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The Bachelor's Brighton Valley Bride
Judy Duarte
UNDERCOVER BOSS…TO HOMETOWN DAD?When Megan Adams’ temporary boss bursts into her office, she fears it’s more than just her job at stake. Their instant chemistry makes the once-burned single mother long to risk her heart again. But something about this mysterious man isn’t adding up.Computer-geek-turned-billionaire Clay Jenkins came home to Brighton Valley to uncover a baffling mystery at his flagship store. But as ‘Peyton Johnson,’ he’s bonding with the alluring redhead and her children in a way that could blow his cover. Can he forge a future with Megan and her family before she uncovers his deception?


They stood like that for a moment, sizing each other up in some kind of face-off.
With the bed behind her, and his masculine frame leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed in a tense yet sexy pose …
Well, he wasn’t exactly blocking her escape route, but that was the problem. Megan didn’t feel like running off, and she really ought to. Because what she found most troubling was the way her heart rate was zipping along at an arousing pace, setting her hormones on high alert and sending her thoughts drifting in a direction they had no business veering.
Peyton Johnson was a handsome man, and while he wore denim and boots, something about him flashed City Boy in neon lights.
Still, she found him attractive. But being “attracted” to a man wasn’t the same thing as being interested in him. And she definitely was not interested.
* * *
Return to Brighton Valley: Who says you can’t go home again?
Dear Reader (#ucf380db8-3ff2-5a44-a1a9-a93f4f81b832),
Thanks so much for picking up the second book in the Return to Brighton Valley series. As you turn the pages, you’ll meet Clay Jenkins—although, when he introduces himself to Megan Adams he’ll be hiding behind the persona of “Peyton Johnson.”
I’d originally called this story Her Undercover Boss, which was a play on the title of a reality TV show I sometimes watch. I like to see the CEO of a big company come into one of his stores or shops and pretend to be a regular employee, just to check out what’s going on. When the idea for this book struck, I wondered what would happen if a rich, handsome CEO came to a Brighton Valley store and fell in love with the small-town girl who worked there. Yes! But since the series was called Return to Brighton Valley, the hero would have to be the one returning. So how would I keep his identity hidden from the heroine and the other citizens?
Hmm… (Picture me staring out my office window, tapping my fingers on the desk and ignoring the ringing telephone.)
That’s the part of writing a book that I love the best—creating a backstory for Clay/Peyton that would solve that problem! And I did that. So take your book or eReader out to the pool or the shore or just curl up in a cozy spot and see what happens when Clay Jenkins returns to Brighton Valley as Megan’s undercover boss.
Happy reading!
Judy
P.S. I love hearing from my readers. Feel free to contact me through my website, www.judyduarte.com (http://www.judyduarte.com), and let me know what you thought of this story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The Bachelor’s Brighton Valley Bride
Judy Duarte


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JUDY DUARTE always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.
Her dream became a reality in March 2002, when Mills & Boon released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then she has published more than twenty novels. Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. And in July 2005 Judy won a prestigious Readers’ Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.
Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous but delightfully close family.
To Teresa Carpenter and Jill Limber, who helped me plot the details of Clay and Megan’s story during a girls’ getaway and gabfest in Orange County. If you ever want to have another slumber party, ladies, count me in!
Contents
Cover (#u46e908bd-b8bd-5300-bd53-4da7dc2e5b13)
Introduction (#u9b43d139-3ce1-50e1-b0fd-f5cdde0ac199)
Dear Reader (#u32cb2b7d-376e-55d1-bf19-3eff16e30964)
Title Page (#ua2fe1a09-bb6b-5209-ad24-dcf270a0496d)
About the Author (#u0f3c3324-76e5-5a8d-b0ab-034eb650846c)
Dedication (#u627d3217-a218-5d77-9685-38087f9b5d6a)
Chapter One (#ulink_0aa90d68-1d6a-5937-a35d-1c441785c93a)
Chapter Two (#ulink_bdd5b5d7-699a-50ad-a89a-886be8f79089)
Chapter Three (#ulink_a9673388-741c-5545-87dc-95ff21704f06)
Chapter Four (#ulink_0c65998c-39c3-5931-a8de-0cac3f055a84)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_d69ad3db-123e-5748-adf7-b5638c1db8b7)
For most people, returning to their roots brought on a warm sense of nostalgia—but that wasn’t the case for Clay Jenkins.
As he sat in a nondescript SUV on the tree-shaded main drag of Brighton Valley, just three buildings down from the old computer repair shop where he’d first gone to work nine years ago, he was reminded of the life he’d eagerly left behind and had tried so hard to forget.
He could have hired someone else to come in and fix his flagship store, but this was where his new life had actually started.
Hank Lazaro, his friend and mentor, had gotten him his first job there. As a result, the time he’d spent here on the weekends and after school had kept him out of trouble—and it had taught him a lot about business and honesty and hard work. It was here that he’d met the financial backer who’d helped him market the computer software program that had made him a multimillionaire before he hit the ripe old age of twenty.
Clay knew he shouldn’t attach so much emotional significance to the quaint old building, especially in a small Texas town that, as a teenager, he couldn’t wait to escape. But when he’d seen the last quarterly reports and realized that a corporate rep from Geekon Enterprises would have to step in and turn the store around before it went down the tubes...well, the task had become personal, and he knew he was the only one he would allow to do it.
He got out of the vehicle he’d rented at the executive airport in Houston, where he’d arrived in his private jet, and sucked in a deep breath of country air. As he caught the aroma coming from Caroline’s Diner, his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything but a bagel at the Silicon Valley office earlier this morning.
No one made a better meal than Caroline, at least when it came to down-home cooking like chicken-fried steak, meat loaf, pork chops and the like. He could practically recite her menu from memory—unless she’d changed it. But something told him she’d never do that.
When he’d worked here, he’d eaten lunch at Caroline’s every day, filling up on her daily special—no matter what it was. Of course, he stuck to a healthy diet now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t slip off to the diner the first chance he got—for old times’ sake.
Clay removed his dark-tinted sunglasses, doubting he’d need them to hide his identity from any of the locals who might remember him. He no longer looked like the nerdy, undeveloped teenager who’d first got his start working as a computer repair technician at Ralph’s Electronics.
Seven years ago, when Ralph died, Clay purchased the business from his widow for ten times its value and made it part of the Zorba the Geek chain, a subsidiary of Geekon Enterprises, which also owned GeekMart, a chain of computer stores that had launched the innovative Geekon line of computers.
Ralph had hired Don Carpenter six months earlier, so Clay had let him continue to manage the Brighton Valley repair shop. Then he’d flown back to Silicon Valley, leaving the sad memories and the small town behind. Or so he’d thought.
But here he was, dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a black polo shirt, hoping he looked as though he belonged in the bucolic world he’d long since outgrown.
He’d much rather be back in California, wearing one of his many custom-made suits, going out on the town this evening. But when his executive assistant had given him that requested update on the Brighton Valley store and he’d seen that Don Carpenter hadn’t turned in his yearly sales-and-service report, Clay had known something wasn’t right.
He hated to think that someone was embezzling funds or doing something otherwise illegal in one of his companies, but with hundreds of shops operating around the world, it wouldn’t be the first time.
While he could hire someone else to go in and find the cause—or the culprit—he was determined to handle this situation himself, even if that meant he had to go undercover to do it.
And that shouldn’t be difficult. Clay had been too busy to talk to Don in person when he’d purchased the store. Instead, all their conversations had taken place over the phone and via email.
Clay had also grown up in nearby Wexler, so not too many people in Brighton Valley knew him. And just in case anyone followed the business magazines, which he doubted in a one-horse town like this, he’d shaved off his trendy beard, cut his stylish shoulder-length hair, opted for a pair of contacts instead of his black-framed glasses, and traded in his suits and Italian loafers for a more casual look. So he felt confident that his identity was safe.
For that reason, as he stepped onto the sidewalk, feeling a bit like Clark Kent, he held on to his self-assured swagger, unwilling to give up everything he’d worked so hard to perfect.
As he made his way down the shady street, he paused in front of the hardware store and gazed at some of the same familiar items showcased for sale. In fact, not much in Brighton Valley had changed since he used to ride his secondhand bike to work every afternoon and chain it up to the parking meter out front.
