Czytaj książkę: «Family Treasures»

“I’m here for our appointment,”

Caitlin said brightly.

“I don’t think so,” Devon answered.

Caitlin blinked at the terse statement, but decided to ignore it. She focused again on the man beside the door. “I’m an image consultant. I explained that to your secretary on the phone.”

If anything, he looked more skeptical. “So you go door-to-door, selling makeup?”

Caitlin bristled. She didn’t know what kind of game Devon Walsh was playing, or why he was pretending to be ignorant of their appointment, but she knew one thing. The guy needed a personality makeover more than a haircut.

“No. Our meeting was to discuss the essay Jennifer wrote for the contest.”

The girl peeking out from behind Devon’s legs let out a tiny gasp, but her father didn’t seem to notice.

The wariness in Devon’s eyes turned to confusion. “Contest?”

“The makeover contest for Twin City Trends magazine.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Jenny entered a makeover contest?”

“No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“She entered you.”

KATHRYN SPRINGER

is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. Growing up in a “newspaper” family, she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter and hasn’t stopped writing since! She loves to write inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.

Family Treasures
Kathryn Springer

By wisdom a house is built, and through

understanding it is established; through knowledge

its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.

—Proverbs 24:3–4

To Mom…who faithfully (and patiently) tweaks

my manuscripts, finds lost words and always

knows when to use “affect” instead of “effect”

(someday I’ll get it right!). You go above and

beyond the call of duty, and your encouragement

and enthusiasm keep me pressing on.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Chapter One

Another Monday.

And if the early morning traffic jam and the ten voice-mail messages waiting for her attention weren’t enough proof it was Monday, Caitlin McBride knew she could add the three grueling hours she’d just spent shopping with the daughter of one of her clients. What should have been a fairly easy search for the perfect “little black dress” had quickly turned into a battle of wills when the teenager revealed that she did like the color black—but only as the background for hundreds of tiny skulls.

Caitlin had won in the end—she always did—but at the moment she needed to rebound with a cup of strong coffee and the piece of dark chocolate tucked away in her desk drawer.

She didn’t break stride as she swept past her assistant’s desk. “Sabrina, I have an appointment with Dawn Gallagher at Twin City Trends this afternoon. Don’t forget to leave the entries for the makeover contest on my desk before you take your lunch break.”

“Um, Ms. McBride?”

Judging from the undercurrent of misery in Sabrina Buckley’s voice, the chocolate was going to have to wait.

Caitlin paused and pivoted slowly on one stiletto heel. “Yes?”

“I’m, ah, having a little…trouble with the elimination round.”

Caitlin sighed. Why leadership seminars continued to claim that “delegating responsibility” was a positive thing, she didn’t know.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, you told me to divide the entries into two piles.” Sabrina gestured to the overflowing bins on her desk. “One for women who already look like models and just want to be featured in a magazine. And one for average, everyday-looking women who could potentially bring new clients to IMAGEine after their makeover.”

“That’s right. Two piles.” The toe of Caitlin’s shoe tapped against the plush carpeting. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“This one.” Sabrina held out a photograph. “It doesn’t exactly fall into either…category.”

“Of course it does,” Caitlin said firmly, retracing her steps back to the reception desk. “Let me see….”

That.

The sentence ended in something that sounded suspiciously like a gurgle.

“It’s a…man.”

Her assistant grinned. “It certainly is.”

Caitlin ignored the sudden, irreverent sparkle in Sabrina’s eyes as she studied the photo and made a swift assessment of the subject’s rugged masculine features. Fathomless dark eyes. Arrogant jaw. A shaggy mane of hair the color of espresso.

Perfect cheekbones…

“He sent in an essay?”

“Not exactly him. No.” Sabrina squirmed briefly in her chair.

Caitlin exhaled and counted to five. Out loud. And then she tried again. “But he entered the contest?”

“Not exactly him. No.”

“Sabrina—” Caitlin’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll show you.” Sabrina’s hand disappeared into the pile of papers and she unearthed an entry form, waving it in front of Caitlin like a white flag. “You have to read this. Then it will make sense.” The young woman nibbled on the tip of her ragged fingernail. “Maybe.”

