Maddening. That was what he was. “Why don’t you make yourself useful? Pour orange juice or set the table or something.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He kissed her cheek and she shot him a glare she hoped could cut through steel. “Call me when it’s time to eat.” Taking his cup of coffee with him, he walked to the back porch, then sauntered to the garage. Pretty high-handed of him, she thought, until she saw him return with a carpenter’s belt slung around his waist and a ladder over his shoulder. Within minutes he’d propped the ladder against the side of the house and had climbed to the second story where he started pounding, presumably to secure one of the shutters surrounding one of her bedroom windows—a shutter that had hung at an angle ever since she’d moved in.

She shouldn’t trust him, she told herself, as she started frying bacon and added the last of the berries to her pancakes. She always suspected him of having his own agenda and yet the memory of his touch caused her insides to melt.

With a clang of ancient pipes, water from an upstairs faucet began running. Obviously Stephen was up and showering.

Soon both of her children had padded downstairs. Christina was still in her pajamas and dragged her blanket with her. Stephen was wearing distressed jeans and a faded T-shirt. His hair was wet and his expression was sour, which wasn’t unusual and often didn’t disappear until his second helping of eggs or bowl of cereal.

“Mommy!” Christina ran across the kitchen and flung herself into her mother’s waiting arms.

“Good morning, kiddo.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, breakfast is ready.” Tiffany helped her daughter into a booster chair. “How about you?” she asked Stephen.

He slumped into one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table and slid a glance toward the window where the ladder and the toes of J.D.’s boots were visible. “What is it?”

“Blueberry pancakes and bacon. Eggs if you want them.”

“No eggs!” Christina cried, shaking her head as Tiffany snagged an oven mitt from the counter and pulled out the platter of pancakes. She slid one onto a plate, drizzled it with blueberry syrup, then pronged a slice of bacon from the frying pan.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Tiffany said, placing the plate and a small fork onto the place mat in front of Christina. “What about you?” she asked Stephen. “Eggs?”

“Naw. Just pancakes.”

As she was fixing a plate for her son, she opened the window over the sink and invited J.D. to join them. Christina grinned as she saw her uncle climb down the ladder, but Stephen’s mouth tightened at the corners.

“Are we goin’ to the wedding?” he asked when the eggs were cooked and they were all seated around the table. He stared at Tiffany through a fringe of too-long hair.