Friends. Without benefits. They both agreed.

Until she stole his heart.

Tabitha Jones will find her kidnapped toddler...even if it means searching every daycare in Southern California. So when her hunky, wealthy neighbor, Johnny Brubaker, offers a deal, Tabitha sees it as an ideal way to expand her search. In exchange for working his food truck, Johnny agrees to pose as Tabitha’s husband. It’s the perfect relationship...until Johnny realizes posing as a family man isn’t enough anymore.

Having written over eighty-five novels, TARA TAYLOR QUINN is a USA TODAY bestselling author with more than seven million copies sold. She is known for delivering intense, emotional fiction. Tara is a past president of Romance Writers of America. She has won a Readers’ Choice Award and is a seven-time finalist for an RWA RITA® Award. She has also appeared on TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. She supports the National Domestic Violence Hotline. If you or someone you know might be a victim of domestic violence in the United States, please contact 1-800-799-7233.

Also by Tara Taylor Quinn

Wife by Design

Once a Family

Husband by Choice

Child by Chance

Mother by Fate

The Good Father

Love by Association

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Her Lost and Found Baby

Tara Taylor Quinn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07802-3

HER LOST AND FOUND BABY

© 2018 TTQ Books, LLC

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To My Harlequin Family, Thank You.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Hot stuff.

Johnny Brubaker squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t open them again until he knew all he’d see were the cardboard bowls side-by-side on the food truck’s long prep area in front of him.

He looked at the tickets hanging from the thin rack mounted above the board. He scooped rice, black beans and green beans, then added onion, lettuce and a healthy squirt of his signature barbecue-ranch dressing. He capped the first bowl, put the ticket on top of it and moved to the second. This one needed steak. The next was pork. He finished with all three in under a minute, keeping his line of vision completely under control.

Until a customer at the window of his food truck, Angel’s Food Bowls, asked a question of the woman taking orders.

“Johnny?” Tabitha Jones, the pediatric nurse who helped him on her days off, called out, naturally drawing his gaze.

And there was that sweet butt again. How had it gotten so cute overnight? Six months they’d been doing this, on and off, almost nine months of being neighbors and becoming friends, and now he was noticing her in that way?

“Yeah?” He turned back to his bowls, aware of the male face peering at him through the window but not caring all that much. They’d been parked on a public thoroughfare by San Diego’s Mission Beach for more than three hours, and he’d had people peering at him through that window ever since.

“The health inspector would like to know if he can board the truck.” Tabitha’s voice held a hint of...a less than upbeat tone.

Damn. “Of course he can board,” Johnny said, glancing at the truck’s order window with a mostly sincere smile on his face. He wanted a surprise inspection about as much as the next guy—never—but as an attorney, he knew that the more proven compliance records he amassed, the less vulnerable he’d be to a lawsuit.

The world was full of crazies and he’d discovered that jealousy ran rampant in the food-truck business.

Besides, they had a long line, and a more than thirty-second wait per customer could cause folks to wander away. He’d rather have the inspector in the truck if it meant he could possibly keep business going.

Taking a second to reach into the bin above the driver’s-side visor, he pulled out the portfolio of plastic page protectors, all filled with the various permits and licenses he’d had to acquire, and set it on the driver’s seat of the truck. Then, stopping at the small sink designated only for handwashing, he squirted liquid soap on both hands. He lathered up to his elbows, in between his fingers and on the top of his hands, rinsed, dried himself on a disposable towel and, donning a new pair of plastic gloves, returned to work.

Pretending he hadn’t passed by Tabitha’s backside twice in the process.

What was with him?

Having his mind wander while engaged in a successful project—that he understood. Seemed to be his life story. But to look at Tabitha and see... To look at her that way, it just wasn’t right.

And it wasn’t like him, either.

They were partners in grief. Helping each other out with “life quest” projects, as she called them. Things they had to do so they could get on with the rest of their lives.

They were each other’s shoulder to cry on, propping each other up when necessary.

But they were not sexual beings. They’d both sworn off it until their quests were done. Their friendship was a safe zone. Tabitha’s drive to find her missing two-year-old son took up whatever emotional and physical energy she had left after the duties of her days. And Johnny...he was honoring his dead wife. You didn’t do that by sleeping with another woman.