“Fine.” Caitlin felt a tension headache sink its hooks into the base of her neck as she plucked the paperwork and the photo out of Sabrina’s hands. “Let me know when my next appointment arrives.”

“Yes, Ms. McBride.”

Caitlin retreated to her office, sat down at her desk and slipped off her shoes, careful to line them up just so, before glancing at the entry that had her assistant in a tailspin.

Not that she blamed her. In the five years since IMAGEine, Caitlin’s Minneapolis-based image consulting business, had teamed up with Twin City Trends for their annual makeover contest, this was the first time they’d received an entry from a man.

She deliberately turned the photograph over to escape the intensity of those deep-set, charcoal-gray eyes.

“Now, Mr….” Caitlin glanced at the name at the top of the entry form. “Walsh. What’s your story?”

She turned the application over to skim the “in one hundred words or less tell us why you need a makeover” portion of the entry form and was surprised to find it handwritten rather than typed. And even more surprised to see the neat penmanship dominated by carefully rounded letters; the lower case ones graced with decorative, curly tails.

Okay….

Caitlin lightly cleared her throat.

As she skimmed the essay, unexpected emotion grabbed hold of her heart. And squeezed. No wonder Sabrina hadn’t known what to do with this particular entry.

She didn’t know what to do with it, either.

And Caitlin always knew what to do about everything.

“Are you kidding me, Caitlin? You can’t disqualify this entry. It’s our winner!” Dawn Gallagher picked up the entry form and read the opening lines of the essay out loud.

“‘Dear Twin City Trends Makeover Team,

My name is Jennifer Walsh. I’m twelve years old, and I’m writing to you because my dad needs a makeover…’”

“This is pure gold. Gold that happens to have a high rate of exchange at the newsstand.”

“A person has to be eighteen or older to enter,” Caitlin reminded her, wishing she’d followed her first instinct and quietly discarded JenniferWalsh’s entry form instead of showing it to Dawn. Blame it on the fact that she’d been charmed by the sweet formality of the girl’s essay and thought Dawn might be, too. She’d had no idea the style editor would insist they’d found their winning entry.

“He is over eighteen,” Dawn argued.

“But he didn’t enter the contest.”

“An insignificant detail.”

“There is no such thing as an insignificant detail,” Caitlin felt the need to point out.

Dawn stared at her for a moment and then dropped into the leather chair opposite Caitlin’s desk. Caitlin waited, knowing from past experience that Dawn wasn’t admitting defeat. She was plotting her next move.

“My senior editor posted the stats on the last issue, and I have to admit they’re pretty dismal.” Dawn’s smile was strained. “Subscription sales have declined ever since our competition decided to publish a cheaper version of the magazine. Jillian is hoping the annual makeover edition will turn things around. In fact, she’s hinted if that happens, she’ll think about making the contest a monthly feature.”

“With you in charge.”

“Possibly.” Dawn shrugged but couldn’t hide the ambitious gleam in her eyes. “But might I remind you, if there’s no increase in sales, there’s no makeover feature. And if there’s no makeover feature, there’s no need for a style editor.”

“I see your dilemma,” Caitlin said dryly.

“You can’t deny how much buzz this could create,” Dawn continued. “A man featured in our contest. The entry sent in by his twelve-year-old daughter. It’s fresh. It’s intriguing.”

“It has…potential.”

Dawn’s eyes sparkled. “And you have to admit, this guy…Devon Walsh…is mega-handsome. A diamond in the rough.”

Caitlin frowned. A diamond in the rough? Had she missed something?

“You see it, don’t you?” Dawn held up the photo. “He looks like an aging rock star. Silky dark hair. Mysterious eyes. Bad-boy stubble…”

Bad-boy stubble? Oh, please.

She’d definitely missed something.

“…unless you aren’t sure you could improve on this.” Dawn shrugged.

“Believe me, a shave would be an improvement,” Caitlin shot back, aware of her friend’s tactics but still a little offended that Dawn would question her ability.

“You’ve been hoping to increase your male clientele for the past few years. Who knows? If you can transform this particular frog into a prince, execs will be lining up around the block to schedule an appointment at IMAGEine.”