On the other hand, Clay had morphed into an entirely new being. At twenty-six, he was no longer the scrawny kid who’d had to worry about using a lock to secure that same bike so the football jocks wouldn’t steal it, paint it pink and toss it up into the branches of the elm tree that grew in front of the gym.
In fact, with the kind of money and power that he could now wield, nobody would ever mess with him again.
That is, if they knew who he really was.
But Clay didn’t want them to know. At least, not yet.
He turned and made his way to the once-familiar shop and let himself in.
The jingling of the bell on the door signaled his entrance, and he took a moment to scan the shelves of new and refurbished computers for sale, as well as the wooden counter that ran the length of the small reception area and blocked the entrance to the workstations in the rear of the shop.
He sucked in a breath and caught the whiff of...cinnamon and...sugar?
Zorba the Geek hardly smelled like dust and toner any longer. Why was that? And where was everyone? Hadn’t they heard the ringing when he came in?
When Clay worked here, he used to drop everything he was doing to greet whoever entered the store. The customer service had certainly gone downhill, which could account for some of the store’s trouble.
“Hello,” he called out, hoping to alert someone in back to his arrival.
Footsteps sounded, and an attractive redhead came out, the telephone to her ear. She wore a pair of snug jeans and a blue tank shirt that wasn’t what he’d call revealing, but certainly caressed her curves
When she spotted him, she held up a slender nail-polished finger, indicating she’d be with him in a moment.
Her auburn brows were knit tightly above big, round eyes the same color as the caramel-flavored coffee his executive assistant brought him from Starbucks every morning.
Maybe it was due to the fact that he was growing hungrier by the minute—or to the sweet scent of sugar and cinnamon that had set his taste buds on edge—but damn if those big brown eyes didn’t make him crave a taste of caramel.
That is, until the pretty redhead shot him a stressed-out glance that brought him back to reality.
“He’s never done this before,” she told the caller. “Are you sure it was him?”
Clay suspected she was trying to appease a customer who was unhappy with their service.
“Uh-huh.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “What about the other boy? Did he say that Tyler started it?”
Now, that didn’t sound like a business-related conversation. Was she on a personal call? With a customer standing in front of her, waiting for assistance?
Okay, so technically, Clay wasn’t a customer, but she didn’t know that.
In spite of her pretty brown eyes and enough curves to inspire a supermodel to go out and eat a cheeseburger and fries, Clay’s annoyance rose to the point that he was having a difficult time remaining quiet.
No wonder the store was in trouble. Don had hired an employee who couldn’t be bothered to put business ahead of her personal life.
“I’m sure this is just a onetime thing, Mrs. Paxton. Tell Tyler I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The redhead ended the call and, with the phone still in her hand, rubbed at her temples as if trying to massage the obvious stress out of her brain.
Then she reached under the wooden counter and pulled out a plate of cookies. “I’m so sorry. That was my son’s school and... Can I offer you a snickerdoodle? I made them this morning.”
So that was what was responsible for the sweet cinnamon-laced scent that had been taunting him since he’d walked in the door.
But serving cookies to the customers? He was pretty sure that concept hadn’t been introduced at the last public-relations focus-group session. Maybe the Brighton Valley branch didn’t get the memo that they were in a computer repair shop, not a bakery.
Yet he wasn’t going to come in with corporate guns blazing and start nitpicking every little thing the store was obviously doing wrong. Not to mention, he was having some pretty heavy hunger pangs. And while he tried to be health conscious, especially in recent years, he’d never been able to turn down sweets.
He picked up a cookie and asked, “Is Don Carpenter in?”
“I’m sorry, but he’s out for the rest of the afternoon. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m Peyton Johnson. The Houston office sent me down to help you get your new accounting system up and running. Don was expecting me.”
Clay took a quick bite, and when the cookie melted in his mouth, he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet taste. Then he quickly swallowed, realizing that he was still waiting for the redhead to explain who she was.
Apparently, he’d have to wait longer, because the phone in her hand rang again and she barely glanced at the display screen before taking the call, ignoring him for a second time.
She did, however, give him the just-a-minute signal before answering, “Yes?”
She might be beautiful—and that annoying finger made a damn fine cookie—but he didn’t like being asked to wait.
One thing was certain, though. She had no idea who he really was, because no one put Clayton Jenkins on hold.
“Doesn’t the nurse have an ice pack?” she asked the caller.
Clay took another bite of the cookie and listened to the one-sided conversation, trying to figure out what was more important than this woman’s future employment—which was growing shakier by the second.
“Well, Mrs. Paxton, I’m a bit more concerned with my son getting beat up by Conner Doyle, who I believe is a bully, than I am about Conner having to rewrite his essay on the rain-forest biome because he didn’t save the document in the computer lab.”
Bully? The once-delicious cookie turned to chalk in Clay’s mouth. It hadn’t been that long ago that a certain football jock had made his adolescent life hell.
“Well, if the document was saved, then...uh...Well, wasn’t it password protected?...Uh-huh...I see.” After a beat, she said, “I’m sure Tyler didn’t hack into anything.”
Hack? Now, that word sparked a rather magical memory. Years ago, Clay had used his skill in technology to fight back against the bigger and tougher kids at school, and it had worked like a charm.
“Suspended? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
It sounded like the boy—her son—was in trouble.
“Is Conner being suspended, too?” Those brown eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on the receiver. “What do you mean, ‘not at this time’? Actually, don’t answer that. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there.”
After disconnecting the call, she waved at Clay, indicating that he should follow her toward the back office.
People didn’t order Clay to do anything, and while every fiber in his being wanted to balk, he trailed behind her as she strode to a desk and yanked open the lower drawer.
She appeared to be in full mama-tigress mode, preparing to protect her cub. Clay couldn’t help but be a bit envious of the lucky kid. His own mother had never gone to battle for him. Of course, he couldn’t hold that against her. She’d had her own struggles to deal with, and more often than not, Clay had needed to take care of her.
“Listen, Mr...” The redhead paused and glanced up from where she’d stooped over, her eyes wide, her lips parted.
Apparently, she hadn’t paid a bit of attention when he’d told her his name.
“Johnson,” he said, repeating the alias he’d come up with. “Peyton Johnson. And you’re...?”
“Megan Adams.” She reached for a black purse that had seen better days, then kicked the desk drawer shut. “I’m so sorry to do this to you, Mr. Johnson. But since you work for Zorba’s anyway, would you mind covering the shop for me for a couple of minutes? I have to run to the middle school. It’s just down the street, so I’ll be right back.”
Her keys were in her hand and she was heading out the back door before Clay could voice either an objection or an agreement.
As he heard a car backing out of the parking spot in the alley, he turned to look at the cluttered desk piled with coffee-stained work invoices and an open green ledger.
While stunned and annoyed that the woman had just left him in the back office with all the pricey equipment and access to confidential business information, he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead he’d take the opportunity to get a peek at what was really going on with the store, although he had a pretty good idea already.
He still didn’t know anything about the woman other than her name, but if her behavior at the front counter and the disarray of this desk were any indication, he knew she didn’t have the work ethic that Geekon Enterprises expected from those on their payroll.
And it didn’t matter how sultry her eyes were—or that his hands itched to touch her abundant red hair.
Nor did it matter that she made a damn good cookie.
Business came first, and Clay had to do what was best for the store—even if that meant firing the first employee he’d met.
* * *
Megan could have died when the handsome dark-haired stranger had come into the shop and introduced himself as the accounting specialist the corporate office had sent to get their store in order—or to spy on them, depending on how you wanted to look at things.
The truth was, the shop desperately needed his help. But they didn’t need him reporting back to corporate and getting her and her boss fired.
When Don Carpenter first hired Megan to help out in the store a few months back, the job had been a godsend. And despite the fact that she knew very little about computers—and not much more about bookkeeping—it hadn’t taken long for her to realize the store was in big trouble.
Don was a wonderful older man, a kindhearted boss and a loving husband, but she feared that his worry about his wife had caused him to become scattered lately. He’d also been so busy looking after her and taking her to appointments that he’d gotten behind on his work. And to top it all off, he was intent upon doing things the “old way” and had been resistant to converting to a new, electronic accounting system.