He didn’t kid himself into thinking he’d never be open to a relationship again. He was only thirty—and alive. Alex Brubaker, Johnny’s father, expected a grand-heir to the family dynasty; Johnny wanted to raise one. But the food truck had been Angel’s passion.

It was his way of making sense of the fact that she’d died so young—senselessly murdered in a robbery over a year ago. If the guy, who’d taken a plea deal to avoid life without parole, had just asked for her purse, for her ATM card, she’d have handed them over. Money hadn’t been that important to her.

Angel hadn’t wanted the food truck as a means of earning cash for herself. She’d planned to donate all the proceeds to charity. Just as Johnny was doing. She’d loved to cook for people. Had loved the idea of traveling around from place to place and being just another person on the beach, working hard like everyone else.

As the daughter of a wealthy oilman and a graduate of one of the country’s most elite culinary institutes, she’d been able to open her own five-star restaurant where she cooked elegant dinners for some of the country’s most powerful people. And she’d been in the limelight, on the food channels, being written up in gourmet magazines.

But her real dream had been the food truck. She’d died before it could happen. So, to honor Angel, Johnny was taking a year out of his life to do it for her.

Getting involved with another woman didn’t belong anywhere in that plan.

“Everything looks good.”

Johnny nodded, barely glancing up from his bowls as the skinny fortysomething inspector spoke from the back of the truck. He was pleased to have the inspector leave positive paperwork for the portfolio. And to see the line still snaking out from the truck. This was the first of four days he and Tabitha would spend here, an hour and a half south of their Mission Viejo homes, and they’d have to make enough this first day—Sunday—to compensate for the smaller crowds and shorter hours on the weekdays.

The truck, his mission, was important, but they’d parked it in San Diego specifically so Tabitha could check out yet another daycare. She was certain this time.

He was, too. Certain that she was setting herself up for one more disappointment. Her goal—finding her son—mattered more than any food truck. He wanted it for her way more than he wanted his own success. He was just finding it harder, after months on the road with her, to keep his hope up on her behalf. But he’d do his part. Help her by playing the “dad” in a couple checking out daycares for their daughter. Just as Tabitha was helping him with the truck. It was the deal they’d made.

That thought came with an involuntary glance in her direction. She was leaning over the counter to hand his most recent creation—a bowl with only rice, onions, meat and dressing—out the window, putting her butt right before his eyes...again. Her jeans had jewels on the pockets. He’d never noticed jewels on her pockets before. Must be new. And that had to be the reason he was suddenly liking a part of Tabitha he had no business noticing.

Yep, had to be the jewels.

Weak, at best, but the explanation was all he had, so he was going with it.

* * *

The Bouncing Ball Daycare was located on the ground floor of one of San Diego’s nicer professional buildings. There was nothing opulent or ostentatious about the place, but judging by the placards on the walls and the cars in the lot on a Monday morning, the various small businesses and law firms that occupied the space were successful. One company, Braden Property Management, took up the entire top floor, according to a sign out front.

Tabitha homed in on the immaculate green grass and colorful flower beds that greeted them as they approached. Went inside.

“Didn’t you say the daycare owner’s name is Mallory Harris?” Johnny asked.

Fighting the tremors that assailed her any time she thought she might be close to Jackson, Tabitha stood in front of the directory in the building’s lobby and tried to focus on Johnny’s words.

Something about the daycare owner. Her name. Mallory Harris.

“Yes,” she said, equally grateful for and bothered by his innocuous interruption. Suspecting he’d done it on purpose, to distract her from the emotions assailing her, she was mostly grateful.

That day almost nine months before, when Johnny Brubaker had moved into the tiny house next to hers a mile from the beach in Mission Viejo, had been the second-best day of her life. Following Jackson’s birth, which had been the best.

The absolute worst had been the day Jackson’s biological father had failed to return him to her...

Johnny had purchased the little house as step one in his attempt to bring his murdered wife’s dream to life. Angel had wanted to leave their elite, moneyed, always-in-the-spotlight life behind and live like a “normal” person.

Looking up into Johnny’s clear blue eyes calmed Tabitha unlike anything else. His easy acceptance of...everything somehow made life seem more manageable. “You ready?” she asked.

“Whenever you are.” His voice held the usual note of confidence, leaving her with the feeling that he’d stand there in front of the directory all day if she needed him to, no questions asked.

