LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Jenna Mills doesn’t remember a time when she wasn’t playing matchmaker. From Barbie and Ken to the Professor and Mary Ann, Jenna always wanted love to prevail. It was only natural that she turned this obsession into a career—and her own happily-ever-after. A Louisiana native living in Texas, Jenna lives with her husband of two decades and their two young children.

      Every book has its own tone and texture, and its own path to creation. This book would not be without two majorly wonderful people: my husband, Chuck, for all the raw material; and my awesome editor, Wanda, for the chance…and the wise counsel.

      You’re both incredible!

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      EVEN IN SLEEP, SHE KNEW he was gone.

      Megan Montgomery opened her eyes against the hazy light of early morning and reached beside her. The soft cotton sheet and down comforter, both a rich tartan plaid of navies and reds, lay flat. The feather pillow was fluffed. There were no wrinkles, no indentations, no warm places. Absolutely no evidence of the destruction Russell Montgomery could wreak on a bed.

      After all this time, the chill on her skin made no sense. Especially now.

      With a drowsy stretch, Meg drew a hand to her stomach, where beneath the cool silk of her nightgown the swell made her heart sing. Four years in the making; four months until her arrival. Or his.

      After today, she would know.

      They would know.

      On cue, the little one fluttered, and Meg smiled. As much as she wanted to savor the moment, even more she wanted to share it. With a quick glance at the clock, she slipped out of bed and padded from the big bedroom.

      Music drifted through the century-old, but newly renovated, house. Soft, lilting strains drew her down the hallway, to the small, east-facing room that had sat empty for years.

      The soft, buttery-yellow glow stopped her. He worked quietly, deliberately—just as he did everything. His chest and feet were bare, his jeans faded and low-slung. Together, man and paintbrush moved in symbiotic rhythm, the muscles of his bare arms and shoulders bunching and releasing with each smooth, even stroke.

      The night before, the room had been boring builder-beige. Now the nursery-to-be beckoned like morning sunshine. That had been their intent.

      The symbolism appealed.

      “Looks good,” she murmured, her voice still thick from sleep.

      Russell turned, and despite the familiarity between them, her breath caught. His dark copper hair was mussed, his strong jaw in need of a razor. And his smile…it was slow, languorous. “You caught me.”

      The words were playful, but she knew her husband well enough to see the fatigue in the dark green of his eyes, the sharp glint of something he clearly did not want her to see. Three walls were painted, including trim. Even working at a brisk pace, he couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or two.

      He’d been acting oddly ever since the phone call that had jarred them from sleep a few days before. He’d left the bed, talked in hushed tones. Told her there was nothing to worry about.

      She was trying to believe him.

      “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, changing the subject the way he always did when he sensed she was about to prod too close to something he wasn’t ready to share. He put down the brushes, crossed to her.

      “You didn’t.” She took his hand and drew it to her belly. “Your son did.”

      Almost instantly, a twinkle came into Russ’s eyes. “You mean my daughter.”

      Pushing up on her toes, Meg brushed her lips across his. “Maybe,” she murmured indulgently, loving the soft scrape of his whiskers. Most men were obsessed with having sons, but all Russell talked about was having a little girl.

      “With eyes of blue like her mum’s,” he said, lapsing into the brogue of his childhood. They’d known each other for six years, been married four. The echo of a Scottish accent shouldn’t still inspire that quick little rush. But it did. It was such a disconnect coming from a man who always looked ready to tackle the great outdoors.

      “Blond hair,” he added while his fingers wove through hers.

      Somehow, his touch was as gentle as his words.

      “A sweet little smile—”

      “Careful what you wish for, Montgomery,” she teased, grinning up at him. “You really think you can handle two of us?”

      The

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