Megan tried to do what she could to help, but the store was going under, and she wasn’t sure if she could turn things around on her own. Sadly, poor Don couldn’t afford to lose his job right now, especially with his wife still undergoing chemotherapy. So Megan had brought in Tyler to assist him with some of the easier repair work. And while her twelve-year-old son had been helpful at times, he was also causing her more stress lately.
She glanced at the sulky boy hunched into the front seat beside her. His lip was split, and he hadn’t said a word since she’d blasted into his principal’s office and exchanged some heated words with the woman—and with Conner Doyle’s parents.
She hated being a tattletale or fighting Tyler’s battles for him, but it was unfair for her son to get suspended for retaliating the only way he knew how.
Conner had been picking on Tyler ever since they’d moved to Brighton Valley last summer, and the bullying had only gotten worse. She’d sensed a change in her son during the school year. The sweet, fun-loving boy had grown quieter each day, withdrawing into books and technology and other solitary activities. It concerned her because it was something she couldn’t relate to, and she feared losing the connection they’d always had.
She stole another glance at Tyler, noting his red hair, his thin frame. In many ways, he’d taken after her side of the family in looks. She had no idea where he’d inherited his amazing intellect. She’d never been a great student, and her ex-husband, Todd Redding, who’d been athletic and quick on his feet, had excelled far better on the football field than he had in the classroom.
To make matters worse—and no doubt compounding what Tyler might be going through now—Todd had never wanted much to do with his nonathletic, bookish son, even before he’d abandoned the family. And that was one reason Megan had taken back her maiden name when they were divorced. Another was to distance herself from the terrible financial situation Todd had left her in.
When she stopped at the intersection near the town square, she reached over and tousled her son’s red hair. “I love you no matter what, Ty. And I want you to know that when you’re ready to talk about what happened, I’ll be here to listen.”
He didn’t respond, yet he didn’t move away from her caressing hand, either.
She pulled her old Civic into the parking spot in the back alley behind Zorba’s and shut off the ignition, her thoughts still desperately groping for a solution. And while she wasn’t sure what to do to help her son, she couldn’t very well leave Mr. Johnson alone to poke around the store more than she already had. But she’d had no other choice. Had he not been there, she would have locked up and left an “out to lunch” sign on the front door.
Megan glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, wishing she had some lip gloss and mascara.
And why was that? She hadn’t gone out of her way to look attractive for anyone since before her divorce. Of course, there’d never been any extra money for frivolities like makeup or new clothes. Besides, the last thing she needed was for a man to show any interest in her.
So why was she now so concerned with how she looked for Mr. Big-Shot Accountant?
“Did Mr. Carpenter leave that MacBook for me to adjust?” Tyler asked as he hopped out of the car and headed toward the back entrance.
Oh, no! She’d forgotten to tell Tyler that Mr. Johnson was here. And for that reason, he couldn’t do any more of the repairs—at least, not during business hours.
She unlatched her seat belt and hustled out of the car, trying to intercept the boy before he made it inside.
“Whoa,” Tyler said before she could stop him. “Who are you?”
Mr. Johnson, who’d been seated at Don Carpenter’s desk, spun the chair toward the door as they entered.
Had he gotten better-looking while she’d been gone? Or had she just been too distracted on the phone to notice that his eyes were an amazing shade of blue, that he had a square-cut jaw, that his lips were full and sensuous?
“I’m Peyton Johnson.” He stood and extended his hand to Tyler. “I work for Zorba the Geek.”
While Megan hadn’t paid too much attention to his facial features before, she definitely noted them now, especially the way his blue eyes narrowed in on her as he said, “And now will somebody be so kind as to tell me who you two are?”
Oh, no. Hadn’t she introduced herself when he’d arrived? Her memory replayed the sequence of events between when he’d entered the shop and when she’d dashed out. As the conversation, at least most of it, played back to her, she could have sworn she’d told him her name. But maybe she hadn’t.
“I’m so sorry. I’m Megan Adams. I help Mr. Carpenter here in the back office. This is my son, Tyler. He got in trouble at school today, and I’m afraid dealing with all of that made me a little flustered. I’m not normally like this.”
Peyton’s intent stare sent a nervous flutter through her, threatening to scatter her thoughts to the winds, so she averted her eyes from his face, her gaze slipping down to the open black collar that exposed a sliver of dark chest hair.
“So,” Mr. Johnson said, reining in her thoughts from the slight sexual diversion they’d taken, “what exactly do you do here at Zorba the Geek? Are you a computer tech?”
“Ha!” Laughter came from the boy behind her, but before she could turn and shush him, he added, “Mom wouldn’t know a gigabyte from an integrated circuit.”
Peyton’s brows rose, and he looked over Megan’s head, which wasn’t all that hard for him to do, since she stood only five foot two. “And you do?”
“Of course I do. Take this Geekon hard drive right here.” Tyler pointed to one of the black boxes disassembled on an empty workstation against the wall. “This model uses a digital integrated circuit.” He went on to talk about logic gates and signals and values of ones and zeroes, all of which went over Megan’s head. “See, all the Geekon series use digital ICs.”
“What do you think of the Geekon series?” Peyton asked the usually quiet boy, who hadn’t said more than three sentences to her all week.
Tyler perked up and launched into a full discourse on the uses of microprocessors and transistors and everything else that caused Megan to tune him out.
“So basically,” Tyler said, “straight out of the box, Geekon computers are the best you can buy. But they’re not the best that can be made.”
“Tyler, Mr. Johnson works for Zorba the Geek, which is part of Geekon Enterprises, remember?” Megan left the rest unsaid, hoping that her normally introverted son knew better than to insult the product that was responsible for providing her paycheck.
The boy lovingly patted the black hard drive on the table. “Then I’m sure Mr. Johnson would want to see what I can do with this baby to make it run even better.”
Oh, jeez.
“You know what, Tyler? I certainly would like to see that. But I’m here from the accounting department. Maybe when I get finished here, I can call some buddies who run the manufacturing department and set you up with someone who designs this stuff for a living.”
“Sweet!”
Well, at least one person was excited about Mr. Johnson being there.
When Peyton returned to Mr. Carpenter’s desk, he looked at it as if he wanted to pick up the whole thing, mounds of paperwork and all, and throw it in the Dumpster out back.
Shoot. Who could blame him? Whenever Megan tried to tackle the piles of old invoices that had been stacked up months before she’d even started working here, she felt like tossing it all out herself. She didn’t even know where to start sorting out the jumbled mess.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Peyton said.
Great, he was an accountant and a mind reader.
“Things have gotten a wee bit backed up since Mrs. Carpenter got sick,” she admitted.
Of course, in a matter of days—maybe even hours—Mr. Johnson was going to figure it out on his own. But in the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to try and make the corporate lapdog see that they were all doing their best and that none of them should lose their jobs.
“Do you have a game plan for how long you’ll be in town?” she asked, hoping he’d say it would be for only a few hours.
“As long as it takes. The corporate office got me a room at the Night Owl.”
The motel was right off the highway and near the Stagecoach Inn, a local honky-tonk. Neither seemed to be the kind of place that would appeal to a man like Peyton Johnson, although that was mere speculation on her part—and quite frankly, it was none of her business or her concern.
“Too bad you can’t stay in the apartment upstairs,” Tyler said. “It would make it a lot closer for you.”
The boy’s suggestion took the wind right out of her, making it impossible to respond, let alone object.
“It’s got a bed and stuff up there,” Tyler added. “And it’s also got a TV and a kitchen.”
“Is it vacant?” Peyton asked.
“Yeah,” Tyler said.
Megan’s stomach tightened. How did she go about keeping the boy quiet? “The company has made arrangements for Mr. Johnson to stay at a motel, Tyler. I’m sure they’ve already made a deposit. And if not, there’s probably a cancellation fee. Besides, there’s not much to do in downtown Brighton Valley in the evenings. But at the Night Owl, he’d be so much closer to Wexler and all the bigger-city amenities he’s probably used to.”