Caitlin thought the frog/prince analogy wasn’t exactly a fair one. Devon Walsh might be on the scruffy side but he did have great cheekbones. And she couldn’t deny that one of her goals included expanding her client base to include more men. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a setup.

“Are you sure about this? For all we know, Devon Walsh is a wannabe actor or model who put his daughter up to this, knowing we’d take the bait.”

Hook, line and show-me-the-rise-in-subscriptions sinker.

“Your cynicism is showing, my friend, but if it makes you feel better, pay Jennifer Walsh and her dad a visit to make sure this is legit before we sign on the dotted line. If it isn’t, we’ll go with your top pick. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple.

It sounded good in theory. So why did Caitlin have the uneasy feeling that her life was about to get complicated?

Just before lunch, Devon Walsh noticed that an eerie silence had descended over the house.

An eerie silence could only mean one thing. His children were studying instead of playing.

He pushed his chair away from the desk and stalked toward the door as he formulated a slight variation of the lecture he’d been serving up like spaghetti over the past few months. A lecture he’d guarantee couldn’t be found in one of the numerous parenting books he’d been reading. The ones that gave advice on how to give children roots, wings and make them mind without losing his.

Devon was beginning to think the reason he hadn’t discovered a fool-proof parenting technique was because his children didn’t exactly fit the typical “kid” mold….

Sure, blame them. It’s not like you’re the poster child for Father of the Year….

Not that he wasn’t trying.

It’s just that three out of the four Walshes in the house weren’t cooperating.

He decided to track down Josh and Brady, his nine-year-old twins, first. Just the fact there were two of them doubled the volume and usually made them easier to locate. Jenny was the tough one. Shy and introspective, she could make herself practically invisible when she wanted to be. And she wanted to be. A lot.

Coaxing Jenny out of her shell was a challenge Devon didn’t feel prepared for.

Who was he kidding? Parenting was a challenge he didn’t feel prepared for.

Strength for the moment, right, Lord?

It had become his mantra over the past six months.

“Brady? Josh?” Devon veered to the right when he reached the foot of the stairs, assuming he’d find the boys in the parlor—a quaint, old-fashioned term for a drafty room with scuffed hardwood floors, uncomfortable furniture covered in itchy, burgundy velvet and heavy drapes that blocked out the light with the efficiency of an eclipse. For reasons Devon couldn’t begin to explain, it had become his children’s favorite room in the house.

He’d only taken a few steps in that direction when the twins materialized in front of him.

“Hi, Dad,” Josh said cheerfully.

Too cheerfully, in Devon’s opinion. And even if the chapter on “pushing boundaries” he’d read the night before wasn’t still fresh in his mind, he would have been suspicious.

Brady pulled his ever-present stopwatch out of his pants pocket and flipped open the cover. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes left to write, Dad. What’s up?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Ah…nothing much. Just hanging around.” Josh casually tossed a miniature football into the air and scrambled to catch it again. He missed and it bounced off his shoe and hit the wall. “Playing football. You know.”

Devon’s eyes narrowed. The boys had never shown an interest in any of the sports equipment he’d purchased. A decoy toy, no doubt about it.

“Where is Jenny?” Devon took a step toward the parlor and found his path blocked by identical brown-eyed obstacles.

“She’s…somewhere.” Brady shrugged.

“Not here, though.” Josh’s ears turned red.

Devon suppressed a smile. Those ears gave him away every time. More reliable than a lie-detector test.

“Is she in the parlor?”

“No!” The twins’ voices blended together in an ear-splitting, off-key soprano.

Devon winced. He wasn’t in any hurry for the boys to grow up but he did look forward to the day their voices changed.

“Will you help us put together the train track, Dad?” Brady asked.

“You want to put together the train track?” Devon repeated. “Now?”

The twins nodded vigorously.

“Yeah.”

“We want to get started.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re talking about the model train that’s been sitting in the box since I brought it home? A month ago?”

Josh and Brady exchanged is-this-a-trick question frowns and then reverted to the silent mode of communication that had unnerved Devon when they’d first moved in with him. It had taken Jenny to put it in perspective.

“It’s a twin thing, Dad,” she’d said. “It’s like trying to figure out how peanut butter gets on the ceiling.”

