âWhen your father introduced us, you thought I was coming on to you?â
Well, she had. But Colin looked so insulted, so genuinely appalled by the accusation, now she wasnât so sure.
âIt wouldnât be the first time,â she said, but she was losing steam, and the excuse sounded hollow. Was she so jaded, so warped from past experiences that she would misinterpret the most innocent of gestures? Could she no longer trust her own instincts? And if she couldnât trust herself, who could she trust?
âYour father did mention that youâve had problems in the past with unscrupulous men.â
Rowenaâs father didnât even know the half of it. âI guess itâs made me a little paranoid. Which I know is a terrible excuse.â
âIf I came on too strong, I apologize.â He paused. âThat happens sometimes when I meet a beautiful woman.â
Dear Reader,
My husband and I have something that we like to call âMole Stories.â I know that probably sounds a little strange, so let me explain.
After twenty-four years of marriage, you would think that a person would have learned all there is to know about their spouse. So this one day Iâm looking at my husbandâs chin, and I ask, âDidnât you used to have a mole there?â Bear in mind that through the course of our marriage heâs usually had either a full beard or goatee, so itâs not too weird that Iâm just noticing this now. He explains that yes, he did have a mole. It just appeared out of nowhere when he was a kidâcompletely freaking out his parents, of course. After thorough examination it was determined to be harmless, and they were told to âkeep an eye on it.â Eventually it started to fade, and now itâs gone.
As heâs telling me this story I realize this is something about the man I had spent the past twenty-four-plus years with that I had never known before. Hence the âmole storyâ was born. Now every time one of us tells the other something we hadnât heard before, it is automatically referred to as a Mole Story.
Which has nothing to do with the book, but itâs kind of a cool story on its own.
Until next time,
Michelle
MICHELLE CELMER is a bestselling author of more than thirty books. When sheâs not writing, she likes to spend time with her husband, kids, grandchildren and a menagerie of animals.
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her website, www.michellecelmer.com, like her on Facebook or write her at PO Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017, USA.
To Barb, Robbie, Rachel, Andrea and Jen.
It was a pleasure and a privilege working with you on this project.
An enormous thank-you to my friend John for sharing his military and piloting expertise, and for the correspondence that helped to prevent me from coming completely unglued during an especially rigorous revision experience.
And finally to Steve, Josh and Alec, who tolerated without complaint two weeks of fast food and PB&J, and me roaming around in the wee hours like a zombie after eighteen straight hours glued to the computer screen.
Rowena Tate clung to what shred of patience she still possessed as her fatherâs personal assistant, Margaret Wellington, warned her, âHe said to tell you that heâs on his way over now.â
âAndâ¦?â Rowena said, knowing there was more.
âThatâs it,â Margaret said, but Rowena could tell by her voice, the slight rise in pitch, that she was leaving something out.
âYouâre a worse liar than I am.â
Margaret sighed, and in that sympathetic tone said, âHe wanted me to remind you to be on your best behavior.â
Rowena took a deep, calming breath. Her father had informed her by email this morning that he would be bringing a guest to see the day-care center. Heâd demandedânot asked, because the great Senator Tate never asked for anythingâthat she have things in order. Heâd suggested, not for the first time since sheâd taken over the management of his pet project, that she was still impulsive, irresponsible and ineptâlabels that he apparently would never let her live down.
She looked out her office window at the children on the playground. Five straight days of rain had finally turned to sunny skies, and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-five degreesâabout the norm for Southern California in February. Dressed in spring jackets, the day-care kids darted around, shaking off a severe case of cabin fever.
She could be in the worldâs worst mood, and watching the kids play always made her smile. Until she had her son, Dylan, sheâd had little interest in children. Now she couldnât imagine a more satisfying career choice.
And she knew, if she wasnât careful, he would take that away from her, too.
âHeâs never going to trust me, is he?â
âHe put you in charge.â
âYeah, but after three months he still watches me like a hawk. Sometimes I think he wants me to screw up, so he can say I told you so.â
âHe does not. He loves you, Row. He just doesnât know how to show it.â
Having been her fatherâs assistant for fifteen years, Margaret was like part of the family, and one of the few people who understood the complicated relationship between Rowena and her father. Margaret had been with them since before Rowenaâs mother, Amelia, caused an incredible scandal by taking off with the senatorâs protégé.