Return to You (28 page)

And who she was with.

With his fists clenched at his side, he paced. Where the hell was Gabriella? Back and forth, back and forth until he began to feel like an Edgar Allan Poe character, slowly going insane while hearing nothing but the clock ticking on the wall. There were dozens of things that Ethan needed to be doing to get ready for heading to Denali with Zach the following day; this little detour was certainly not going to help him in any way, shape, or form. Unfortunately, he was putting Zach's needs first, so his friend could have the more focused time.

Off in the distance, he heard a desk drawer close and the sounds of Gabriella getting settled back in at her desk. Ethan pasted his most relaxed and charming smile on his face and walked out to the reception area. At Gabriella's anxious expression and quick look around, Ethan knew exactly how to play this. “No worries. I sent him home.”

She visibly relaxed. “Oh, okay.”

Ethan walked over and sat himself down on the corner of her desk. “Between you and me, I couldn't stand him another minute longer. It's bad enough that I'll have to travel with him and all, but hopefully he'll take the next twenty-four hours to chill out.”

“One can only hope,” she said coolly, organizing papers on her desk.

“He just has a lot on his mind, and you know Zach; he likes to control everything and everybody. I know he's just concerned about Summer, but he needs to realize how crazy he comes off sometimes.”

“Try all the time.”

Ethan hid a smirk. “Well, believe me, I've known them both for so long; this is nothing new. I don't think Zach can help feeling responsible for Summer. And Summer? She just likes to push his buttons. And she's good at it.” Gabriella barely shrugged. “Still, you can't blame Zach for being upset. I mean, he has so much on his plate right now…the least she could have done is told him where she was going.”

Gabriella sighed wearily. “I know what you're doing, Ethan,” she finally said. “It's one thing for me to step in when you and Zach are snapping at one another; it's really quite different when it's Zach and Summer.”

He was confused. “Why?”

“They're family. The two of you are the top executives here at Montgomerys; it is sometimes necessary for me to step in and send you each to your own corners until things cool down. The way I see it, this is a private, family matter. They need to work it out for themselves. It's none of my business.”

He hated when people threw solid logic at him. “But it's going to affect Zach on this climb. Is that what you want? For him to be so distracted that he makes a stupid mistake that can hurt him or the other members of his team? All I'm asking for is the name of the town she went to, Gabriella. That's it. Please. For Zach's safety.”

She glared at him. “Low blow, Ethan.”

Knowing that he just about had her, he leaned in closer. “I'm going on that climb too. Zach's the leader. I need to know that I've done everything humanly possible to make sure his head is on straight.” He paused and gauged her reaction. “Please, Gabriella. If you won't do it for him, do it for me. I just want to make sure Summer's all right.”

Indecision warred within her. While Summer hadn't asked her to keep a confidence, Gabriella still felt as if she was betraying her. She sighed. “Fine. She's going to Burns. There's a resort there where you camp in a giant tepee with a private hot tub not far from the springs. She was supposed to leave today but I'm not sure what time.”

Ethan sagged with relief. “Thank you,” he said before jumping from her desk and heading to his office. Using the office phone, he tried calling Summer. It went right to voice mail. He went through a quick checklist in his head and realized he could delegate the rest of his work out to the junior execs and be out of here within thirty minutes. First, he'd swing by Summer's place just in case she hadn't left yet. Then, if by chance he missed her, he'd stop by his own place and grab a few things before making the nearly five-hour drive south. Tepee camping? Leave it to Summer to do something so outrageous. Most of her family wouldn't be caught dead in anything less than a five-star hotel. Even Zach, with all his extreme sporting, never stayed anyplace less than extravagant.

This family was going to be the death of him.

With any luck he'd catch her before she left and all of this could be cleared up before he had to meet this mystery guest and fight the urge to strangle him. This was so not what he needed today. Before Ethan could talk himself out of what he had clearly gotten himself into, he called an emergency meeting and did his best to wrap up all the loose ends around the office before packing up and heading over to Summer's.

He wasn't sure what he was hoping to accomplish with all of this. There was obviously the fact that he was going to put Zach's mind at ease, but in the process, he was clearly torturing himself. For the last month, Ethan had done his best to keep his distance from Summer and to make sure he was never alone with her. By going after her like this, he was certainly tempting fate.

