We finish our drinks, and he drives me to my parents’ home. The more I think about what he said, the more appealing the concept grows. I pause after he pulls into the drive and puts the vehicle in park. “Thanks for the house tours—and the drinks, and the advice.”
He smiles at me. “No problem.”
“What are you doing this evening?”
“Little league practice. Want to come?”
“Sounds like fun.” I smile, my hand on the door handle. “I wish I could, but Mom’s planning a family dinner.”
“Maybe another time.”
“I’d like that.” I open the door, but stay seated. “I’ll think about the houses we’ve seen. That last one might be a possibility, but I can’t really picture the renovations you suggested.”
“I’ll work up some graphics and send them to you.”
“That would be great.” I smile. “Hey—I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”
“Back at you.” He has no way of knowing that’s what Zack and I say to each other in response toI love you. My face heats all the same.
“So you’re flying to Portland tomorrow?” he says.
“I’m supposed to. But right now, I’m thinking I might cancel the rest of my business trip and go back to New Orleans.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I think you should meet this little girl, her guardian, and her great-grandmother.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
He nods. “Keep me posted.”
“I will.”
He smiles and I linger in the car, just smiling back. I hate to leave. There’s something effervescent and kind of exciting between us.
“Well, I’d better go,” I say.
“Take care.” He pats my shoulder as I climb out.
My shoulder tingles as I hoist my purse on it. I’m still smiling as I let myself into the house through the kitchen door, just as I did when I was a teenager and someone dropped me off.
There’s a major difference, though: when I was a teenager, I never dared to dream I’d actually be driven home by Brett Ross.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Zack
Wednesday, May 15
I’M IN MYoffice, working on one of the biggest mergers of my career. It involves hundreds of health care facilities in two dozen states, and it has about a million moving parts. I need to make sure that we’re meeting the legal requirements of every state and city, not to mention that the selling party is meeting all the standards set by the purchasing party.
I’m behind schedule, so I’ve turned off my phone, skipped lunch, and asked my assistant not to disturb me unless it’s an emergency. My office has a glass wall, and I’ve put my laptop on the credenza behind my desk so I’m facing away from the entrance and am less likely to be distracted.
I hear the door to my office open and the click of heels on the floor. I figure it’s Maggie, the paralegal, bringing me the additional research I requested.
“Just leave the papers on my desk,” I say without turning around. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, but I didn’t bring any papers.”
It’s not Maggie’s voice—it’s my wife’s. I jerk up my head and swivel around in my chair. “Jess! What happened to all your meetings on the West Coast?”
