Chapter One
Luke McGregor eyeballed the freshly painted pink walls.
His mother had converted the former nursery into a sewing room twenty-five years ago, after the youngest McGregor graduated to a big boy bedroom. Now her sons were converting it back.
Fat pink blobs of paint speckled the drop cloth Luke and his brother Zack, the big boy in question, had spread to protect the honey-colored hardwood floor. The sewing machine, plus their mother’s sewing supplies—the reams of fabric, the hundreds of buttons, the dozens of spools of thread—had been boxed up and donated to the local ladies’ auxiliary.
Luke swallowed around the lump in his throat. Cleaning out this room was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It really drove home the fact that she wasn’t coming back.
“Wow,” Zack said, his gaze sweeping the small room. A fine spray of pink from the roller he’d used on the ceiling dusted the deep reddish-brown of his hair. “That’s really pink.”
“Yep. Just like the boss ordered,” Luke said.
He tapped the lid closed on the paint can with the wooden tip of his brush. He had no quarrel with pink. His issue was with their older brother Jake’s automatic assumption that all little girls loved the color when there had to be at least a thousand alternatives to choose from. Or so it had seemed when he checked out the paint chips at the hardware store in Grand.
But Lydia Williams—their twenty-month-old niece—was likely too young to care what color her new room would be, and Luke’s judginess about it might be because he disliked Jake making all the decisions. It was an ongoing theme in their thirty-one year relationship.
And his biggest issue likely wasn’t even with Jake. A lot of shit had gone south in Luke’s life of late and Jake made a good target for his pent-up aggression. Luke had to force himself sometimes to remember that his brothers had both suffered big losses, too. Three family members were gone. Four, if he counted their brother-in-law, Blair. The hole they left inside him was enormous.
But Denise showing up, pretending to care, and then walking away when he needed her most, was the worst kind of betrayal, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from that.
“Now’s not the time to talk about marriage. I’m okay with you being in Montana for a few weeks to help your brother get the kids settled in,” she’d said, cool as could be. “But I’m not okay with you giving up a prime teaching position that you worked hard for so you can stay an indefinite amount of time. And I’m certainly not staying here with you. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but this isn’t our problem. The ranch and the kids belong to your brother. Our life is in Seattle.”
Luke had thought it was, too. Right up until he’d gotten the phone call that his parents, his sister, and his brother-in-law had all died in a plane crash in Peru. The trip had been a birthday gift from Liz and Blair to their father. Liam McGregor had talked for years of his desire to see Machu Picchu someday.
The dream had turned into a nightmare. One the McGregors would have to deal with as a family, because Luke had discovered his hard-earned, incredibly rare teaching position at the college wasn’t nearly as important to him as the people he loved.
He loved Denise, too. Or at least the woman he’d believed her to be. It was possible he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought, because he couldn’t wrap his head around her refusal to stand by him right now. In his experience, it was what people who loved each other did.
Instead, she’d boarded her flight to Seattle without once looking back, leaving Luke to question his values and what was important to him, something he’d never had to consider before.
“We could add a wallpaper border,” Zack said.
“What?” Luke had lost the thread of their conversation.
“A border. You know—with teddy bears, or dolls, or something.” Zack stretched his neck muscles, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe Disney princesses. Little girls love that crap.”
No way was Luke supporting gender stereotypes. Let Lydia grow up to be a free thinker. She was a human being with a mind of her own. “Maybe we should wait and see what she likes rather than stick her with something she might end up hating.”
“It’s a nursery, not a prison cell. When she’s old enough to have her own room, she’ll be able to tell us how she wants it to look.” Zack examined the wall. His blue eyes, the same shade as their mother’s, held a frown. “But until then, we should do something to offset all this pink. It looks like the inside of a wad of cotton candy in here. It’s making me nauseous.”
“Everything makes you nauseous.”
Zack’s weak stomach was a family joke that dated back to a long car ride to Nevada when they were kids. But in this instance, Luke couldn’t say he was wrong.
The paint was really, really pink.
Rooms for ten-year-old Mac and five-year-old Finn had been easier to prepare. Luke had taken pictures of their man caves in New York and he and Zack had recreated them here as best they could.
Lydia, however, still shared her parents’ bedroom, so they’d had nothing to guide them. He and Zack knew squat about little girls and even less about babies. Their sister, Liz, had been the eldest McGregor sibling, and growing up, she’d fit right in with the boys.