What would he actually do or say when he found her? What was he going to say to this mystery guest of hers that wasn't going to result in charges being pressed against him and missing the flight to Denali? Summer Montgomery had done nothing but tie him up in knots for the better part of twenty years; he should be used to it by now.

But somehow, the image of a teenage Summer and the woman she had grown into brought to mind two very different kinds of knots. Back then, it was a fleeting feeling, more of a whimsical wish. Now? He was drawn to her as a man with all of the feelings that went with it. If it weren't for his friendship with Zach and his closeness to the entire Montgomery family, Ethan would have acted on his feelings for Summer as soon as she became an adult.

He was too loyal.

He was too afraid to rock the boat.

He was totally screwed.

Order Samantha Chase's next book
in the Montgomery Brothers series

Meant for You

On sale April 2015

Continue reading for an excerpt from the first in a new contemporary series from bestselling author Grace Burrowes.

“She had that twitchy, nothing-gets-by-her quality.” MacKenzie Knightley flipped a fountain pen through his fingers in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. “I liked her.”

Trenton Knightley left off doodling Celtic knots on his legal pad to peer at his older brother. “You liked her? You
liked
this woman? You don't like anybody, particularly females.”

“I respected her,” Mac said, “which, because you were once upon a time a husband, you ought to know is more important to the ladies than whether I like them.”

“Has judge written all over him,” James, their younger brother, muttered. “The criminals in this town would howl to lose their best defense counsel, though. I liked the lady's résumé, and I respected it too.”

Gail Russo, the law firm's head of human resources, thwacked a file onto the conference table.

“Don't start, gentlemen. Mac has a great idea. Hannah Stark interviewed very well, better than any other candidate we've considered in the past six months. She's temped with all the big boys in Baltimore, has sterling academic credentials, and—are you listening?—is available.”

“The best kind,” James murmured.

Trent used Gail's folder to smack James on the shoulder, though James talked a better game of tomcat than he strutted.

“You weren't even here to interview her, James, and she's under consideration for your department.”

“The press of business…” James waved a languid hand. “My time isn't always my own.”

“You were pressing business all afternoon?” Mac asked from beyond retaliatory smacking range.

“The client needed attention,” James replied. “Alas for poor, hardworking me, she likes a hands-on approach. Was this Hannah Stark young, pretty, and single, and can she bill sixty hours a week?”

“We have a decision to make,” Gail said. “Do we dragoon Hannah Stark into six months in domestic relations then let her have the corporate law slot, or do we hire her for corporate when the need is greater in family law? Or do we start all over and this time advertise for a domestic relations associate?”

Domestic law was Trent's bailiwick, but because certain Child In Need of Assistance attorneys could not keep their closing arguments to less than twenty minutes per case, Trent hadn't interviewed the Stark woman either.

“Mac, you really liked her?” Trent asked.

“She won't tolerate loose ends,” Mac said. “She'll work her ass off before she goes to court. The judges and opposing counsel will respect that, and anybody who can't get along with you for their boss for six months doesn't deserve to be in the profession.”

“I agree with Mac.” James dropped his chair forward, so the front legs hit the carpet. “I'm shorthanded, true, but not that shorthanded. Let's ask her to pitch in for six months in domestic, then let her have the first shot at corporate if we're still swamped in the spring.”

“Do it, Trent,” Mac said, rising. “Nobody had a bad thing to say about her, and you'll be a better mentor for her first six months in practice than Lance Romance would be. And speaking of domestic relations, shouldn't you be getting home?”

* * *

Grace Stark bounded into the house ahead of her mother, while Hannah brought up the rear with two grocery bags and a shoulder-bag-cum-purse. Whenever possible, for the sake of the domestic tranquility and the budget, Hannah did her shopping without her daughter's company.

Hannah's little log house sat on the shoulder of a rolling western Maryland valley, snug between the cultivated fields and the wooded mountains. She took a minute to stand beside the car and appreciate the sight of her own house—hers and the bank's—and to draw in a fortifying breath of chipper air scented with wood smoke.