She offered a smile, hoping she’d squelched her son’s impromptu suggestion before Peyton got any ideas. It was bad enough that he was going to be spending the next day or so looking over their old accounting system and seeing how bad things had gotten. But having him spending nights here, too?
“You know,” Peyton said, “I think I’ll give the office a call. It would be a lot more convenient to just stay here. And if I can get my job done sooner, I’ll be saving the company money in the long run. They’ll surely see the savings there.”
As Peyton pulled out his cell phone and prepared to dial, Megan’s heart sank. She’d hoped that she could lock him out of the shop each evening, knowing that she’d be present whenever he uncovered the problems facing the store—and that she could explain and maybe soften the blow.
But how could she do that if he had access to the office when she wasn’t around to protect Mr. Carpenter?
She wanted to snatch the cell phone out of his hands, but she’d been raised better than that. So she stood there pretending to smile gamely, feeling absolutely powerless and at her wit’s end as she shot a glance at the one man who had the ability to turn her life upside down once again.
It had taken her three long years after the divorce to put her life back to rights again, and she was finally seeing some light at the end of a very dark financial tunnel. Then in walked Peyton Johnson, who had the ability to jerk the rug out from under her and shake up all she’d fought so hard to build.
But she was up for the challenge. There was no way she’d stand by and let another man dash her dreams again without putting up a fight.
Chapter Two (#ulink_6037a3e9-e1b0-5e86-992f-162d58d68fdc)
Clay pulled out his cell and called Zoe, his executive assistant, who knew where he was and what he was up to.
“This is Peyton Johnson. I’m at the Brighton Valley store, and it’s come to my attention that there’s an apartment over the shop. I’m not sure how that will pencil out for the corporate bean counters, but it would sure be more convenient if I could just stay there. That motel you reserved for me is clear across town.”
“You own the building,” Zoe told Clay. “I don’t have to clear anything—”
“You’ve got that right, ma’am. So would you mind checking into that for me?”
“I...uh...” Zoe paused. “So this phone call is just for show?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And all I’m really supposed to do is listen while you speak?”
“That would be the case. Yes.”
“Very clever. I’ll have to add an extra line to my job description. The executive assistant must be bilingual in both English and in reading the boss’s cryptic telephone conversations.”
“Something tells me that could come in handy, especially while I’m in Brighton Valley.”
“Then I’m on it. Looks like you’re in luck, Clay— I mean Peyton. I can assure you, or rather everyone at the Brighton Valley store, that corporate will approve of anything you suggest.”
“It certainly would be in their best interests to do so.” Clay smiled. “Thanks, Zoe. Then I’ll just wait for you to check into that. How soon do you think you can call back?”
“Would five minutes be a believable response time?”
“That works for me.”
“All right, then. You got it, boss. Clock is ticking.”
Before Clay could hang up, he spotted Megan pushing her son away from the computer workstation and shoving the worn green backpack into his arms. Then she pointed at the counter in the front of the shop.
Clay placed the cell phone back in his pocket as she muttered something that sounded like, “Not while he’s here, you’re not.”
Tyler looked at Clay, then shuffled his thin-framed adolescent body in the direction his mother was pointing.
So what wasn’t Megan allowing her son to do while “Peyton Johnson”—or rather, a corporate rep—was here?
When Clay glanced at Megan, she flashed a smile at him. It was a pleasant smile, but it seemed a bit forced.
What made her so uneasy?
“Why don’t I show you around the shop?” she asked.
Clay didn’t need a tour. He’d had the run of the place since he was sixteen. He was also the owner of the building. But, of course, he couldn’t let on about that.
“Sure. Let’s get started.” The sooner he got this mess squared away, the sooner he could get the heck out of Brighton Valley. And this time, he’d leave it behind for good.
“You saw the front desk when you came in,” she said. “We also have our refurbished computers and some new Geekon models for sale up there. We don’t really keep a lot of cash in the store, just enough to make change for the customers. We take credit cards, too, but you probably won’t be dealing with any of that.”
She must have forgotten that he would have had to deal with all of that if a customer had actually come into the shop when she’d abandoned him to get her son an hour ago. But before either of them could comment, the bell on the door jangled, and an actual customer did walk in.
Or stomped in was more like it, a laptop tucked under his arm, a grimace on his face. “Where’s Don? He was supposed to have fixed this darn computer, and I waited nigh on three weeks for it. He finally called me yesterday and told me I could pick it up, so I did. But the fool thing still isn’t working right.”
Riley McLaughlin, a rather crotchety fellow who’d bought the refurbished machine from Ralph back when Clay used to work here, set the outdated laptop on the counter. “This is the third trip to town I’ve had to make, and I still can’t get online or send an email. How can you folks run a business if a customer can’t get any satisfaction?”
“Don isn’t here right now,” Megan said, “but if you want to leave the laptop here, I’ll have him take another look at it.”
“And then what?” Riley clucked his tongue. “I’ll have to wait another three weeks to get it back?”
“I promise to make sure he looks at it as soon as he gets into the shop. It’ll be a high priority.” Megan reached under the counter and pulled out the plate of cookies. “Here, try one of my snickerdoodles. I made them this morning.”
Riley knit his bushy gray brows together, then glanced at the sweet treats, grumbling as he did. Yet he took one of them and bit into it.
“Let me take a look at that for you,” Clay said. “But in the meantime, we just happen to have one of the new Geekon laptops here. Why don’t you take it home and give it a try. The corporate office is offering a special deal on this particular model, and there’s a ten-day free trial period.”
Riley, who was chomping away on Megan’s cookie, turned and studied Clay.
For a moment, Clay feared the guy might have recognized him. That is, until Riley asked, “Who are you?”
“Peyton Johnson. I work out of the Houston office.”
Riley’s scowl faded, and he let out a little humph. “I always did like free trials. But how much do those new laptops cost?”
“From what I understand, if you like the product and are willing to talk up Zorba the Geek, as well as Geekon computers, you can buy it for a a hundred dollars.” Clay reached for the box on the shelf that contained a new Geekon Blast, knowing that price was an unheard of bargain—even for a fellow who was as close to his nickels as Riley was. And it would certainly work a lot better at placating an angry customer than a couple of cookies—no matter how good they were.
At that moment, Clay’s smartphone rang—no doubt Zoe calling him back as requested—so he pulled it from his pocket to take the call.
“Are you sure about that discount and offer?” Megan whispered to him before he could answer the phone. “You must be mistaken. A hundred dollars is a ninety-percent savings off the retail price.”
He lifted his ringing cell. “Do you want to ask the Houston office about that promotional sale?”
She studied him, those pretty brown eyes darting back and forth as if trying to assess his honesty.
Clay tossed her a crooked grin, then answered the call. “Peyton Johnson.”
“Hey, boss. This is your wake-up call—or rather, your apartment’s-in-the-bag call.”
“Nice. Thanks, Zoe. And while I have you on the phone, can you please talk to Megan, who works here at the Brighton Valley store? I told her all about that hundred-dollar special that the marketing department is running on the Geekon Blast laptop. And she didn’t believe me.” He handed his phone to Megan, confident Zoe would assure her that she could believe anything Clay—or rather, “Peyton”—had told her, even though Zoe had no knowledge of the phony sale he’d just concocted for Riley’s benefit.
As Megan reached for Clay’s cell, her fingers brushed his, sparking a warm, feathery rush of heat up his arm. For a moment, their gazes met, and he realized she’d felt something, too.
Then she averted her gaze and spoke into the phone. “Hello?” She listened for a moment or two, then said, “Okay. It’s just that it sounded way too good to be true, if you know what I mean. Goodness, if those things only cost a hundred dollars, I’d like one, too.”
Again she listened to whatever Zoe was telling her. Then she nodded and handed the phone back to Clay. After thanking Zoe, he ended the call.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“I guess so. She said you were in that last marketing meeting, and that you’re never wrong when it comes to sales and special prices. So she said I could rest assured that the offer was spot-on.”
Clay tossed her a grin.
Megan added, “She also said that she’d like one of the Geekon Blast models, too. Her nephew is having a birthday next week and would love a laptop. She’s thrilled to know that she can afford to buy him one—thanks to that special price.”