Guilt punched Luke in the gut. He’d been so obsessed with earning his PhD and landing a teaching position, he’d neglected spending time with his niece and nephews. Other than the funeral, he’d last seen them for a few days at Christmas five months ago. Visiting them once a year wasn’t enough to form a solid relationship with them and things were about to change. They deserved the happy childhood their mother had planned for them, and now, it was up to her brothers to make it happen.
But putting Jake in charge… What had Liz been thinking?
Jake was the responsible McGregor, yes. No arguing that. He wasn’t the fun uncle, however. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Luke and Zack had to step up or those poor kids were doomed.
“We don’t have enough time,” Luke said. “We can’t put a border on until the paint is set, and Jake and the kids should be here sometime tomorrow.”
Jake was driving from New York City to Grand, Montana rather than flying, as he’d planned. Something about Finn having a meltdown at the airport—which came as no real surprise. Finn was five and he’d just lost his parents and grandparents in a plane crash. Reasoning with him wouldn’t have been an option.
Bet that threw Jake.
“Maybe it will look better once the furniture’s in place,” Zack said, focused on the paint, but the expression on his face disagreed with the hope in his tone.
“There’s only one way to tell.” But Luke didn’t think it would, either.
They stripped the tape from the trim and the fixtures, then spent the next hour assembling a practical white crib and matching change table. Luke spun the last screw, then the brothers righted the table and set it across the room from the crib. Shoulder to shoulder, arms folded, they studied their handiwork.
“Want to talk about it?” Zack asked.
“What’s there to talk about? The walls are still pink,” Luke replied.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Luke avoided looking Zack’s way, not wanting his pity. “I know what you meant. The answer is no.”
Denise had left three days ago, right after they’d agreed their long-term goals were no longer in sync. There wasn’t much more to say about it that Zack couldn’t figure out for himself. He’d been there. Besides, it wasn’t as if Luke’s crushed life dreams were the worst thing that had happened in this family of late.
“If you change your mind, I’m here for you,” Zack said.
Luke had to get out of the house. He needed some time alone. He loved his brother, but the guy was crossing personal boundaries. Since when did they discuss feelings?
“It’s my turn to buy groceries, isn’t it?” he asked.
Zack got the message. “Yeah. Can you add fennel to the list? I found a focaccia recipe I want to try for supper tonight.”
Luke had no idea what fennel was, or focaccia either, for that matter, but he wasn’t asking for clarification. Zack liked to cook, and if given the chance, he could launch into long explanations.
Now Luke understood how first-year computer science students felt when he rambled on about code.
He tilted his wrist. His sleeve rode up his arm to reveal the gleaming, rose-toned, diamond-studded, stainless-steel watch his parents had given him when he’d received his PhD last September. He had a little over an hour before his shift in the dairy barn began. Even though his relationship with Jake could often be tense, the eldest McGregor brother had enough on his plate and Luke wouldn’t add to his worries.
When Jake arrived home with the kids, he’d find everything at the Wagging Tongue Ranch in order.
* * *
Mara Ramos spotted the newcomer the minute he walked through the automatic sliding glass doors.
He was so very pretty, no one could miss him.
She’d traveled the world for many of her twenty-six years, and spent almost two of them as a dancer for one of the hottest new names in pop music—the bastard—so she was no stranger to good-looking men. In her experience, men this pretty turned out to be gay.
Her radar was good though, and the newcomer, despite the fluid, elegant lines of his movements, didn’t give off that vibe. So maybe pretty wasn’t quite the right word for him.
But neither was handsome.
He was tall, at least six feet, likely more. Thick brown hair that nudged the edges of black hung a little long in the front. It flipped over a pair of eyes so green she could identify the color from three aisles away. He wore a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. The tails dangled, untucked. He had long, muscled legs wrapped in a pair of skinny, hipster jeans that screamed this was no cowboy. Untanned, smooth-skinned, long-fingered hands confirmed the disclaimer. He wasn’t used to manual labor.
He had the look of an academic.
Mara, who’d grown accustomed to the plethora of tempting cowboys in Grand, was intrigued by this outlier. He strolled through the glass doors as if he’d done so his entire life, clearly at home here, and yet, there was no way he belonged. She worked her way closer, pretending to check out the baking supplies next to the spices, where he’d come to a halt.
