LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue

      After a mere three weeks of sleeping next to Meg Lathem, Grant Sheppard knew she was gone the instant he woke up. She liked to sleep curled against his side, one leg draped over his hips, her head resting on his shoulder. Of course, waking up at three or four in the morning only to find her puttering around the kitchen was normal.

      He stumbled out of bed, pulled on the jeans he’d left draped over the rocking chair in the corner and went to find her.

      In a house this size, it didn’t take long. Her two-bedroom bungalow just a few blocks off the square in Victoria, Texas, was the house she’d grown up in. For a man like Grant, who’d grown up among the wealthy elite of Houston, this small town not far from the coast didn’t hold much appeal. He had come here—and stayed here—for Meg.

      She was baking again and the smell—a combination of toasted nuts and caramelized sugar—was divine.

      That scent alone would have lured him out of bed.

      He paused when he got to the kitchen, propping his shoulder against the doorway and watching her. Her inky-black Bettie Page hair was pulled up into a ponytail that bobbed enticingly as she moved. She’d thrown on a nightgown—something skimpy and sheer that hit her just below the curve of her butt. She’d put on an apron over that. Her feet were bare, her nails painted navy blue. The tattoo on the back of her leg peeked out from under the hem of her nightie when she bent over. She was sexier than a girl in a pinup calendar and every swish of her hem and wiggle of her ass made him ache with the need to claim her.

      Between the retro kitchen and Meg’s vintage style, he might have thought he’d traveled back in time to the forties. Only the blue nail polish and the tattoo ruined the illusion. That and the blowtorch she’d just lit up.

      He knew better than to sneak up behind her while she was working. Instead, he just stood there and enjoyed the view, waiting as she skimmed the bright blue flame over the top of a pie’s meringue, singeing the tips of the curlicues a golden brown. When she straightened and flicked the blowtorch off, he walked into the room.

      “What’d

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