“Smart gal, that Zoe. She’s always been one to jump on a good deal.” Clay would have to tell his executive assistant not to spread the word about the sale. And that it was a onetime deal that would last only until the end of the day.
“So what do you say?” Clay asked, turning back to Riley. “Will you leave your old laptop with me and take this new baby for a test run?”
“You got a deal,” Riley said. Then he took the box off the counter, tucked it under his arm and headed out the door.
“I guess a new laptop worked even better at sweetening his mood than my cookies did,” Megan said.
“How many customer complaints do you get these days?” Clay asked.
She bit down on her bottom lip. “A few, I guess. Mostly because Don has gotten a little backlogged.”
Clay suspected that was an understatement. But he’d find out the truth soon enough.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ll finish giving you that tour of the shop.”
She led him back to the work area, which was three times the size of the front part of the store. Yet it seemed a lot smaller than Clay remembered. Maybe that was because it wasn’t just the shelves that were stacked with various new and used computers and laptops. The floors were so cluttered with machines that they’d had to make walkways to get around them.
“This is where Don works,” Megan said, indicating the old desk Ralph Weston used to keep as clean as a whistle. Only now the stacks of paper and other stuff made it impossible to see the once-glossy wood grain Ralph used to polish every Saturday afternoon.
Clay followed along as she talked and pointed, but each time she moved or brushed past him, her lavender scent taunted him, causing him to lose focus on what she was saying.
But it certainly didn’t cause him to lose his focus on the way her jeans hugged every inch of her curvy bottom—unlike that willowy, reed-thin model he’d dated last. To be honest, he actually found Megan’s womanly figure more appealing.
She grabbed a stack of papers off a ledger and shoved them into a bin on top of one of the old green filing cabinets. “I’m in the process of developing a new invoice system that will be easier to manage.”
He knew he should be paying a lot more attention to what she was saying and pointing out, even though not a stick of furniture or shelf or cabinet had changed in the ten-plus years since he’d worked here. But he couldn’t stop wanting to know more about her.
And less about the new system she’d been trying to explain.
“And that’s about the size of it,” she said as she ended her small circling tour at the foot of the stairway that led to the second floor. “And up there is the apartment Tyler was talking about, although I suspect you’d be much more comfortable at the Night Owl. Like I said, it’s closer to Wexler. And it’s right by the Stagecoach Inn, in case you wanted to grab some beers or go dancing or something after work.”
“Is that an invitation?” The minute the words rolled off his tongue, he could have kicked himself.
Why in the hell had he asked her that? He’d grown accustomed to women hitting on him, but even a former geek knew Megan was just being friendly and not flirting. Yet the longer he’d watched her bouncing around the store giving him a peppy, upbeat tour, like one of the cheerleaders back at Washington High in Wexler, the more he’d found himself slipping into nerd mode.
“Oh, no. I don’t go out on...” A blush spread up the neckline of her shirt, and she averted her sexy brown eyes. “I mean, I don’t go out dancing or anything like that. I’m a mom. I have Tyler and Lisa and... That reminds me.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but since I don’t normally work on Wednesdays, I don’t have a sitter lined up today. So I have to pick up my daughter. Do you mind watching the store for me again?”
Before, he could answer, the beautiful redhead was out the door like a shot. Just like she’d done the first time he’d seen her.
Clay looked at the stairs leading up to the apartment and wished her tour had continued to the intimate living space above.
Maybe her running out was for the best, because he had no business allowing himself to be distracted. His time in Brighton Valley was limited, and he didn’t plan to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.
Hopefully, Don Carpenter would be back soon, because Clay didn’t know how he was going to be able to work with the woman without a chaperone.
At the sound of a pencil tapping, he realized they hadn’t even been alone now. Megan’s son was sitting at the front counter staring at the computers lining the wall instead of writing in his school workbook.
So not only had she left him to look after the store, now she’d left him to babysit her son, too.
Megan Adams might be sexy as hell, but she had to be the most irresponsible employee he’d ever had. And he had a feeling she’d be the first one at the Brighton Valley store that he’d have to let go.
* * *
Peyton Johnson couldn’t have come at a worse time. And he probably couldn’t be any more annoyed at Megan than he was now.
When she’d grabbed her purse a second time and practically run from the shop yet again, he’d merely gaped at her. But she’d had a pretty good idea of what he’d been thinking.
Still, with Don away from the shop, what other option did she have? She couldn’t very well leave her second grader at school.
As she turned into the alley that ran behind the shops lining Main Street, Megan glanced into the rearview mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. “Lisa, change out of your cleats before we go inside and put on your shoes. You know how hard it is to get all that mud and grass out of the shop’s carpet.”
“Aw, Mom.” The seven-year-old insisted upon wearing her soccer uniform everywhere, even to school. “Then can I go barefoot? My coach said lots of athletes practice without shoes to toughen their feet up. And I want my feet to be tough.”
Megan hadn’t had a chance to vacuum the floor yet, and no telling what small screw or piece of wire might end up in her daughter’s foot. All she needed was for Mr. Johnson to think she was violating some safety regulation on top of everything else. “Never mind. Just stomp your shoes before we go inside.”
It was bad enough she had both her kids at work with her this afternoon, but with her mom and Ted on their dream vacation of a yearlong RV trip across America, Megan was left without many childcare options until summer camp started at the Wexler YMCA next week.
She held the door open for her blonde daughter, who’d once again left her backpack in the car—no doubt on purpose. “After you meet Mr. Johnson, the new worker I told you about, you need to go back to the car and get your homework. You have to practice your spelling tonight. It’s the last test of the year.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, transporting Megan back to a time when she used to do the same thing to her own mother. Oh, how she’d hated spelling. And reading. And any other kind of schoolwork that had to do with written words that seemed to jump all over the page.
She really couldn’t blame her daughter, who’d inherited the same learning disabilities she’d struggled with in school.
“Why do I even need to learn how to spell all those boring words anyway? Soccer players only need to know how to run fast and kick the ball.”
As they entered the back door to the shop, Peyton turned from where he stood perusing the ever-increasing number of backlogged computers that lined the shelves. “Even Mia Hamm had to learn how to spell,” Peyton told Lisa.
Megan’s stomach nose-dived, and the dull headache that had begun when Tyler’s school had first called her this afternoon sharpened. Not only had Peyton heard Lisa’s complaint, but he’d actually responded to her.
Great. The man had been in the shop for all of thirty minutes, and he could make a slew of assumptions about her parenting skills. And they hadn’t even talked about the problems facing the store—the computers needing repair and the stacks of old invoices that had yet to be logged.
He probably suspected that Megan’s son was a computer hacker and her whining daughter hated to read.
Would he realize that Megan’s problems with the kids sometimes caused her to be nearly as scattered as Don?
“Who are you?” Lisa asked him.
“Lisa!” Megan really had taught her daughter better manners than that. “This is Mr. Johnson. Remember, I told you about him. He’s the man from Geekon Enterprises who’s going to be working at the shop for a while.”
“Do you know Mia Hamm?” Lisa asked, zeroing in on her all-time favorite women’s soccer player.
“I’ve actually met her. And she’s a good speller. She needed to be in order to read those playbooks.”
Lisa’s eyes widened, and her lips parted. “You know her? Really?”
Megan had to admit that she was a bit surprised, too. And when she stole a glance at Peyton, she saw a blush creep onto his cheeks.
Why was that? Was he embarrassed to be caught in a lie? Surely he didn’t actually know the woman. Or did he?
He glanced away from her and Lisa, as though he wished he could be anywhere but here in the store with them.
“We’re not actually friends,” he admitted. “I met her at...a charity event. And the spelling thing. I...uh...read that in a magazine somewhere.”
“Mom,” Lisa said, “is the car unlocked? I have to go get my backpack.”
“It’s open,” Megan said. Then she watched in amused surprise as her daughter raced outside to get her bag.
Megan glanced at Peyton. She’d found it odd that he’d said anything to Lisa in the first place, but if it caused the girl to voluntarily want to do her schoolwork, well, then she wasn’t about to complain.
Her gaze focused in on the accountant who’d probably already taken inventory of the way she ran the back office, as well as the way she handled her children.
“Thank you,” she said. “That was brilliant.”