The Appalachians rose up around the house like benevolent geological dowagers, surrounding Hannah's home with maternal protectiveness. Farther out across the valley, subdivisions encroached on the family farms, but up here much of the land wouldn't perc, and the roads were little more than widened logging trails.

The property was quiet, unless the farm dogs across the lane took exception to the roosters, and the roosters on the next farm over took exception to the barking dogs, and so on.

Still, it was a good spot to raise a daughter who enjoyed a busy imagination and an appreciation for nature. Damson Valley had a reputation as a peaceful, friendly community, a good place to set down roots. Hannah's little house wasn't that far from the Y, the park, and the craft shops that called to her restricted budget like so many sirens.

The shoulder bag dropped down to Hannah's elbow as she wrestled the door open while juggling grocery bags.

“Hey, Mom. Would you make cheese shells again? I promise I'll eat most of mine.”

“Most?” Hannah asked as she put the milk in the fridge. The amount she'd spent was appalling, considering how tight money was. Thank heavens Grace thought pasta and cheese sauce was a delicacy.

“A few might fall on the floor,” Grace said, petting a sleek tuxedo cat taking its bath in the old-fashioned dry sink.

“How would they get on the floor?”

“They might fall off my plate.” Grace cuddled the cat, who bore up begrudgingly for about three seconds, then vaulted to the floor. Grace took a piece of purple yarn from a drawer, trailing an end around the cat's ears.

“Cats have to eat too, you know,” Grace said. “They love cheese. It says so on TV, and Henry says his mom lets him feed cheese to Ginger.”

“Ginger is a dog. She'd eat kittens if she got hungry enough.” The groceries put away, Hannah set out place mats and cutlery for two on the kitchen table. “You wouldn't eat kittens just because Henry let Ginger eat kittens, would you?”

Did all parents make that same dumb argument?

And did all parents put just a few cheesy pieces of pasta in the cat dish? Did all parents try to assuage guilt by buying
fancy
100 percent beef wieners
instead of hot dogs?

“Time to wash your hands, Grace,” Hannah said twenty minutes later. “Hot dogs are ready, so is your cat food.”

“But, Mom,” Grace said, looping the string around the drawer pull on the dry sink, “all I did was pet Geeves, and she's just taken a whole bath. Why do I always have to wash my hands?”

“Because Geeves used the same tongue to wash her butt as she did to wash her paws, and because I'm telling you to.”

Grace tried to frown mightily at her mother but burst out giggling. “You said butt, and you're supposed to ask.”

“Butt, butt, butt,” Hannah chorused. “Grace, would you please wash your hands before Geeves and I gobble up all your cheesy shells?”

They sat down to their mac and cheese, hot dogs, and salad, a time Hannah treasured—she treasured any time with her daughter—and dreaded. Grace could be stubborn when tired or when her day had gone badly.

“Grace, please don't wipe your hands on your shirt. Ketchup stains, and you like that shirt.”

“When you were a kid, did you wipe your hands on your shirt?” Grace asked while chewing a bite of hot dog.

“Of course, and I got reminded not to, unless I was wearing a ketchup-colored shirt, in which case I could sneak a small smear.”

Grace started to laugh with her mouth full, and Hannah was trying to concoct a
request
that would encourage the child to desist, when her cell phone rang. This far into the country, the expense of a landline was necessary because cell reception was spotty, though tonight the signal was apparently strong enough.

“Hello, Stark's.”

“Hi, this is Gail Russo from Hartman and Whitney. Is this Hannah?”

The three bites of cheesy shells Hannah had snitched while preparing dinner went on a tumbling run in her tummy. “This is Hannah.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting your dinner, Hannah, but most people like to hear something as soon as possible after an interview. I have good news, I think.”

“I'm listening.”

Grace used her fork to draw a cat in her ketchup.

“You interviewed with two department heads and a partner,” Gail said, “which is our in-house rule before a new hire, and they all liked you.”

Hannah had liked the two department heads. The partner, Mr. MacKenzie Knightley, had been charm-free, to put it charitably. Still, he'd been civil, and when he'd asked if she had any questions, Hannah had the sense he'd answer with absolute honesty.