But she knew he’d need a break. Johnny wasn’t good about missing his meals—not that you’d ever be able to tell he had a voracious appetite by looking at him. All six feet of the man were rock solid.

He waited for her to lead the way. She’d chosen her outfit carefully—a flowing summer skirt, brightly colored with small flowers, a ribbed T-shirt to match and sandals. She’d chosen his, too, because he’d asked—casual dark shorts and a light green button-up shirt—also with sandals. Johnny’s real life, the one he’d be going back to when his sabbatical was over, required suits and ties.

But for running a food truck...not such a good idea. Early on in their friendship, he’d asked her to go with him to buy a more casual wardrobe.

She’d laughed out loud that day for the first time since Jackson had been stolen away from her.

“I think this is it.” Johnny spoke just behind her.

While the daycare took up a lot of the first floor, the door leading into it was one panel with a small window at the top. Nothing there to invite strangers into the midst of the children. And no windows through which she could look from the outside. She knew the place had windows, plenty of them. She’d pored over the establishment’s website. First, so she’d seem like a parent who really was interested in a place for her child. And second, so she’d be fully prepared for whatever she’d have to come up with to gain access to one particular child. Hers.

Legal access, of course. The police would help when she had something valid to bring them. Detective Bentley, her contact back home in Mission Viejo, had assured her that no matter how much time passed, he’d keep looking. He just needed something to go on.

“You have to turn that knob there for the door to open.” Johnny’s droll tone was completely lacking in the sarcasm his comment might have suggested. The steady kindness she’d come to associate with him was out in full force.

“I know,” she told him, afraid to turn around, afraid she’d be tempted to hide in the warmth of his gaze, put her head on his shoulder and cry. Because she was afraid that when she opened the door, the hope that had been keeping her going all week would be dashed.

And because... What if Jackson was behind that door and she’d finally, after over a year, hold her baby in her arms again?

It wouldn’t happen immediately. There’d be red tape. Still...her heart felt as though it might burst at the thought of seeing him and she consciously moved on, thinking of the nursery she’d changed into a bedroom for a toddler over the past year.

She’d done it with Johnny’s help, when he had the time and was alone in the evenings, too. She’d made wall hangings, a comforter and furry stuffed pillows in the shapes of animals.

She finally turned the knob, recalling the photo she’d found on Pinterest, the one that had started this particular quest. She looked on the internet every single day. Studied daycare pictures on many different internet sites—those that posted photos with parents’ permission. She searched social media sites, too. And any time she saw a child who even halfway resembled the age-progressed photo she had of Jackson, within the distance parameters she’d set, she and Johnny would plan an Angel’s Food Bowls trek to the area and visit daycares while they were there. All daycares on her list that also fit the parameters she’d figured Jackson’s father would choose, not just those with pictures.

Always on her days off from the hospital. Working three twelves had its advantages.

The police were looking for Jackson, of course. But their jurisdiction was only in Mission Viejo. He was also on the FBI’s list of missing children, but apparently no one had the staff to check out every single daycare in every city in California, searching for one missing boy—especially when said child was known to be with his father who’d never given indication of being dangerous. That unfortunate truth, that her case wasn’t top priority, had become obvious to her almost from the beginning.

Johnny had very generously insisted on paying for a private detective, who was in contact with the police and would follow up on any leads when the police had done what they could, but it wasn’t enough for her. She had to do all she could, too. Even if that meant systematically visiting daycare after daycare. Jackson needed her to be out there looking for him. Tuned in the way only a mother could be.

The room just inside the daycare door was painted in primary colors and held plastic chairs and big boxes for sitting on in the same colors. There were some books scattered about and a wire-and-bead maze toy on a little table. A small reception window was cut into the far wall. And, in the middle of that wall, was another heavy wooden door with a dead bolt.

A sign indicated that no one was allowed beyond that door other than certified employees and the children for whom they cared during business hours. For the safety of the children.

She and Johnny would have to return after hours if they wanted a tour. She’d already known that and they wanted a tour.

His hand on her elbow drew her attention, and he pointed to the window where a woman stood, smiling expectantly.

She’d opened the window.