“Yeah, well, even geeks can relate to sports fanatics sometimes.”
A geek? That might be true of some accountants, but there was nothing geeky about Peyton Johnson. He looked as though he’d be more comfortable running track or fielding line drives than adding up columns and running spreadsheets behind some sedentary computer. But Megan wasn’t about to say as much.
“It’s not always Bring Your Kids to Work Day around here,” she said.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true, but Don had left Megan with no other choice if she wanted to keep her health insurance and the extra pay. This was supposed to be a part-time job, but given how often she had to cover for the poor man, she had to come into the shop much more frequently than either of them had planned.
When she realized that Peyton wasn’t going to comment, she continued, “But I’m a single mother, and with Tyler having trouble at school today...” She trailed off, cringing as she heard herself play the deserted-mom card. She didn’t want anyone cutting her any breaks just because she’d been too stupid to resist Todd Redding’s charms.
When she realized Peyton still had yet to respond to anything she’d said, her head began to throb. So she removed the rubber band, releasing her long hair from its high ponytail, and massaged her scalp, trying to ease the ache.
She shook her hair back. All the while, Peyton continued to stare at her.
What was wrong? Had she made another workplace error?
Should she have kept her hair pulled back into the tight elastic? Maybe so, but if she hadn’t let the reddish-blond mass out of its tight confines, she wouldn’t have gotten any relief from the unbearable throbbing above her right ear.
And the only way she could stay in the same room with Peyton and not completely lose her cool was to stop the throbbing.
When he finally spoke, he averted his gaze and said, “Now that you’re back, do you think you can...um...handle things while I get my suitcase and grab a quick bite to eat?”
Suddenly, she found herself staring at his back. The man didn’t even wait for her answer before he bolted out the front door.
Oh, no. She’d been right. He had come to the conclusion that she couldn’t deal with things on her own. He was probably running out to call his boss right now and tell him the Brighton Valley store was such a mess that it wasn’t worth saving.
She wanted to chase after him, but she couldn’t leave the shop unattended.
But wait. He’d said that he was getting his suitcase. And he was coming back to stay in the apartment above the shop.
She needed to go upstairs and freshen things up. She had to change the bedding and get rid of the housecoat Cindy Carpenter kept up there for those days after her chemo treatments when Don wanted her close by so he could keep an eye on her while he worked. She also needed to make sure the kids had picked up any messes they might have made when they’d had their after-school snacks there yesterday.
“Tyler,” she said, “help your sister with her spelling and watch the shop. I need to clean the apartment upstairs.”
“You got it, Mom.”
“And keep an eye out for Mr. Johnson. When he comes back, give me a heads-up.”
“I’ll give you two birdcalls to warn you,” the boy said.
Megan blew out a sigh. “Just keep him in front and send Lisa to get me.”
She couldn’t afford to be anywhere but downstairs and hard at work when he returned.
* * *
Clay couldn’t believe he’d run out of the store like a blushing teenager stumbling over his own tongue. He tried to tell himself that it was his low blood sugar, but he’d eaten enough of those amazing snickerdoodles to raise his glucose levels through the roof. Hopefully, it was just the lack of protein doing a real number on him.
It couldn’t possibly be the way the beautiful single mom had pulled her hair free from its rubber band and had shaken out the silky locks right in front of him.
He hadn’t seen hair that thick and luscious since... Well, since...he didn’t know when. Megan Adams had such a natural beauty and such a wholesome way about her—just like the cheerleaders in high school he used to pine after, the ones who hadn’t even known he’d existed.
In fact, Megan probably had been a cheerleader and one of the girls who wouldn’t have given him the time of day back then. Probably still wouldn’t, at least in his Peyton Johnson persona.
Hell, after looking at some of the invoices and computer records while she’d been out playing soccer mom, he had to wonder if she even knew the store existed.
The books were a disaster—from the bookkeeping to the mounds of overdue repairs. Clay definitely had his work cut out for him.
Clearly, Megan was in over her head and no amount of homemade cookies would make up for the fact that some immediate personnel changes would need to be made.
How was he going to turn the store around and not let on who he was?
Already he’d made the slip about Mia Hamm to Megan’s daughter. Clay actually did know the World Cup–winning soccer player. He knew a lot of professional athletes and celebrities, thanks to all the charity events he supported and attended. And most of the athletes he associated with knew that they couldn’t float through life on athleticism alone—unlike Todd Redding and some of the other guys on the high school football team. Not that Megan’s daughter, with her matching braids and grass-stained knees, was anything like the jocks who used to pick on him back then.
Still, if he wasn’t careful, he’d blow his cover before he got through the first day. He needed to get away from all that luscious red hair and those big brown eyes so he wouldn’t get soft and say something that would give him away.
Taking a break and getting some solid food, like one of Caroline’s juicy cheeseburgers, in his stomach would help.
Normally, he steered away from red meat and fried foods—ever since he’d moved to California, in fact. It had been part of his attempt to create a new identity to go along with the successful life he’d built for himself.
But he decided that he might as well enjoy a burger and fries now, then get back to healthier choices once he figured out where he could find the nearest Whole Foods Market.
As he strode past the ice-cream store—damn, there were a lot of temptations in this town—his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID, needing to make sure he answered with the right identity. After all, only his assistant knew Clay Jenkins and Peyton Johnson were the same man.
The display read Don Carpenter.
It was about time the store manager called him back. Where was he on a work day? And why in the world would he leave Clay’s precious start-up business in the hands of that gorgeous but distracted and incompetent woman?
“This is Peyton Johnson,” he answered.
“Don Carpenter here. I’m so sorry I missed your call earlier. I’m at the Brighton Valley Medical Center with my wife. They were running some tests when you rang.”
Clay understood medical issues and emergencies came up, but why hadn’t Don called to cancel their appointment? And why hadn’t he hired a reputable backup employee?
“You and I were supposed to meet at noon today,” Clay said.
“I could have sworn we scheduled that for Wednesday.”
“Today is Wednesday.”
“Oh, dear. Normally I take my Cindy in for her treatments on Tuesdays, which I did yesterday. But she passed out early this morning, and I had to bring her in to see her doctor today, and now they’re running tests. So that’s thrown me off-kilter. I’m sorry.”
Cindy must be Don’s wife, and the treatments he mentioned had to be pretty serious if they routinely took place at the hospital each week. Clay couldn’t very well chastise the man for missing work because of his sick wife.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clay said. “I met with Megan. She showed me around and gave me access to everything I need to get started.”
“Oh, good. Megan’s a great gal. And she’s been a big help at the store. The customers love her fresh-baked goods. Single mom, you know, with those two sweet kids.”
Clay didn’t know if sweet was the right word to describe Lisa and Tyler. In fact, one of those kids had been suspended today for not being sweet at all. Of course, Clay could forgive the kid his hacking attempts in an effort to even the score with a class bully. After all, he’d certainly been in Tyler’s shoes back in the day. If Clay stuck around long enough, he’d have to...
Wait a second. What was he thinking?
“Megan’s been a godsend,” Don added. As he continued to sing her praises, Clay wondered if they were talking about the same woman.
“But you won’t meet her when you come into town tomorrow,” Don added. “Wednesday is her normal day off.”
“Today is Wednesday,” Clay repeated. “I’m in town now.”
The conversation had just made a complete circle, and Clay was no more informed about the happenings at Zorba’s than he’d been three hours ago.
“You’re right,” Don said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. But I’m afraid I have to hang up now. The doctor is coming with Cindy’s results. I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow, Mr. Johnson.”
Clay ended the call, then looked at the phone in his hand and blew out a sigh.
No wonder the shop was falling apart. Don was so caught up with his sick wife that he couldn’t focus on the store. In fact, he’d had to hire in help—and incompetent help at that.
Did Clay even dare leave Megan alone long enough to grab a bite to eat?
Chapter Three (#ulink_0b81d63b-5e6e-5160-bffa-2d8629eb8f8a)
Clay opened the glass door to Caroline’s Diner and scanned the interior of the small-town eatery, with its pale yellow walls and white café-style curtains on the front windows.