And because the whole peanut-butter phenomenon was another unsolved mystery in his household, Devon took his daughter’s advice to accept what he couldn’t explain and move on. It was easier—and maybe a little safer—that way.

“We were waiting for the right moment.” Brady, official timekeeper for the Walsh family, grinned at him.

If it weren’t for Josh’s ears, now a deep shade of crimson, Devon might have fallen for it.

He decided right then and there to get a refund on every single parenting book stacked up next to his bed. Or maybe he should just chuck his next mystery novel and write a parenting book instead. At least it wouldn’t take long. He could probably finish the entire five pages in an hour.

The door leading to the parlor flew open and Jenny appeared.

“Is she here yet…?” A tiny squeak replaced the rest of the sentence when the girl spotted her father standing in the hallway.

Devon frowned. “Is who here yet?”

“Dad!” Jenny gulped. “What are you doing down here? It isn’t break time for—”

“Thirty-one minutes,” Brady supplied helpfully.

Devon’s gaze zeroed in on his daughter. “Did I miss something? Are we expecting company this morning?”

“N-no.”

“I’m not expecting company,” Josh interjected. “Are you expecting company, Brady?”

“I’m not expecting company—”

Devon’s head started to swim and he held up his hand. “Now that we’ve established the fact none of us is expecting company, maybe we should all go into the kitchen and rustle up something for—”

The doorbell interrupted him and Devon’s eyebrows shot up.

“Mmm. I wonder who that could be.” He took a step forward and all three children attached themselves to him like ticks on a deer.

“It’s probably the mailman,” Jenny said. “I’ll get it.”

“Yeah, Dad. You go upstairs and write. You still have…” It wasn’t easy but Brady managed to wrestle his stopwatch out of his pocket again and keep a death grip on his father. “Twenty-eight minutes until lunch.”

“Oh, this is much more interesting than lunch—”

A piercing shriek interrupted him, cutting through the last mournful notes of the doorbell.

Devon closed his eyes. “Josh, did you put Sunny back in her cage after breakfast?”

There was one long, supercharged moment of silence.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

His children still clinging to him, Devon strode toward the door to revive whoever was on the other side. Because the way the morning continued to unravel, the poor woman—and the shriek had definitely been feminine—had probably fallen over in a dead faint.

Devon yanked the door open, ignoring the loud protests of his soon-to-be-grounded-for-life children—because according to the books, grounding was a perfectly acceptable form of discipline—and braced himself to find an unconscious woman sprawled across the welcome mat.

It was a woman, all right.

A very attractive, very conscious woman. Classic features. Glossy dark hair with a faint mahogany sheen. Eyes the same shade of blue as his favorite pair of jeans.

She was standing on the porch wearing a stylish black suit paired with ridiculously high heels.

And was holding Josh’s iguana in her arms.

Chapter Two

It was a good thing, Caitlin thought, that her youngest sister taught middle-school science. Because it meant Evie always had a veritable zoo of creatures living in her classroom—creatures she insisted Caitlin learn to appreciate by getting up close and personal with them when she visited.

If not for the benefit of that prior Wild Kingdom education, the sight of the two-foot-long lizard, curled up on the enclosed sun porch next to a sleeping dachshund of roughly the same size, might have really freaked her out.

As it was, the reptile had managed to wring a brief but embarrassing scream out of her. But that was only because the moment she’d dismissed the motionless creature as a realistic chew toy made out of some high-tech scaly fiber, it had come to life and barreled toward her as if she were a long-lost cousin. Apparently not caring that the closest kinship Caitlin could claim to a member of his species was the faux alligator-skin bag hanging in her closet.

Not sure of the creature’s intent but knowing that one assertive move deserved another, Caitlin had bent down and simply picked it up. The lizard then draped itself comfortably over her arm and proceeded to study the gold and sapphire earring dangling from her ear.

As she contemplated the odds of those intimidating claws not doing irreparable damage to her silk blouse, the front door opened. Judging from the expressions on the faces of the people crowded together in the doorway, she now had the honor of being the strangest creature on the porch.

One of the little boys, a mirror image of the other, darted forward, flashed a smile more mischievous than apologetic, and took the iguana from her.