“Ms. Jones?” The woman’s shoulder-length brown hair was trimmed stylishly around her slender face. Dressed in a brightly colored tie-dyed short-sleeved shirt, she could’ve been at a beach fashion shoot. Her name badge, complete with a dotted rendition of a bouncing ball, read Mallory.

The owner! Good.

“Yes.” Tabitha stepped forward. She’d called to say they were stopping by. To make sure it was okay. “This is Johnny,” she said, gesturing at the man beside her. She was there under false pretenses, but wasn’t going to out-and-out lie any more than she had to. And no more than an undercover officer or PI would have done to rescue a little boy from a man who had mental and emotional issues.

Clearly issues that went far, far beyond what she’d known or she’d never have let him take Jackson to visit his sick mother.

“I emailed you about looking at The Bouncing Ball as a possible spot for our daughter?”

She was the one who’d come up with the idea of making their imaginary child a little girl. She needed to do that to keep her emotional distance. Talking about a boy would’ve been much harder without revealing anything.

Forcing herself to look the woman in the eye, she left it to Johnny to see as much of the inside of the place as he could, not that there was much. According to The Bouncing Ball website, part of the allure was that the privately owned daycare facility took great measures to protect the security of their children. Which was why they’d have to take their tour after hours. But there could be pictures on the wall beyond the receptionist window, maybe. She’d have her chance to check it out, later, if all went well, but she had to do this right.

She had to be ready to see her son without giving herself away or she’d risk looking like an emotionally disturbed woman who might need a restraining order against her. Or something. Johnny had described all the legal pitfalls over and over as they’d started to discuss her desperate idea a month or so after they’d met.

“Yes. She’s two, right?” Mallory Harris asked with another smile and a nod as she left the window and came out through the door, handing Tabitha a packet of daycare information. Just a glance showed Tabitha the plethora of material she’d be poring over with Johnny, from permits to payment plans, application guidelines, company policies, schedules...everything. They’d be looking for anything that could help them catch a man who’d probably changed his name—and that of his child.

Through his work at the children’s hospital, Mark, Jackson’s father, would’ve known more about birth certificates than a lot of people. He’d had access to medical records. The police thought it most likely that he’d changed Jackson’s name and had a fake birth certificate made to support the change.

“Her name’s Chrissy,” Johnny supplied. They’d named their fake child after an old doll Tabitha had had as a kid; it had been her mother’s and it was a doll she still had. You could grow the doll’s hair by pushing a button on her belly—a seeming miracle to a very young Tabitha. It was also an effort to keep her mother, who’d been killed in a car accident when Tabitha was in college, a part of the search. Like having a very special angel working with them every step of the way.

“We’d love to take you up on your offer of a tour,” Tabitha said now. “We’re just stopping in to pick up the materials.” She raised the packet she held, afraid she was coming across as a nervous ninny. Jackson could be in this very building. Her precious baby boy...

Johnny’s hand lightly touching her spine brought her back to the present task—almost as though he’d known she was having a rougher time this go-round.

“We own a food truck,” he said. “We’re parked at Mission Beach and plan to close by seven. Would eight o’clock be okay?”

Jackson would be gone by then. But they could find out about any upcoming open houses or recitals or programs The Bouncing Ball might be hosting by checking out posters and signs and leading the conversation casually to that point.

“Eight would be fine. I’m usually here until then, anyway,” Mallory said in her easy, open manner. “I get twice the work done when I have the place to myself...”

Tabitha wondered about the woman’s family, how they felt about her working six days a week from morning until late at night—and then reminded herself that just because Mallory was there that morning didn’t mean she was in early every morning. Or even that she worked every day.

Tabitha was surprised by how much she liked Mallory on first meeting. And felt guilty for deceiving her.

It was because this woman might have—please, God—Jackson in her care, Tabitha told herself. Trembling from the inside out, she thanked Mallory Harris, tried to convey with her smile what she couldn’t say in words and silently begged Mallory to love her son until she could find a way to get him back.

Chapter Two

Thankful for the food truck that provided frenetic distraction and took a lot of physical and mental energy, Tabitha worked hard beside Johnny all day Monday, barely taking time to nibble on the contents of a bowl with everything. Sitting in the driver’s seat as she ate, she watched Johnny take orders and then make the bowls, joking with customers, talking to them from inside the truck as he worked, never missing a beat.

