One In A Million. Susan Mallery

compared it to his watch, which was still on Central Time. Then he rolled onto his back and stared at the ivory ceiling.

      What the hell was he doing here?

      Dumb question, he told himself. He already knew the answer. He was in a town he’d never heard of until a couple of weeks ago, to meet family he hadn’t known he had. No. That wasn’t completely true. He was in town because he’d been forced to take some vacation and he hadn’t had anywhere else to go. If he’d tried laying low in Chicago, Kevin, his twin and already camped out at Glenwood, would have been on the next plane east.

      Nash sat up and pushed back the covers. Without the routine of work, his day stretched endlessly in front of him. Had he really gotten so lost in the job that he didn’t have anything else in his life?

      Dumb question number two.

      He knew he was going to have to get in touch with Kevin sometime that morning and set up a meeting. After thirty-one years of knowing nothing about their biological father save the fact that he’d gotten a seventeen-year-old virgin pregnant with twins and then abandoned her, he and Kevin were about to meet up with half siblings they’d never known they had.

      Kevin thought finding out about more family was a good thing. Nash still needed convincing.

      By 6:40 he’d showered, shaved and dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and boots. While it was mid-June, a cool fog hung over the part of the town he could see from his second-story window. Nash paced restlessly in his comfortable room. Maybe he would tell his hostess to forget about breakfast. He could go for a drive and eat at a diner somewhere. Or maybe he’d just keep going until he figured out why, in the past few months, he’d stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped giving a damn about anything but his job.

      He grabbed the keys for his rental car, then headed downstairs. At the front desk, he tore off a sheet of notepaper and a pen, then paused when he heard noises from the rear of the house. If the owner was up, he could simply tell her he was skipping breakfast in person.

      He followed the noise down a long hallway and through a set of closed swinging doors. When he stepped into the brightly lit kitchen, he was instantly assaulted by the scents of something baking and fresh coffee. His mouth watered and his stomach growled.

      He glanced around, but the big, white-on-white kitchen was empty. A tray sat on a center island. A coffee carafe stood by an empty cup and saucer. Plastic wrap covered a plate of fresh fruit. By the stove, an open box of eggs waited beside a frying pan. Through a door on his left, he heard mumbled conversation.

      He started toward the female voice and crossed the threshold. A woman stood on tiptoe in front of shelves. As he watched, she reached up for something on the top shelf, but her fingers only grazed the edge of the shelf.

      Nash stepped forward to offer help, but at that moment the woman reached a little higher. Her cropped sweater rose above the waistband of her black slacks, exposing a sliver of bare skin.

      Nash felt as if he’d been hit upside the head with a two-by-four. His vision narrowed, sound faded and by gosh, he found himself experiencing the first flicker of life below his waist that he’d felt in damn near two years.

      Over an inch of belly? He was in a whole lot more trouble than he’d realized. Apparently his boss had been right about him burning out.

      A loud shriek brought him back to the here and now. Nash moved his gaze from the woman’s midsection to her face and saw his hostess staring at him with wide eyes. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a breath.

      “You nearly scared the life out of me, Mr. Harmon. I didn’t realize you were up already.”

      “Call me Nash,” he said as he stepped forward and reached up for the top shelf. “What do you need?”

      “That blue bag. There’s a silver bread basket inside. I’m making scones and I usually put them in the larger basket but as you’re my only guest at present, I thought something smaller would work.”

      He grasped the blue bag and felt something hard inside. After lowering it, he handed it to her. She took it with a shake of her head.

      “I always meant to be tall,” she told him. “Somehow I never got around to it.”

      “I wasn’t aware it wasn’t something you could get around to. I thought it just happened.”

      “Or not.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a silver wire basket. “Thanks for the help. Would you like some coffee?”

      “Sure.”

      He led the way back into the kitchen. While he leaned against the counter, she ran hot water into the carafe, then drained it and wiped it dry. After filling it with coffee, she turned back to him.

      “Cream and sugar?”

      “Just black.”

      “The scones should be ready in about five minutes. I had planned to make you an omelette this morning. Ham? Cheese? Mushrooms?”

      Last night he’d barely noticed her. What he remembered had been someone female, tired and strangely dressed. He had a vague recollection of spiky blond hair. Now he saw that Stephanie Wynne was a petite blonde with wide blue eyes and a full mouth that turned up at the corners. She wore her short hair in a sleek style that left her ears and neck bare. Tailored black slacks and a slightly snug sweater showed him that despite the small package, everything was where it needed to be. She was pretty.

      And he’d noticed.

      Nash tried to figure out the last time he’d noticed a woman—any woman—enough to classify her as pretty, ugly or something in between. Not for two years, he decided, knowing that figuring out the date hadn’t been much of a stretch.

      “Don’t bother with eggs,” he said. “Coffee and the scones are fine.” He glanced at the tray. “And the fruit.”

      Stephanie frowned. “The room comes with a full breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

      More than he’d been in a while, but less than he should have been. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said instead.

      A timer on the stove beeped softly. Stephanie picked up two mitts and pulled open the oven door. The scent of baked goods got stronger. Nash inhaled the fragrance of orange and lemon.

      When she’d set two cookie sheets of scones onto cooling racks, she dug through a drawer and pulled out a linen napkin, then draped it in the silver basket.

      “This morning we have orange, lemon and white chocolate scones,” she said as she pulled a small crystal dish of butter from the refrigerator. “They’re all delicious, which is probably tacky of me to say seeing as I made them, but it’s true. Being a man, you won’t care about the calories, so that’s a plus.”

      She offered him a smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, then nodded toward the door next to him.

      “The dining room is through there.”

      He took the hint and moved through to the next room. He found a large table set for one. The local paper lay on top of a copy of USA TODAY.

      Stephanie followed him into the room, but waited until he was seated before serving him his breakfast. She poured coffee, removed the plastic wrap from his plate of fruit and made sure the butter was within easy reach. Then she wished him “bon appétit” before disappearing back into the kitchen.

      Nash picked up one of the still-steaming scones. The scent of orange drifted to him. His stomach still growling, he took a bite.

      Delicate flavors melted on his tongue. Hunger roared through him, as unfamiliar as it was welcome. He sipped the coffee next, then tried a strawberry. Everything tasted delicious. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d enjoyed, nor did he care. Instead he plowed through four scones, all the fruit and the entire carafe of coffee. When he was finally full, he pulled the copy of USA TODAY toward him and started to read.

      A burst of laughter interrupted his perusal of the