Officially making it five—no, make that six because she probably should include the dachshund—against one.

Caitlin turned her attention to Devon Walsh—not only the tallest one in the group but instantly recognizable by his bad-boy stubble—and felt her heart skip a beat.

The photo hadn’t done him justice.

Oh, his hair was on the shaggy side, and he obviously wasn’t in a committed relationship with a razor. But she’d only noticed the brooding eyes and had somehow missed the lines fanning out on either side of them. Intriguing pleats that looked ready to capture the fall-out from his next smile.

Too bad she wasn’t going to witness that smile. Because at the moment he was scowling at her as if she were trespassing on private property.

Maybe because you are? She thought.

Not exactly true, so Caitlin ignored the pesky voice. After all, Devon Walsh was expecting her. And she hadn’t seen any No Trespassing signs posted, although the formidable iron-scrolled gate surrounding the perimeter of the Walsh’s yard had given her pause. For that matter, so had the house itself. The gloomy Gothic-style Victorian, sporting a coat of blistered gunmetal-gray paint and cloaked in ivy, resembled an abandoned Hollywood movie set more than a home. It looked as out of place in the tidy row of well-kept homes as an ordinary rock tossed into a jewelry box.

Caitlin took a careful breath but before she could say a word, Devon Walsh stepped forward and propped his hands on his lean hips, effectively blocking the children from view.

Caitlin had the strangest feeling that that was his intent.

“Can I help you?” The question was polite even though his tone implied it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“I’m Caitlin McBride. I have an appointment with you this morning and—”

“I don’t think so.”

Caitlin blinked at the terse interruption but then decided to ignore it. “I left a message yesterday, and your secretary called me back to set up our meeting.”

Devon shook his head. “That’s a new one. You’re a lawyer, right? Vickie sent you.”

“A lawyer? No.” Caitlin gave a choke of disbelief and glanced down at the outfit she’d chosen that morning. Not that she expected a man who wore a ratty tweed sweater with suede elbow patches to understand that a female attorney wouldn’t pair a multicolored chain-link belt with a conservative business suit. The only reason she could get away with it was because she pretended that it worked. Which, in turn, made it work. Confidence. It was her favorite accessory. “I’m an image consultant. I explained that on the phone.”

If anything, he looked even more skeptical. “So you go door-to-door, selling makeup?”

Caitlin bristled. She didn’t know what kind of game Devon Walsh was playing, or why he was pretending to be ignorant about their appointment, but she knew one thing. The guy needed a personality makeover more than a haircut.

“No. I. Do. Not.” Caitlin forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Our meeting,” she emphasized the words to jog his memory, “was to discuss the essay Jennifer wrote for the contest.”

The girl peeking out from behind Devon Walsh’s long, denim-clad leg let out a tiny gasp but her father didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice his children—all three of them—suddenly pull a disappearing act that would have made Houdini envious.

Even the dachshund vanished through the doggy door.

The wariness in Devon’s eyes turned to confusion. “Contest?”

“The makeover contest for Twin City Trends magazine.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Jenny entered a makeover contest?”

“No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“She entered you.”

Devon heard three words—Twin City Trends—and suddenly found himself wishing that Caitlin McBride was a lawyer. Because magazines meant reporters…and reporters meant publicity. And publicity? Well, that was something he’d successfully managed to avoid. Until now.

But if Caitlin McBride was telling the truth, somehow his daughter—his serious, sweet, painfully shy daughter—had brought it right to their front door.

The question was, why?

“Would I be correct in assuming you didn’t know anything about the contest, Mr. Walsh?” Caitlin’s question tugged Devon back to reality. And scraped against his senses. Somehow her husky, bluesy voice didn’t match up with the stylish clothes and cool demeanor.

Devon didn’t let himself dwell on the intriguing contradiction. Not when his relationship with Caitlin McBride was only destined to last another fifteen or twenty seconds. Tops.

“Oh, you’d definitely be correct about that.”

“And that you don’t have a secretary?”

“Two for two, Ms. McBride. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here this morning. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” Devon forced a polite smile, started to close the door and suddenly discovered Caitlin McBride standing next to him in the foyer.

