story with an heiress-turned-philanthropist angle. Cake. Caught on like wildfire. Did you see the flurry on TMZ?”

“What the hell is TMZ?” Every time she mentioned it his brain went to DMZ (demilitarized zone). He was pretty sure they weren’t connected.

She scrunched her brow. “What world do you live in?”

“The real world?”

She snorted then took off toward the kitchen. “Did the kids enjoy my cupcakes?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Did you try one?”

“No.”

She tossed a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“About this media hype revolving around Rae. I need you to snuff it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the Cupcake Lovers are contracted to release that recipe book with a New York publisher.”

“The text specified self-publishing.”

“I know. This isn’t your fault, precisely. It’s mine.”

She whirled then, hands on hips. “What do you mean precisely?”

“Why didn’t you check with me before you took action?’

“Why would I? You said you needed a favor. The text you forwarded me was pretty clear.”

“It was?”

“Clear on wanting to promote buzz regarding Reagan Devereux’s goodwill projects—the school, the recipe book—capitalizing on her mother’s name and her father’s fortune. Drawing attention to Sugar Creek in order to increase tourism. Drawing attention to the Cupcake Lovers to increase sales of their book and inspire additional contributions to their charitable work.”

“You got all that from Daisy’s text?”

“Didn’t you? Look,” Harper said as she turned toward her coffee maker. “Is Rae relocating to Sugar Creek?”

“Looks like.”

“Is she purchasing the local day care center and launching additional educational programs for the local kids?”

“The plan as I know it.”

“Are the Cupcake Lovers in the process of publishing—one way or another—a recipe book that will benefit various charities as well as our troops?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see a problem.” She turned and handed Sam a mug of coffee. “If the club decides to go with the publishing company then I’ll shift the spin. Let me know when you know.”

Sam watched her stir raw unrefined sugar into the mug, watched as she sipped, and tried not to obsess on where those lush lips had been last night. His cock twitched in memory. “How much is this PR spin going to cost us?”

“Nothing.” She glanced at the ceiling and beyond. “I think Mary’s smiling down on me and the fact that I did something in support of the Cupcake Lovers. That’s enough for me.”

“What is it with you and your fascination with Mary Rothwell?”

“Why didn’t you taste my cupcakes?”

Sam was still focused on her mouth and distracted by the sexual tension pulsing between them. When she met his gaze, Sam felt a full-body zap. “About last night—”

“Uh-uh.” She took that as her cue to leave. “Off to save Gabby’s ass,” she said as she pushed away from the counter, mug in hand. “Love the designs you left on the table for the vintage-looking cabinets, by the way. Can you really build those from scratch?”

“Yeah.”

“Impressive.”

“Harper,” Sam said, causing her to pause on the threshold. “I thought you bought this place as a getaway. A place to unwind.”

She cast him an enigmatic look before sliding out of the room. “What do you think last night was?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Luke was reminded yet again of how much he hated hospitals when he accompanied his dad to the medical center. It didn’t matter that the sun was shining or that it was a balmy seventy-nine degrees. His mood was sour and his blood ice cold. Had his dad taken a turn for the worse? Had the cancer spread? Would he need to undergo surgery? Or had there been a glitch in the previous assessment? Would he be cleared to go home?

Needless to say they were all praying for the latter.

“I hate waiting rooms,” Rocky said as she paced back and forth.

“Join the club,” Luke said. This one, in particular, rattled his composure. The few other people awaiting news about loved ones looked stone-cold miserable. The place was a chaotic mess. Magazines scattered all over. Crushed beverage cups abandoned willy-nilly instead of properly discarded. The ugly blue carpet was sun-spotted and worn from countless visitors, countless worried souls who paced incessantly like his sister.

Luke turned his focus from Rocky and the disheveled room to his composed and ever-tidy mom. Her chin-length hair, curly and blonde like her daughter’s, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Like Rocky, she wore no makeup. She didn’t need it. She was fifty-seven and looked maybe forty-five. She’d married young, had her kids young, and had often boasted about her good fortune. About how her golden years would be her best.

Only they’d turned out to be the worst.

Luke’s heart ached as he tried to read his mom’s mind. She was sitting two chairs down reading a paperback book. Kaye Monroe had been a pillar of strength throughout Jerome’s diagnosis and treatment. She never doubted her husband’s ability to persevere. Never fell apart. Yet Luke knew she was shaken to her kind-hearted core. What kind of strength did it take to keep that kind of intense fear bottled? How the hell did she do it? “You look so calm, Mom.”

“Not calm,” she said. “Patient and optimistic. This has pretty much been my life for the last several months. I’ve learned to cope.”

Luke and Dev traded a look. They were of the same mind. Pissed that their dad had kept his condition a secret for so long. Pissed that their mom had had to “cope” on her own.

Jayce strolled into the waiting room carrying a tray with four steaming cups. “I sampled mine,” he said. “Swill compared to Moose-a-lotta’s coffee, but loaded with caffeine.”

“Come to papa,” Luke said. He’d barely slept last night and considering the bedraggled look of his brother and sister and Jayce, he knew they’d suffered the same restlessness.

Rocky paced by and grabbed her cup without missing a step. When riled or upset, Rocky became a frenzied blur. That was her coping mechanism. “Why is it taking so long?”

“It’s been less than an hour, dear,” Kaye said.

“The scan should be over soon,” Dev said. “I was told the images would be stored electronically on a computer and that after reviewing, the radiologist would inform Dad’s doctor, who promised to expedite the entire process. We should have a report shortly.”

“Pacing won’t help, dear.”

“Cool your heels, Dash.” Jayce moved in and took his soon-to-be-wife in hand. “You’re messing with your mom’s zen,” he said with a soft smile.

Luke sipped his coffee and tried to relax. Any other time he would have enjoyed being in Florida. Especially in February. A respite from the harsh Vermont winter. Not that he typically minded the cold. But who wouldn’t enjoy flying south for a few days? A few days of warmth. A few days of sand and surf.

Out of nowhere, Luke imagined Rae and her kickass curves. He pictured her in a tiny bikini. Imagined them walking along the beach, hand in hand with a little girl or boy, splashing up the frothy waves, kicking up sand. He’d have to make that happen someday. In a heartbeat, Luke imagined a few other happy scenarios—all involving Rae and their kid. Tension eased from his shoulders, his head throbbed a little less. Apparently fantasizing was Luke’s coping mechanism.