LITMIR.BIZ

      PROLOGUE

      KELLI WALTERS was late for work again—half an hour late this time. She jiggled the fussy toddler on her hip as she slid her time card through the punch at Danbury Department Store’s distribution center. To make matters worse, she was showing up for her shift with two kids in tow, one of whom was irritable and running a slight fever from teething.

      “Remember, Katie, you need to keep Chloe with you in the break room,” she reminded her seven-year-old. “You both need to stay out of sight until Mrs. Baker can pick you up.”

      That plan went up in smoke when Kelli turned the corner and ran straight into a man’s broad chest. She stumbled back, an apologetic smile on her lips.

      She didn’t know the man by name, but she’d seen him the week before walking through the distribution center with one of the assistant managers. The instantaneous tug of attraction she’d felt then had caught her off guard. She’d chided herself for it, even as she’d returned the smile he’d sent her way.

      And here he was again. Only this time he wasn’t smiling.

      “Sorry,” she said.

      He acknowledged her apology with a curt nod.

      “What are those children doing back here?”

      At the man’s harsh tone, Katie slid behind her mother and Chloe sent up a wail of distress.

      Kelli jiggled the baby and kissed her rosy, heated cheek. “It’s okay, pumpkin. Don’t cry.” She transferred her gaze to the man. “Who exactly are you?”

      “Sam Maxwell.”

      The name seemed familiar, although she couldn’t quite place it.

      “Ah, the new guy,” she said at last, reasonably sure he was the distribution center’s new manager, a position for which she had applied and never received even the courtesy of an interview.

      Rumor had it that this guy was some shirttail relation to the personnel director, although Kelli didn’t think he looked much like the short and bald Mr. Elliott. No, he was tall, at least six-two, with a full head of black hair and blue eyes that glared out from beneath a slash of dark brow.

      He must be pretty full of himself, she decided, taking note of the nicely tailored suit he wore. Khaki pants and a button-down shirt would have been acceptable management attire in the warehouse. The suit was overkill and now it bore the unmistakable imprint of a child’s runny nose just above the impeccably folded silk handkerchief that peeked from the breast pocket.

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