The Bachelor's Brighton Valley Bride

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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.