He was drop-dead gorgeous. She’d seen him shirtless on the beach. His baby blues and ready grin didn’t hurt, either.

Stepping sideways from the window to his prep board, he grabbed a knife that had cost as much as her monthly car payment and began chopping with expert precision.

You’d think he’d been born a chef rather than the only son of a prominent California family who’d groomed him from birth to take a top legal position within his father’s enormous holdings.

The way he played acoustic guitar on the beach, you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d been born to become an entertainer, too.

But Johnny loved to play and sing; he just had no passion for performing. No desire at all to enter the cutthroat world of the music business. No real need for fans or accolades, either.

No need for her accolades...not that she offered them.

A female voice ordered a veggie bowl with extra dressing. Johnny’s comment, something about the dressing, made the woman laugh.

Tabitha had grown to crave the laughter he brought to her life. Just as she’d grown to love putting on her light purple polo shirt with the Angel’s Food Bowls logo on it and climbing up into his food truck with him. She’d helped him create the logo. And choose the shirts.

His sabbatical was three-quarters through, which meant that in another three months he’d be leaving “normal” life to resume his place in the society of the elite. She had to shudder even thinking about it. To have people watching you all the time, to always be “on,” to have to go to extremes, like taking a sabbatical and buying a little house through a third party just to get enough anonymity to grieve... She didn’t envy him that.

But she could tell that he missed it all—the life he’d been born to. The way he talked about his parents, his uncle, his cousins. They were a close-knit family.

And that she envied.

She was going to miss him terribly when their time together came to an end...

“Eat up there, missy, line’s a-forming,” he said with a grin in her direction. She blinked. Realized she’d been staring at him. And accidentally toppled her half-filled rice bowl off her lap and onto the floor of the truck.

* * *

Never one to cry over spilled milk, as the saying went, Johnny didn’t give a rat’s ass about the dressing-smeared rice, veggie and meat mixture plastered on the floor near his seat in the hundred-thousand-dollar food truck. He cared that Tabitha was so far off her game he’d hardly recognized her that morning.

She’d been near tears when she’d thanked him for helping in her quest to find Jackson. Her hand had been shaking when she’d passed him a cup of coffee. She hadn’t caught several things he’d said to her, although they’d been in the truck together. And she’d messed up two orders.

A pediatric nurse had to be able to keep calm in the midst of horrible stress and, sometimes, unbelievable tragedy. This woman had lost her son and missed less than two weeks of work in the year since.

But that day, stress seemed to be getting the better of her.

Unable to give in to his instant desire to head to the front of the truck and help her clean up the mess, or do it for her, he continued to work the crowd. He prepared a bowl, took off his gloves to make change and then washed his hands, pulling on a fresh set of disposable gloves before preparing the next order.

Then she slid into place in front of the window to accept payment for his most recently completed concoction. That allowed him to keep on his prep gloves, but he couldn’t help contaminating them anyway, with a hand to her back. Letting her know she wasn’t alone.

* * *

“You okay to do this tonight?” The question burst from Johnny about a mile from the daycare just after dark fell that July evening. He’d been trying to figure out a subtler way to ask it for most of the afternoon.

“Of course!” Tabitha’s over-the-top enthusiasm—over-the-top for her—brought more concern rather than easing it. From the wheel of the little SUV he’d purchased to tow behind the food truck, he could only afford a quick glance in her direction. But it was enough to tell him, as if he didn’t already know, that this trip was different from all the rest.

And that it was taking a toll on her.

He just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it. His role seemed to be changing, but they hadn’t discussed that. He had no idea how it would change, what it would become. They were friends. They talked. Even cried a little.

But they each went home to their own privacy, to dispel the deepest stuff alone.

Their friendship had come with an end date before it had begun. They’d both understood that from the beginning. It was part of why they worked. Why they were able to provide each other with the opportunity they both needed for venting and sharing.

There was no judgment and there were no expectations, nothing to further complicate things. Because they both knew they were living in a time out of time. Both of them had other lives they’d return to as soon as their goals were achieved.

They were helping each other with plans they’d made before they met, not embarking on a life they’d built together.

