The Game Show Bride. Jackie Braun

and half the females in Chicago would be a puddle of mush at his feet. Thank God he sounded like the East Coaster he was.

      Eye contact seemed to stretch interminably. Sylvia Haywood’s gravelly voice thankfully broke the spell.

      “What do you say, Mr. Maxwell? Do you think you can handle Ms. Walters’s life for an entire month?”

      His gaze cut to Kelli again, this time far more arrogant than considering.

      “Her life for one month?” He shook his head as if insulted. “When I win, make the check out to the American Cancer Society.”

      Kelli was halfway to the elevator when she heard Sam call her name. She was tempted to pretend she didn’t and just keep walking. When I win, indeed. The man was insufferable. But she stopped and turned, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for him to reach her.

      “Is there something you wanted to say to me?”

      “Oh, plenty.”

      “I see. Well, can it wait till I punch back in? I think I’d prefer to listen to you when I’m getting paid for the privilege.”

      He scowled. “My office is this way.”

      He walked away without another word, obviously expecting her to follow, which she did reluctantly, mumbling oaths under her breath as she went.

      His office was just as she would have imagined it to be: large, with imposing cherry furnishings and cold leather upholstery on the high-backed chair that was his highness’s throne. There were few personal touches—no photographs of loved ones, plants, plaques or little gadgets with which one could waste time when bored or perplexed. The room revealed little of Samuel Maxwell’s personal nature, which could mean he was an intensely private man. Or perhaps it revealed that he didn’t have much personality once one got beyond his uncompromising countenance and sexy mouth.

      “Nice office,” she said with a smirk, telling herself it was the latter.

      He glanced around. “It serves its purpose.”

      “Ah, the no-nonsense type.”

      “You’ll find, Ms. Walters, that there’s not a lot of time for nonsense when you’re running a business.”

      He sat on his throne and she wanted to crown him.

      “You’ll find, Mr. Maxwell, that when you’re raising children, you have to make time for nonsense.”

      “We’ll see about that.”

      “Yes, we will.” She sat on one of the chairs in front of his desk. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

      “I want to assure you that your employment will not be in jeopardy regardless of the outcome of the show, nor will this affect any opportunities you might have for advancement within Danbury’s.”

      “Now, that’s a relief.”

      “Is there a reason for your sarcasm?”

      “No, sir. I’m sure any future promotions for which I apply will be given the same consideration as the last one.”

      He frowned at her. “The last one?”

      “I have to get back to the distribution center. We’re a little short-handed today,” she said as she got to her feet.

      “They’ll survive a little longer without you.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “I just want to make sure you know that even though you’ll be in way over your head, the rest of the management team will be here to hold your hand.”

      He sounded sincere, which only made his words all that more patronizing.

      “So, I’ll be in way over my head, hmm?”

      “A few business classes, even at the post-graduate level, don’t prepare one for running a national chain of department stores.”

      “You’ve been studying my personnel file.”

      “That is my prerogative as your employer. But no, I haven’t been studying it. I merely glanced at it when I added the warning about bringing your children to work.”

      “So much for family-friendly workplaces,” she muttered.

      “OSHA wouldn’t agree with your definition of family friendly, Ms. Walters. In fact, its inspectors were on the way to the distribution center the last time you decided to get creative with your day-care accommodations.”

      The explanation of his surly behavior that day did little to alleviate her irritation. “Haven’t you ever had a bad day?”

      “Our days are ultimately what we make of them—good, bad or otherwise. Organization is the key.”

      She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in the chair. “So, now I’m disorganized?”

      “I’m merely pointing out that you obviously have some flaws in your system if one or two little glitches can throw your life into chaos.”

      “Life, Mr. Maxwell, is not a system, and children are not a glitch.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand to silence him and had the pleasure of watching one of his dark eyebrows rise in pique. “Nonetheless, I’ll be curious to see how you manage when you experience a few ‘glitches.”’

      Oh, his day was coming, all right.

      “Are you assuming that every day is a holiday when you’re in management?”

      “Not at all. But all the well-thought-out systems and procedures and policies in the world won’t work on a teething toddler who won’t sleep or a seven-year-old who’s convinced there are monsters under her bed.”

      “Are you trying to make me nervous?” He looked amused by the prospect.

      “Of course not. I’m trying to make you aware that being a parent, single or otherwise, is full of challenges. There are no instruction books, no one-size-fits-all solutions, no management teams to consult. Half the time, you’ve got to think on your feet, even when you’d rather be soaking them in hot water because you’ve been standing on them for the past twelve hours.”

      “So, being a parent is all drudgery.”

      She couldn’t help but smile, thinking about the big messy kiss Chloe had given her that morning and the crayon-drawn invitation Katie had presented her for tea later that evening.

      “I suppose I made it seem like that, but not at all. Parenthood has unimaginable rewards. Even on those bad days, I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything. They’re…they’re…” She groped for the right words, but none seemed adequate. So, she settled on, “They’re what make it all worthwhile.”

      When he said nothing, just continued to regard her with an expression she couldn’t quite read, she stood.

      “Now, I really do have to get back to work. Some of us get paid by the hour.”

      Sam dismissed her with a nod, but long after Kelli Walters left his office, he sat in his chair, thinking about what she had said.

      Thinking and remembering.

      The old hurt bubbled to the surface, and he let it come until it spilled over him as destructive and relentless as molten lava. He knew better than most that life was not a system. It was unpredictable, messy. Well-laid plans and, with them, futures could be shattered in the time it took to say goodbye.

      From his wallet he pulled out the photograph his mother had included in her last letter. She wrote to Sam at least once a month. He never wrote back, although he did call on occasion. None of this, after all, had been her fault. He stared at the photo as he had a dozen times since receiving it a week earlier. Two adorable boys dressed in their Sunday best smiled back at him. Their dark hair was neatly combed, but mischief sparkled in their blue eyes. Maxwell eyes.

      They were five and three now and the delight of their doting grandparents,