To the right of an old-fashioned cash register stood a refrigerated display case filled with desserts—each one clearly homemade. He studied the towering meringues and whipped-cream toppings on the pies, the four-layer chocolate cake, the deep-dish peach cobbler.
He glanced at a blackboard that advertised a full meal for only $7.99. In bright yellow chalk, Caroline had written, “What the Sheriff Ate,” followed by, “Chicken-Fried Steak, Buttered Green Beans, Mashed Potatoes, Country Gravy and Cherry Cobbler.”
The advertised special sounded delicious, but Clay had his heart set on a cheeseburger. Besides, he’d had a near run-in with Caroline’s husband, Sheriff Jennings, once. And the old man had been sixty pounds overweight back then.
Clay doubted if the law enforcement officer could even buckle his gun belt after eating daily meals like that for the past seven years. Of course, Sam Jennings had to be retired by now.
Sally, a salt-and-pepper-haired waitress who’d worked at the diner back when Clay had been in high school—and probably much longer than that—stopped by his table and smiled. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water will be fine.”
“Our iced tea is fresh brewed. How ’bout I get you a tall glass of that with your water?”
This was Texas. If he wanted to fit in, he should probably drink the nectar of his youth.
“Sure, but unsweetened, please.”
Sally clucked her tongue in obvious disapproval, but Clay knew that if he wasn’t careful, his belly would get just as large as old Sheriff Jennings’s.
“You new in town, sugar, or just passing through?” Sally was a nice lady, but curious and a real talker.
While he was glad she hadn’t recognized him, he wasn’t eager to answer too many questions about himself. But then again, he’d gone over his made-up background several times on his flight and his drive into Brighton Valley, so he was prepared. And he hadn’t had a chance to deliver it in full yet, especially since Megan kept running out of the store before they could really talk. So it wouldn’t hurt to test it out on someone, especially when that someone was also likely to know all the town gossip.
Clay kept it brief, though, giving his fake name, mentioning that he was from the Geekon corporate offices and helping out at the computer store down the street.
“What a blessing you must be to Don Carpenter. He’s had his hands full since poor Cindy’s diagnosis. I sure hope she’s feeling better now. That chemo can really take a lot out of a person. You know what I mean?”
No, Clay didn’t know. He’d never had to deal with cancer. His own mother’s bipolar disorder was the closest thing he’d come to dealing with someone’s chronic illness.
But that certainly explained why Don was so concerned about his wife and why Megan had her kids at the shop this afternoon. If this was supposed to be her day off, Clay ought to cut her a little slack. But he still couldn’t sit back and let the store go under.
“I met Megan Adams,” he said. “It’s nice that they have someone helping out at the store.” Clay wasn’t quite buying his comment, but he needed to fish for more information. And already the waitress who was dressed like Dolly Parton’s mousy-haired sister was proving to be a useful tool.
“Don’t you know it! I love that Megan to pieces. She’s a wonderful mom and she’s pure heaven in the kitchen. We sold out of her muffins this morning and only have a few more jars of her preserves left for the week. I know that girl needs the income from Zorba’s, but just between you and me, she’d make a much better living selling her baked goods, jams and jellies than working part-time for Don Carpenter.”
So Megan had a side job selling homemade goods to the diner? Well, he couldn’t fault her for being industrious. And if her muffins were as good as her cookies, he could understand why they’d sold out.
But was she in dire financial straits? Would she be tempted to pilfer funds from the store?
Once he had some time alone with the books, that’s what he intended to find out.
Two elderly women shuffled in and sat at one of the booths. Mindful not to take up too much of Sally’s time, Clay put in his order for the double-bacon cheeseburger with an extra side of French fries.
He might end up gaining ten pounds, but clearly, patronizing Caroline’s Diner was going to be one of the best ways for him to get information about his store—and the people running it.
Thirty minutes later, after he’d eaten his burger and finished every last fry on his plate, he let Sally talk him into taking a piece of peanut-butter pie to go.
It was still early and he planned to get his suitcase out of the SUV and into the upstairs apartment. Then he’d send Megan home so he could close up the shop and take a good look at the books. The pie would come in handy as a snack because he knew he’d be putting in some long hours tonight.
When he took his check up to the old-fashioned cash register, he glanced at the elderly women and saw them counting out the quarters from their coin purses. He pulled an extra twenty from his wallet. Then, using a pad and pen that rested on the counter, he scratched out a note to let Caroline know he intended to cover the ladies’ meals, too.
After paying his own tab, he handed the surprised waitress a ten dollar bill as a tip and left the diner. On his way back to Zorba’s, he set a slow pace, the memories bogging him down.
Maybe it was seeing the two women counting out their change and being reminded about how he’d once lived in a different world, how he’d once had to struggle to make ends meet, too. His mom might have brought home a paycheck, but he’d been the one to budget the money, pay the bills, buy the groceries and cook the meals. He’d also made sure she took her meds and got up each afternoon so she could go back to work at the lab and start the process all over again—that is, until she’d died.
Maybe seeing Megan with her son, acting like the protective and caring mom Clay had always wished for himself, had poked at some tender spot deep in his heart.
Either way, the past was playing havoc with him. But he did his best to shake it off and to put the memories behind him before returning to work.
As he reentered the shop, he spotted Lisa sitting at the front counter, doodling on what must have been her spelling homework.
“Hey, Mr. Johnson. Do you know anything about athletes who don’t have to read? I heard that gymnasts get to go to school at home, but only for a couple of hours every day because they’re too busy practicing at their gyms. Maybe I should switch from soccer to gymnastics.”
The girl was asking Clay for advice? Heck, he didn’t have any experience with children. He’d never had siblings. And he’d always avoided the kids who’d played sports in school. How was he supposed to know what she should play?
“Everyone needs to be able to read,” he said. “Even gymnasts.”
“What about softball? Mom signed me up for a sports camp this summer through the YMCA. I hope I get to try out all sorts of sports and can figure out which one will get me out of school the most.”
“Why don’t you like school?” Clay scanned the shop, looking around for Megan—or for anyone who could get him out of this awkward conversation.
And speaking of Megan, where was she?
He wanted to get started on the disaster of an office, and it should be nearly time to close up for the day.
“It’s okay,” Lisa said. “Our PE teacher, Mrs. Sanchez, is nice. And I like my friends and having recess. But I don’t like doing seatwork. I’m not good at it. All the letters jumble around, and so I’d rather be outside.”
No wonder the little girl felt more comfortable playing sports than doing her spelling. She was better at it. Clay had felt the same way when he’d been in school—only with sports instead of spelling. It had taken him years to figure out how to dribble a basketball, but once he got ahold of a computer and had his hands on a mouse and keyboard, his fingers had excelled for hours.
“Yes!” Tyler’s voice shouted out from the back, calling Clay from his musing.
He couldn’t allow himself to get soft. And where was Megan? Had she left again?
Clay headed to the back of the shop, where Tyler clicked furiously on a mouse at the workstation. He leaned over to look at the screen and saw the customer claim sticker on the computer’s hard drive. Oh, no. The boy was messing with equipment that had been entrusted to Zorba’s.
“Why are you on that computer?” Clay tried to keep the accusatory tone from his voice, but his frustration level was rising.
The ringing telephone interrupted him, and he headed toward the front of the store. Before he could reach the counter, Lisa picked up the receiver and said, “Zorba the Geek’s Computer Repair Shop. Can I help you?”
This was way too much. A seven-year-old was answering the business phone, while a twelve-year-old was back here playing around with a customer’s computer.
Where in the hell was their mother? Clay looked around the small space, his temper rising. Brighton Valley might be a small town, but that didn’t account for the complete lack of professionalism he’d experienced since his arrival a few hours ago.
He had no idea how he’d keep himself from firing Megan on the spot when she returned.
“Tyler,” Lisa’s singsong voice called out from the opening between the two rooms. “Mr. Hochstein wants to know if you got that virus off his computer yet. He has an online poker tournament tomorrow night and needs it back by then.”
“Yep.” Tyler swiped at the keyboard and yelled back to his sister. “I just got the nasty little bugger. And I’m cleaning up the rest of his files right now. But he’s got to stop going to those offshore betting websites, because that’s how he got the virus in the first place. And he just got an instant message.”