Concentration—or maybe confusion—pinched his eyebrows together.
“Can I help you find something?” she asked.
Mr. Pretty glanced her way, but his gaze didn’t linger. He went right back to perusing the spices, his attention fully engaged in his mission.
“Any idea what fennel is?” he muttered, more to the shelves than to her.
Mara didn’t consider herself vain, but if she were, she’d now be disabused.
“Yes, but it depends on what you need it for,” she replied. “You’ll find fennel seed here, but if you want it fresh, you should check out the produce aisle.”
“I need it for focaccia,” he said. “And, no, I don’t know what that is, either.”
The last comment was delivered with an upraised eyebrow and a hint of self-deprecating humor. Green eyes—so, so pretty—swiveled toward her. Not even a flutter of interest marred the cut of those gems. Maybe he was married. She checked his left hand. No ring, but fine dots of pink paint freckled the backs of his fingers.
Mentally, Mara examined the evidence. He’d been painting. He was shopping for ingredients she could only assume someone else would be using to cook, since he had no idea what he was doing.
What a shame. He wasn’t single.
While she wasn’t interested in forming a lasting relationship with any one particular man, a temporary diversion would have been welcome. Grand was a small town, its sources of entertainment restricted, and the nights could be lonely and long. Cowboys, however, tended to be a tad too possessive when it came to the women they slept with and she liked her freedom. It made it so much easier to move on when the time came.
“Focaccia is a type of bread. If that’s what the fennel is for, then I recommend fennel seed. You sprinkle it on top of the dough and drizzle it with olive oil before you bake it.” She reached around Mr. Pretty, plucked a small jar off the shelf, and handed it to him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Nope. Not even a teensy bit of interest.
She was about to move along and finish her own shopping when Diana O’Sullivan, pretty as a picture, rounded the corner and entered the aisle, a six-month-old in a baby carrier strapped to her chest. She pushed a loaded grocery cart with a three-year-old boy riding shotgun in it. Her eyes widened with pleasure when she spotted Mara.
And then Mara realized Diana was focused on Mr. Pretty, not her.
“Luke McGregor,” Diana exclaimed. She hurried toward them. “I was so, so sorry to hear about what happened to your parents and Liz. How are you all holding up? How’s Jake?”
“Jake’s being his usual hardheaded, competent self,” Mr. Pretty replied. “He’s supposed to arrive home with the kids sometime tomorrow.” He ruffled the hair of the wide-eyed, somber child in the shopping cart. “Hey, Marcus.”
Mara taught dance lessons in Grand so she heard her share of its gossip. The pieces fell into place. Mr. Pretty, potential underwear model, in reality was Dr. McGregor, local boy genius. He taught computer science at a college in Seattle.
She began edging away, intent on minding her own business. Even if Dr. McGregor turned out to be single, he was no more her type than a cowboy would be. She was no scholar. Not even close.
He was also grieving, meaning he most likely had issues. She could do without those.
“Hi, Mara,” Diana said, acknowledging her presence with a radiant smile that cut off Mara’s escape. “Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t realize you and Luke knew each other.”
“We don’t,” Mara said. “He was looking for fennel.”
“Zack’s making focaccia for supper,” Luke added.
Zack being the third McGregor brother, so Luke wasn’t grocery shopping on behalf of a girlfriend or wife, which changed nothing. The McGregors had suffered a tragedy, and even without the life lessons she’d learned about needy men, Mara wasn’t so crass as to intrude on his grief.
“Mara is Grand’s one and only dance teacher. She gives Zumba classes, too.” Diana jiggled the restless baby strapped to her chest. “She used to be a dancer for Little Zee. You can see her in his video ‘Hot Like This.’”
Mara died a little inside. Dr. Pretty, with his PhD in computer science, wasn’t about to be any more impressed by that than he should be. He wouldn’t even know who Little Zee was.
And as for Little Zee—whose real name was Jim—he’d dropped Mara on her second day in the hospital after she broke her leg on a skiing trip in Big Sky. She’d still been in traction.
Sorry, babe. I’ve got to replace you.
That was the last she’d seen of him. It had taken her a full week to figure out that he hadn’t only meant professionally. He’d had all of her belongings shipped to her parents’ home in Brazil. How thoughtful—considering Mara was stranded in Montana. Then she’d learned on TMZ that he’d begun dating an actress.
