Family in Progress. Brenda Harlen

Harper says we all make mistakes.”

      It took him a moment to remember that Mrs. Harper was Tyler’s homeroom teacher. “Do you like Mrs. Harper?”

      Another nod, then a yawn.

      “And your new school?”

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      “You’ve made some friends?”

      “James and Aidan and Andrew and Marcus and Nick and Jake and—”

      Steven interrupted the list with a chuckle. “I didn’t hear you mention any girls’ names.”

      Tyler wrinkled his nose. “The girls are okay, I guess.”

      “You’re not still mad that we moved from North Carolina?”

      “I was never mad—just sad that we had to leave Grandma Warren and Grandma and Grandpa Bradley.” His voice dropped a little. “And Mommy.”

      Liz was buried at Pleasantview Cemetery in Crooked Oak. Steven had been sure to take the kids to visit her grave whenever they wanted to visit their mom, but that trip was obviously a lot more difficult now and an event that would, therefore, occur a lot less frequently.

      “Caitlin was mad,” Tyler continued, a reminder that was hardly necessary.

      “Do you think she still is?”

      His son lifted one bony shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and yawned again.

      Despite the movie being Tyler’s admitted favorite, he was conked out before the podrace even began. And while Steven knew there were a hundred things he could be doing while his son slept, at the moment, none of them was as important as cuddling with his child.

      Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed sharing this kind of closeness with his children, and he was suddenly, painfully, aware that as his children got older, the opportunities for doing so would be fewer and farther between. Even at nine, Tyler wasn’t much of a cuddler, except when he was sad or tired or feeling ill, so Steven had no qualms about taking advantage of this opportunity.

      He brushed a hand over his son’s thick, dark hair—a legacy from the Warren side of the family along with his blue eyes and broad shoulders. But the shape of his face, the curve of his lips and the long, thick lashes came from his mother, and every time he looked at his son, he caught a glimpse of the woman he’d loved. A glimpse that was both painful and reassuring, because though she was gone from his life forever, she would always live on in the children who were the best parts of both of them.

      Samara scoured the classified ads, searched the Internet and pounded the pavement, and the best job prospect she could find—aside from the position at Classic, of course—was at a photo studio in one of the big department stores. Not quite what she was looking for, but she filled out an application anyway. She needed a job or she’d end up on Jenny and Richard’s doorstep again, and her friends had already done so much for her.

      She wasn’t sure where she would be right now if she hadn’t come to Chicago to see them—then fallen in love with the city and decided to stay. Two years earlier, she’d run away from her life in Tokyo. She wasn’t proud of the fact, but she couldn’t deny it, either. And in those two years, she’d continued to run—from one point on the globe to another, one temporary assignment to another. But no matter how far or how fast she ran, she never managed to outdistance the heartache.

      Could a woman who’d been hurt so deeply by someone she’d loved ever learn to love again? She only knew that, after two years, it was time to stop running, to make a stand, to start her life again. A task made decidedly more difficult by her current lack of employment.

      She sighed and tossed the useless newspaper into the recycle bin under her desk.

      She wanted the job at Classic. It would be interesting, challenging and rewarding. And, as an added bonus, the project manager was quite a hunk.

      Yummy, she couldn’t help thinking again, and realized she should have been prepared for the possibility that Steven Warren shared his brother’s good looks. But she’d thought of Richard as Jenny’s husband for so long now, she’d almost forgotten how attractive he was. Coming face-to-face with Steven had been quite the reminder—and a reminder that, though her heart might still be in pieces, her body was starting to show signs of life again.

      She didn’t think Steven was quite as tall as Richard—probably just shy of six feet, she would guess, which meant that he still towered over her five-foot-two-inch frame. But he was as broad across the shoulders as his brother, and a little more…built, she thought was the term. Samara had never been attracted to sculpted bodies, but there was something about Steven’s strong muscles, evident even beneath the shirt and tie he wore during her interview, that made her mouth water. Yeah, the hormones were definitely alive and kicking.

      She knew he was younger than his brother by half a dozen years, which put his age at thirty-five. She would have guessed he was older. Maybe it was the responsibilities of marriage and children that made him seem so, or perhaps it was the grief of losing his wife that had etched those lines around his deep-blue eyes and put the flecks of gray in his thick, dark hair. The loss of someone close always left scars, visible or not.

      Jenny had told her about the death of Steven’s wife—how she’d died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm, leaving Steven a widower and a single parent to their two children. The man’s life had been completely upended, responsibilities had been dumped on his shoulders beyond anything she’d ever had to manage, and she should focus on that rather than on the fact that he also had a first-class butt, eyes that made her want to melt at his feet, and a sensuously sculpted mouth that tempted her to forget he was a father and remember only that he was a man.

      It made her question whether working at Classic would be such a good idea after all. Of course, that was assuming he offered her the job, and while she was keeping her fingers crossed, she wasn’t ready to assume any such thing.

      He’d promised to be in touch by the end of the week, so Samara wasn’t surprised when he called Thursday afternoon, though she was surprised by the little quiver in her belly when she recognized his voice.

      “Hi, Samara. It’s Steve Warren calling,” he said, as if the pounding of her heart against her ribs hadn’t already given his identify away.

      “Hello, Steven,” she said, pleased that she managed to respond in a level tone that belied her nervousness.

      “I’m calling to offer you the job as senior photographer of features at Classic.”

      Relief flood her system in a wave, followed closely by excitement and anticipation. This was it. All she needed was a chance to prove what she could do, and he was giving it to her.

      “Thank you.” Her damp palm clamped tighter around the receiver. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

      “I’m counting on you to deliver on that promise,” her new boss told her.

      “When do you want me to start?” she asked, anxious to pin down the details before he could change his mind.

      He chuckled in response to her eager question. “Monday, if that’s not too soon.”

      “Monday is perfect.”

      “Good. I’ll see you then.”

      But Samara was too excited to wait until Monday.

      She wanted to check out the studio where she would be working, meet the people she’d be working with, and she wanted to see Steven again, to reassure herself that the immediate hormonal reaction she’d experienced at their first meeting was a fluke.

      He was dressed more casually today—in jeans and a collared T-shirt, and it looked like he’d forgotten to shave. He looked like a man would look on a comfortable Saturday morning—a little bit rumpled, a lot sexy.

      Okay, so the hormone thing was still a problem,