Something wasn’t right. She sensed it and began to perspire. She cracked open the windows in the kitchen nook. “You know, Jay, you’re the last person, the very last, I expected to cave in and join the family business.”

“Life has a way of not turning out the way you expect it, Tiffany. Haven’t you learned that by now?” His lips barely moved, his eyes caught hers in a breathtaking hold that she hated, and she felt the first trickle of sweat slide between her shoulder blades. Her stomach did a slow, sensual roll, reminding her of just how easy it was to fall prey to his charm.

But not now. Not again. Never.

She swallowed hard and avoided his eyes. Suddenly the kitchen was much too small. Too close. She needed a reason to break up this unexpected atmosphere of intimacy with J.D.

“Oh, gosh, it’s almost three,” she said, staring pointedly at her watch. “Christina,” she called, looking through the window and spying her daughter drawing on the side of the garage with a piece of yellow chalk. “Time for your nap.”

“No nap!” The little girl dropped the chalk.

“Excuse me,” Tiffany said, hurrying out the back door and feeling the much-needed breath of a breeze touch her face and bare arms. It had been a long, strained week capped by a hellish day speaking with Stephen’s counselor. On top of it all, she’d learned that her father—John Cawthorne—actually expected her to show up at his wedding after thirty-three years of pretending she didn’t exist. Fat chance!

Charcoal, who had been rolling over in a spot of sunlight, scrambled to his feet and dashed under the porch. “Come on, sweetheart,” Tiffany cajoled her daughter as she picked up broken bits of chalk and stuffed them into the tattered pack.

“I not tired.”

“Sure you are.”

“No, I not!” Christina’s lower lip protruded and she folded her chubby arms across her chest.

“Well, Bub and Louie are tired and they’re waiting upstairs in bed for you. It’ll just be for a little while.” She hoisted her daughter into her arms and Christina, still pouting, didn’t protest.

Unfortunately J.D. had watched the entire display from the kitchen window. Tiffany wished he’d just go away. She didn’t need any member of the Santini family, especially not J.D., intruding into her life right now—or ever, for that matter. She knew they all thought she hadn’t been good enough for Philip while he was alive, so they could all just go and take the proverbial leap.

She carried Christina into the back of the house, mouthed, “I’ll be back in a few minutes” to her erstwhile guest, then lugged the tired three-year-old through the hallway and up the stairs to her room.