The guy had been good-looking, in a six-foot-four, dark-haired, blue-eyed way that did not matter in the least.

“I'm glad they were favorably impressed,” Hannah said as Grace finished her mac and cheese.

“Unfortunately for you, we also had a little excitement in the office today. The chief associate in our domestic relations department came down with persistent light-headedness. She went to her obstetrician just to make sure all was well with her pregnancy and was summarily sent home and put on complete bed rest.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”
Not
domestic
relations.
If there were a merciful God, Hannah would never again set foot in the same courtroom with a family law case. Never.

“She's seven months along, so we're looking at another two months without her, then she'll be out on maternity leave. It changed the complexion of the offer we'd like to make you.”

“An offer is good.” An offer would become an absolute necessity in about one-and-a-half house payments.

Grace was disappearing her hot dog with as much dispatch as she'd scarfed up her mac and cheese.

“We'd like you to start as soon as possible, but put you in the domestic relations department until Janelle can come back in the spring. We'll hire somebody for domestic in addition to her, but you're qualified, and the need, as they say, is now.”

“Domestic relations?” Prisoners sentenced to life-plus-thirty probably used that same tone of voice.

“Family law. Our domestic partner is another Knightley brother, but he's willing to take any help he can get. He was in court today when Janelle packed up and went home, otherwise you might have interviewed with him.”

“I see.”

What Hannah saw was Grace, helping herself to her mother's unfinished pasta.

“You'd be in domestic for only a few months, Hannah, and Trent Knightley is the nicest guy you'd ever want to work for. He takes care of his people, and you might find you don't want to leave domestic in the spring, though James Knightley is also a great boss.”

Gail went on to list benefits that included a signing bonus. Not a big one, but by Hannah's standards, it would clear off all the bills, allow for a few extravagances, and maybe even the start of a savings account.

God in heaven, a savings account.

“Mom, can I have another hot dog?” Grace stage-whispered her request, clearly trying to be good.

Except there wasn't another hot dog. Hannah had toted up her grocery bill as she'd filled her cart, and there wasn't another damned hot dog.

Thank
God
my
child
is
safe
for
another
day…
But how safe was Grace in a household where even hot dogs were carefully rationed?

Hannah covered the phone. “You may have mine, Grace.”

“Thanks!”

“Hannah? Are you there?”

A beat of silence, while Hannah weighed her daughter's need for a second hot dog against six months of practicing law in a specialty Hannah loathed, dreaded, and despised.

“I accept the job, Gail, though be warned I will transfer to corporate law as soon as I can.”

“You haven't met Trent. You're going to love him.”

No, Hannah would not.

Gail went on to explain details—starting day, parking sticker, county bar identification badge—and all the while, Hannah watched her hot dog disappear and knew she was making a terrible mistake.

* * *

“Trent Knightley is a fine man, and his people love him,” Gail said, passing Hannah's signing bonus check across the desk. “The only folks who don't like to see him coming are opposing counsel, and even they respect him.”

“He sounds like an ideal first boss.”

What
kind
of
fine
man
wanted
to
spend
his
days
breaking
up
families
and
needed
the
head
of
HR
singing
his
praises
at
every
turn?

The entire first morning was spent with Gail, filling out forms—and leaving some spaces on those forms blank. Gail took Hannah to lunch, calling it de rigueur for a new hire.

“In fact,” Gail said between bites of a chicken Caesar, “you will likely be taken out to lunch by each of the three partners, though Mac tends to be less social than his brothers. You ordering dessert?”

People who could afford gym memberships ordered dessert.

“I'd like to get back to work if you don't mind, Gail. I have yet to meet the elusive Trent Knightley, and if he should appear in the office this afternoon, I don't want to be accused of stretching lunch on my first day.”

Not on any day. If Hannah had learned anything temping for the Baltimore firms, it was that law firms were OCD about time sheets and billable hours.

“Hannah, you are not bagging groceries. No one, and I mean no one, will watch your time as long as your work is getting done, your time sheet is accurate, and most of your clients aren't complaining. Get over the convenience-store galley slave mentality.”