bushes, and a pocket-size flower garden, he felt an unexpected spike of jealousy stab at his chest. Colette, who’d only allowed him in her flat one time, had set up a proper home with a roommate. A roommate who called her in the middle of the day to talk about nonsensical things. A roommate she didn’t want Stephen to meet.
Unwilling to mull over the possibilities any longer without knowing the truth, he shoved open his door, exited his car, and strode across the narrow paved street. The punishing slap of his heels against the blacktop matched his mood exactly. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to keep lying to him. After all the time they’d spent together, she owed him the truth.
He’d already framed his opening sentence when he stabbed his thumb into the doorbell.
The doorbell echoed somewhere in the back of the house, followed by a high-pitched squeal and a low, feminine murmur.
The front door opened to reveal a miniature version of Colette, dressed in a cloud of ruffled pink, her tousled yellow curls forming a bright halo of gold about her small upturned face.
“Hi!” she said with a grin, just as a plump gray-haired woman in a flowered housedress joined her at the door.
“Emma!” she said in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to open the door to strangers?”
The child’s eyes widened and she gasped aloud before slamming the door shut between them.
For a protracted beat of time, Stephen simply stared at the closed door in shock. Colette was a mother?
The door opened again, this time to reveal the older woman and child standing side by side.
“Sorry,” the woman began. “We—”
“You’re a stranger,” the girl announced, cocking her head in a perfect imitation of her mother. “'Cause I don’t know you yet.”
Stephen blinked, trying to adjust to his sense of vertigo while taking in the child’s small rosebud mouth, obstinate chin, and large, wide-set eyes the color of a summer sky. “Yes, I guess I am.” Recovering his manners, he bent to address the child. “My name’s Stephen. What’s yours?”
Rather than answering, the child turned her inquisitive face toward the older woman and whispered, “Can I tell him?”
“As I was saying,” the woman said, her face creasing in a smile, “we’re still working on how we interact with strangers.” She returned her focus to the little girl and nodded. “Yes, you may tell him your name.”
“I’m Emma Huntington.” She gripped the woman’s skirt in one small white hand and hopped to a sneakered foot. “An’ I like jumping.”
“I can see that,” he said, slowly straightening as the child’s full name sank in. Apparently this enchanting child belonged to Colette and Colette alone. Where was the father? Had he abandoned them both? Or was he her roommate? Suddenly, the thought of her bearing another man’s child, sharing his bed and opening her heart when it had always remained closed to him, had jealousy pinching his chest. But he forced a bland calmness to his voice and lifted his attention to the older woman. “Is Colette home?”
“Not at the moment,” said the older woman, her brows lowering as she scanned his face. “May I deliver a message?”
Aware that he didn’t wish to arouse her suspicions, Stephen schooled his features into the smile guaranteed to make any woman soften. “When do you expect her back?”
“Momma’s working at the hotel,” volunteered Emma as she switched to hop on the other foot, stabilizing her balance with a twisted grip in the older woman’s skirt. “She makes desserts.”
Stephen’s lungs tightened as he looked down at Colette’s daughter. He didn’t like that Colette had moved on without him, that she’d made a life, created a child, and cut him so completely out of her future. She’d never looked back, even once, and the proof of her decision stared up at him with bright blue eyes. “Yes, I know,” he agreed. “Your mother is a very good chef.”
“She’s gonna teach me to make cookies!”
“Then you are a lucky girl. Just like I’m lucky to have her as an employee.”
Emma’s face screwed up in confusion and her hopping stalled. “What’s a employee?”
“You’re Colette’s new boss?” the older woman gasped. “The one from England?”
“Yes,” he said, lifting his head and smiling in acknowledgment. “I’m Stephen Whitfield. Did Colette mention me?”
“Of course she did!” she scolded as she swung the door wide. “And if I’d known who you were, I’d have invited you in right away!”
What did she tell you? “Thank you,” he said as