Lisa relayed the boy’s response better than Clay had expected her to.
“Mr. Hochstein wants to know who’s looking for him,” the girl said.
“BigPokerMama213. There’s a tournament tomorrow with a twenty-dollar buy-in.”
As the girl repeated the message over the telephone, Clay wondered if they’d somehow broken some kind of law—besides the child labor law.
Did it matter that the kids weren’t actually working or on the payroll? But what about participating in gambling?
He was also a little taken aback by Tyler’s skill at fixing the computer, considering his age. He’d heard of the international betting virus that had a lot of software techs scrambling to immunize their systems from the havoc it could wreak. And this little boy—who’d just been suspended from the last two days of seventh grade—seemed to think that he’d single-handedly conquered the virus.
Clay would have to check it out, but if the boy had actually done that, technological interest and amazement took precedence over customer service.
“How’d you figure out how to fix that virus?” he asked.
As Tyler explained the process in depth, Clay realized the kid was onto something. But before he could respond, a creak sounded through the ceiling above. Apparently, Megan was upstairs in the apartment.
“I’d like to talk more about that,” Clay said. “But go ahead and finish what you’re doing.”
Curious as to what Megan might be up to—or what she might be hiding—he left the kids in the shop and headed toward the stairway that led to the apartment.
Deciding to catch her in the act of ditching work or whatever she might be up to, he quietly slipped upstairs and entered the living room, which held a floral love-seat sofa, coffee table and small television set. Everything looked as if it had just been wiped down, and the rug bore fresh vacuum lines.
The small kitchen was tidy and the little table and chairs held a burning candle that smelled like vanilla.
Classic-rock music wafted from the bedroom, so Clay made his way in that direction. When he reached the doorway, he spotted Megan bent over the bed, tucking the sheets into perfectly creased hospital corners. But the bedding wasn’t anywhere near as intriguing as the view of Megan’s lovely backside, her denim-clad hips swaying in tempo to the Fleetwood Mac song on the bedside clock radio.
Clay shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the doorjamb and continued to watch her mesmerizing movements, hoping Stevie Nicks never stopped singing.
Over the music, a boy’s voice called out, “Whoops! Caw caaaaw. Caw caaaaw.”
At the kid’s lousy bird call, Megan froze, then slowly turned and caught Clay watching her from the doorway.
From the flush on her cheeks and the panic in her eyes, he figured that she’d just been belatedly warned of his approach.
* * *
By the way Peyton was gawking at her, Megan couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at her for leaving her post at the store or if he was surprised to find her preparing the apartment for him. Either way, she straightened just as her children screeched into the bedroom doorway.
They gathered next to Peyton, with Tyler still making “caw caaaaw” sounds until Lisa gave him a little shove to quiet him.
It must have been blatantly obvious to the man that the kids had been trying to warn her of his presence, which embarrassed her all the more.
“What’s going on?” Peyton asked.
“I was trying to freshen up the apartment. I had no idea you’d planned to stay here, and it wasn’t ready.”
“Is cleaning and scrubbing in your job description?” he asked.
Who’d he think he was? Her boss? She stiffened, then placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not going to apologize for being thoughtful or for showing a bit of small-town hospitality.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound unappreciative. It’s just that...” He blew out a sigh, then raked a hand through his hair. “Well, let’s just say that this day hasn’t gone the way I’d expected it to.”
Then that made two of them. Megan released a sigh of her own. “It’s been a little out of the ordinary for me, too.”
As the silence stretched between them, she took the opportunity to send the kids downstairs and to tell them to get their things together. Surely it had to be getting close to five o’clock.
As soon as she was alone with Peyton, she said, “Don meant to be here today, but that didn’t work out. I came in to help him on my day off, but some childcare issues cropped up, which isn’t the norm.”
“I understand.”
Did he? She hoped so. She also hoped that he didn’t realize she’d been stretching the truth when she implied the kids weren’t always here in the afternoons. She tried her best to keep them busy in after-school activities, but more often than not, especially with Tyler, one or both of her children ended up spending time at the shop—and in the apartment.
They stood like that for a moment, sizing each other up in some kind of face-off.
With the bed behind her and his masculine frame leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed in a tense yet sexy pose... Well, he wasn’t exactly blocking her escape route, but that was the problem. She didn’t feel like running off, and she really ought to. Because what she found most troubling was the way her heart rate was zipping along at an arousing pace, setting her hormones on high alert and sending her thoughts drifting in a direction they had no business veering.
Peyton Johnson was a handsome man, and while he was dressed casually, something about him flashed City Boy in neon lights.
Still, she found him attractive. But being attracted to a man wasn’t the same thing as being interested in him. And she definitely was not interested.
Besides, even if she were on the lookout for a husband—or even a romantic interest—it certainly wouldn’t be a corporate yes-man who didn’t even reside anywhere near the same town in which she lived.
After her divorce, she’d left Houston and put down roots in Brighton Valley, where she’d finally been able to give her kids the kind of home she’d always wanted them to have—something she’d never been able to create for them while she’d been married to their father.
Breaking eye contact, she glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. Time for me to lock up the shop and go home.”
As she made her way to the bedroom doorway, Peyton stepped aside and let her pass. As he did so, she caught a whiff of his cologne, something musky and exotic that sent her blood racing, her hormones reeling and her heart thumping.
She had no idea what brand of aftershave he used—or what stores would carry something so...
Well, she had no way of knowing if it was costly, but she’d pay a pretty penny to buy it as a gift for her man—if she had a man and the pennies to spare. She’d never smelled the like.
Maybe it wasn’t just the scent alone. Maybe it was the way it blended with the pheromones he gave off. She didn’t know for sure.
But as intoxicating and alluring as she’d found it to be, that only made her want to steer clear of the man the best that she could.
Because she’d come to distrust her choices when it came to men and sexual attraction. And something told her that Peyton Johnson, like his scent, would linger with a woman long after he left town—a life-changing, heartbreaking memory a woman wasn’t likely to forget.
Chapter Four (#ulink_5a7fbcc6-f32f-5544-8e78-a2aff2aa92f8)
The following morning, after dropping Lisa off at school, Megan pulled into her regular parking space in the alley behind the shop.
She needed to deliver this morning’s fresh batch of peach-crumble muffins to Caroline at the diner before starting work. So she took the linen-covered basket out of her backseat and grabbed the oversize breakfast burrito she’d wrapped in foil. Then she locked the car.
As she made her way toward the back entrance of the diner, she risked an upward glance at the apartment over Zorba’s. The shutters were closed. Peyton was most likely still asleep, which meant he’d probably been up late last night snooping through all their files.
She’d stayed up most of the night, too, but her time had been spent in the kitchen, baking and preparing more jams and preserves for the farmers’ market held in town square on the third Sunday of each month. She’d hoped her work would be a diversion for her worries, but she hadn’t been able to keep her thoughts from straying to the sexy and suspicious stranger who’d kept her second-guessing everything he did or said.
Did he have another agenda besides helping them get the new accounting system up and running?
Could he be trusted to do only that particular job and not run back to corporate with reports of how bad things actually were at the Brighton Valley store?
She lifted the basket containing the fruits of her labor, rested it on one hip and strode into the diner through the open back door.
Caroline, who’d been a friend of Megan’s late grandmother, sat at the butcher-block counter, making notes and ordering supplies. Annie, the cook, was busy frying eggs and flipping pancakes, while Sally hollered out breakfast orders through the open window between the front of the restaurant and the kitchen.
After Megan had divorced Todd and moved home to live with her mom, Caroline had suggested that Megan sell some of the extra peaches and plums that grew in the family orchard at the farmers’ market. Since she’d been left in dire financial straits thanks to Todd’s wild and reckless spending habits, she’d jumped on the idea of earning some extra money.
To liven up the boring displays of fruit, she’d set out a few jars of the jellies and preserves she’d canned, along with a few muffins.
As a child and the only girl in the family, she’d spent the summers on Gram’s farm, where she’d learned to cook and bake, memorizing all her grandmother’s recipes, especially the preserves, which had won Gram many a blue ribbon at the county fair each year. Still, she’d been surprised when her preserves had sold out well before the peaches and plums had.

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