“Good idea.” She smiled up at him. “I’m a little curious myself.”

Devon blinked, wondering if he could blame his momentary lapse in homeland security on the scent of Caitlin’s perfume—a rich blend of exotic spices that definitely packed a punch to the senses. Or maybe it was her smile. The one that warmed up the indigo eyes like sunlight on water.

Get a grip, Walsh. Somehow she’s involved with the media.

“No offense, Ms. McBride, but this is a family matter.”

“A family matter I received a personal invitation to when Jennifer entered you in the makeover contest.”

Makeover contest.

Devon winced at the reminder while silently scrolling through his options. If he told Caitlin to leave, it was possible she’d turn up again with reinforcements. That had been his brief but memorable experience with the press in the past. She might claim to be an “image consultant” but it didn’t mean she wasn’t employed by the magazine. Or that a single headline wouldn’t disrupt his life. Again.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Devon decided to take the old adage to heart. And because he couldn’t figure out which category Caitlin McBride belonged in, he decided to let her stay.

All he had to do was get Jenny to admit she’d entered him in the contest as a practical joke and Caitlin would be on her way. To find another victim.

“Roundtable meeting, Jenny,” Devon bellowed as he passed the staircase. “Parlor. Five minutes.”

He strode down the hall, surprised that Caitlin managed to match him step for step in shoes jacked up by pencil-thin heels. And even though she stared straight ahead, Devon had the strangest feeling she was taking in everything around her.

Great.

Devon was well aware the house had its shortcomings, but he still considered it an answer to prayer. Proof that God wasn’t silent and far away but close and listening. And real. That the ramshackle Victorian needed a lot of work hadn’t bothered him. And even though it would have sounded strange if he tried to put words to it, from the moment Devon had glimpsed the For Sale sign in the knee-high grass behind the fence, he’d felt an immediate kinship with the house.

After he’d signed the papers and accepted the overwhelming task of remodeling it room by room, the project had done more than fill long hours. It had started the healing process.

Not something the average visitor would understand or even appreciate. And he wasn’t going to apologize for the multitude of little things that still needed attention…

Devon sent Rosie’s rawhide bone spinning out of the way with a discreet kick and then noticed the innocent-looking cardboard box positioned against the wall just outside the parlor door.

His lips twitched. Subtle, the twins weren’t. Thank goodness.

Lately, they’d started to act out scenes from the book he’d been reading to them after supper. A book that happened to be an action-adventure novel—loaded with peril and cool gadgets—about Matt and Marty Ransom, teenage brothers on a quest to find their missing father while staying one step ahead of the resident villain.

Without even auditioning for the part, Devon had been drafted into their reenactments and cast in the role of evil Dr. Chamberlain. Over the past two days, he’d found a miniature tape recorder hidden in his medicine cabinet and the bedroom doorknob dusted with something Devon guessed was a homemade version of “fingerprint” powder. He even stumbled into an ingenious trap made out of paper cups and shaving cream.

Devon was thrilled. For two boys whose lives had been scheduled down to the last second of the day, their imaginative play over the past few weeks had been a major breakthrough.

Not that he could begin to explain all that to the woman walking beside him. He slanted a glance at Caitlin McBride and saw her lips flatline as she stepped delicately over the misshapen bedroom slipper that Sunny and her favorite partner in crime, Rosie had been wrestling over that morning.

No, Caitlin McBride wouldn’t understand. And because he doubted she’d find a shaving-cream bomb humorous, he paused before approaching the box.

“Wait here for a second.”

Caitlin blinked. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Apparently not. Because instead of answering her question, Devon sidled up to an ordinary cardboard box as cautiously as a bomb-squad tech. Caitlin’s back teeth ground together. She was convinced the man was deliberately trying to drive her crazy in an attempt to get her to leave.

Not that it wasn’t tempting. But she’d made the decision to stick around a split second after Devon had smiled politely and tried to shut the door in her face. And only one thing had prevented her from admitting defeat and calling the runner-up in the contest.

Jenny.

When the girl had peeked around her father, Caitlin had had a flashback of herself at the tender age of twelve. Confused. Hopeful. Scared. A bundle of conflicting emotions reflected in that pair of large copper-brown eyes.