Had the actress heard all about the faithless high school sweetheart who’d given up on him because he was living out of his van and street performing in subways? Who hadn’t believed in him enough to stick it out until he found success?
Or maybe he’d turned Mara into the heartless diva of his latest personal drama. Little Zee’s acting was even better than his music, and in truth, his music wasn’t half bad.
“Wow. I’ve heard the song on the radio, but I’ve never seen the video. I’ll have to check it out,” Luke said politely, sounding about as impressed as she’d expected. He held up the bottle of fennel seeds and gave them a shake. “Thanks for the help, Mara.” He kissed Diana on the cheek. “It was great seeing you, Di. I’ve got to run, but drop by the ranch with the kids anytime. Bring O’Sullivan, too.”
He strode off, calm and in no apparent great hurry, but he didn’t fool Mara. He’d avoided speaking about his family and their recent loss, neatly turning the conversation, then he’d ducked out at the first opportunity. The biggest tell, however, was that he’d lost the easy form to his movements that had first caught her eye.
“Poor Luke,” Diana murmured, half to herself. Pity pooled beneath her black lashes, suggesting she wasn’t fooled by him, either. She patted the baby nestled against her and spoke to Mara, fixing her smile back in place. “How are things at the studio?”
“Great.”
Mara’s stomach clenched around the lie. Thankfully, Diana was too nice to call her on it. Why bother when they both knew the truth?
A dance studio in Grand was akin to offering ice skating lessons in Honolulu. The only way Mara could keep up with the bills without dipping too deep into her savings was by offering steep discounts to parents looking for cheap ways to occupy their children for a few hours on Saturday mornings. And, of course, the adult Zumba classes.
She probably should have opened up shop in Billings or Missoula, but in the cities, she would have faced more competition. Her original plan was to establish her reputation in Grand before moving on. She was only twenty-six. There was no rush. She’d needed this past year to pull her life back together and Grand had been kind.
But she hadn’t expected the locals’ complete indifference to her qualifications, which included ballet and jazz at some of the best schools in the world, not to mention two runs in Broadway musicals before her agent convinced her to give pop videos a shot. People seemed to think being pretty was the only skill she’d required to get where she’d been.
Her damaged leg was all the proof she’d needed that being pretty wasn’t nearly enough. For her, beauty was about movement. About rhythm and grace. It had been almost a year and a half since the accident now, yet her leg continued to ache and her knee still gave out without warning. She didn’t give a damn about the Dr. Frankenstein scars. Her passion was dance. She’d be happy to be able to demonstrate a decent pirouette to her young students. She’d lost an important piece of herself and she wasn’t going to recapture it anytime soon.
The baby began to fuss. One pudgy fist grabbed the front of her mother’s sleeveless cotton blouse.
“Has the landlord fixed the lock on the studio door yet?” Diana probed, ignoring the squirming bundle.
“He said he’d get to it later this week.”
The landlord was in his nineties, the crime rate in Grand wasn’t high, and only a few people knew the lock was broken, so Mara chose not to stress about it. The rent was cheap and she wasn’t rocking the boat when she could brace a chair under the doorknob. The result was the same. She’d lived in far worse conditions.
Diana, however, who was one of the nicest people Mara had ever met, didn’t share her lack of concern. A troubled frown replaced her smile. “I’ll send Randy over to fix it tonight.”
This was one of the things Mara did like about Grand, and why she’d decided to start her dance studio here. She liked the sense of community. People were happy to step in and help out, and while she’d learned that cowboys could be territorial when it came to the women they dated, there’d be no obligation at all in accepting anything from Diana and Randall O’Sullivan. He was as nice as his wife.
There was no point in arguing. Nothing to be gained. She’d only offend them.
“Thank you,” she said.
Dr. Pretty had finished his shopping. He carried his small bag of goods through the sliding glass doors and into the sunny parking lot outside. His elegant ease of movement had returned—and with interest. He aimed for a four-door, dark blue economy car.
Mara couldn’t say what she’d expected a professor with grassroots deep in Montana to drive, but that wasn’t it. Or maybe she was thrown because it wasn’t a half-ton truck, which was what everyone else around here seemed to own, no matter what their occupation.
She dragged her attention away from Dr. Pretty to discover Diana had her phone out and was texting her husband. “He says to expect him around eight,” Diana announced.
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