AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She’d never seen him as animated as she had last night at the test kitchen. She could fall in love with a man on a mission—a man determined to make something of his life. Who was she kidding? She was already in love with him. But that love would be shoved to the back burner. She had to fix her family. Her time to be selfish was over.
Despite her exhaustion, and the fact that the heart-to-heart with her sisters had been emotionally draining, Sterling powered through the surprise she had planned for Jack and his brothers. They deserved more than just a box of pictures. Four boxes were spread on top of her kitchen table. She would have given everything to have a box of pictures from her childhood, but her parents weren’t the type of people who clung to memories. And considering the number of times they’d moved around the country, whatever pictures they did have were lost.
She flipped through the pages she’d already completed, the collages of Jack’s culinary certificates, a few culinary awards, and more pictures of him and his brothers, a little envious of his tangible memories.
A knock sounded on her front door. It was probably one or both of her sisters. When she left them this afternoon, after giving them money to hide away, she had told them to stop by any time.
She padded the ten feet to the door and looked through the peephole. Her breath caught. Jack’s magnified head stared back at her.
“Sterling?” His head leaned to the side. “I can see your feet under the door.”
Quickly, she smoothed her clothing, checking for any coffee stains or stray bits of paper, tucked her hair back, then opened the door.
“Hi,” she croaked. The sight of this man never ceased to drive her crazy with excitement, which always turned into overwhelming desire. “What…how do you know where I live?”
“Penn.”
Note to self: rip Penn a new one for giving him her address.
He rubbed his hand at the back of his neck. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Come…”
Oh, crap. She couldn’t just let him in with his present spread out on the table. Not after she’d worked so hard. “Can you wait a minute?”
Without waiting for a reply, she raced inside and piled up her scrapbooking things, and threw her scissors, glue, and scrap paper into an empty box. She surveyed the table; her bank and credit card statements were laid out for anyone to see. She looked from left to right and decided to hide them in the tiny slot in the kitchen between the fridge and microwave. With her secrets out of sight, she returned to the door and let him in.
As soon as the door opened he barreled his way in and grabbed her up into his arms, hugging her tightly.
“We did it,” he said. He squeezed her tighter, then let go, dropping her to her feet. “Everything is set. I heard from the lawyers about an hour ago and as long as my brothers approve, the Vivian Madewood Foundation will be a reality.”
He pushed past her and walked the short distance to her green secondhand couch, which was situated between her secondhand oak end tables.
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
It was good news. Jack had worked damn hard putting his idea together. He’d made at least one hundred phone calls and asked about a million questions, but it had paid off. And now all he had to do was present the information to his brothers.
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She waved her hand on her way to closing the front door. “Are you kidding me? You did this all on your own. All I did was show you how to use Publisher.”
“You did more than that.”
His fingers fumbled along the back of the couch as he surveyed his surroundings.
“Nice place,” he said after finally making eye contact.
“It’s not really.” Her apartment was as big as the smallest guest bedroom at the mansion. Jack showing up at her bleak apartment was more embarrassing than her gold-medal performance in upchucking that night on the boat.
With an intoxicating smile on his face, he paced from her makeshift living room to her tiny, narrow kitchen, which housed a fridge and stove the same age as her. Finally, he stopped on the opposite side of her kitchen table, tracing his finger along the mustard-colored Formica tabletop. She tensed. He wouldn’t be nosy enough to open up the boxes, would he?
The awkward silence was killing her.
“I was just getting ready for bed,” she lied. She couldn’t exactly tell him she was making him a present.
“I’m sorry. I should go. I wasn’t thinking.” He made for the door.
“Hold it. I didn’t say you had to leave. But you should be out celebrating.”