She’d already collected a list of daycares within her chosen parameters before he’d moved in next to her and had just added to it as time passed—a few of those she’d found had posted pictures that bore a slight resemblance to Jackson. Many did not. All of her daycare searches were within a day’s journey by car. According to Tabitha, Mark was obsessive about his mother and wouldn’t stray too far from her grave. Over the past six months of working the food truck, Johnny had visited every daycare on Tabitha’s growing list. Starting in Mission Viejo and working outward.

Of course, the daycares that posted actual pictures of their kids were in the minority, and could only do so with parental permission. It wasn’t likely that a man who’d kidnapped his son would grant that permission. Still, looking on the internet every night, finding the occasional photo kept her going.

The Bouncing Ball daycare stood out from the rest because it had a client with a Pinterest board she’d created celebrating her own child. And, odd as it was to Johnny, some modern-day parents seemed to think it was cool to plaster pictures of their kids—and even their kids’ classmates and pals—all over their social media pages. He got it to a degree; friends and family could all share the special moments.

But so could strangers who preyed on postings like that.

And then there was Tabitha, searching daycare websites and pictures every night. She’d typed in “San Diego daycare” on Pinterest, and seen the picture the mother had posted, along with the name of her toddler’s daycare. The parent had probably thought she was doing a good thing, giving the daycare publicity.

Tabitha was completely convinced that the picture she’d seen, the one she’d printed and kept in her purse for at least four days, was of a two-year-old Jackson. Certain. Said she’d seen herself in the eyes gleaming up at the camera. He’d been grinning, along with half a dozen other kids.

“It might not be him.” His job was to support, not discourage. But she was in over her head on this one. He could feel it.

“It’s him.” His peripheral vision told Johnny she was watching him, but with the traffic, he couldn’t take his gaze off the road. Wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

“He looked healthy, Johnny. And happy, too...”

Was that why she’d fixated on that particular photo, that particular kid, when there’d been a dozen others during the months they’d been friends? Because the boy had struck her as being happy?

“I understand why now,” she continued, sounding like she was giving testimony at a church rather than conversing about her missing son. As if she was somehow seeing some kind of sign. Sacred. Unquestionable.

The whole thing was scaring the hell out of him. For her sake. And his, too, in that he had no idea what to do about any of it.

If she’d been Angel, he’d have asked the tough questions. He’d have pushed. And she’d have told him what was in her deepest heart. Together they’d have figured out a Plan B. Because there was always a chance that Plan A wouldn’t work out...

Tabitha’s Plan B had always been the next photo. The next daycare. She’d never before indicated that she’d found her end point.

“He’s happy because of Mallory Harris... She’s, I don’t know. I felt confident in her ability to not only watch over the children in her care, but to truly love them. That’s why Jackson looked so happy. He’s being loved.”

Tabitha had once told him she was sure she’d been born to be in the pediatric medical profession. She’d known, even as a young kid playing with her dolls, that she was going to grow up to help sick children.

They hadn’t been baring their souls or anything. The topic had come up when he’d been telling her about the reason for his sabbatical. About Angel’s passion to own and run her own food truck and his quest to live it for her, since she couldn’t. It was a way of preserving her dream, of honoring her life, far more than hanging onto the restaurant she’d owned and run. He’d sold that, used some of the money for the food truck start-up, and donated the rest.

He’d been expecting Tabitha’s reaction to it all to be more of the pat on the head his father had given him.

Instead, she’d understood completely. Hadn’t just encouraged him, but offered to help in any way she could. Because she had a passion of her own—her yearning to help children in need. Separate and apart from her own immediate and completely pressing determination to find her son.

Leaving him to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t seem to have been given that one talent, one thing, that ignited passion within him. Or maybe it was just the passion he lacked.

“And I think it means that Mark is loving him, too,” Tabitha’s words broke into his thoughts. “As long as Jackson is little, Mark will get what he needs from him,” she said as he rounded the last corner and could see the professional building ahead. “Right now, with Jackson completely dependent on him, the whole codependency thing works. But when Jackson starts to assert his own independence—which the terrible twos will certainly bring on...” Her voice drifted off and he was pretty sure she’d just shuddered.

Was that why she was suddenly changing, seeming almost desperate? Not because of this one photo, but because Jackson had turned two and she was getting scared? Worried about her son’s safety when he clashed wills against an emotionally unbalanced father?

“Kids learn about their world by challenging their boundaries,” she was saying as he pulled into the parking lot. “Of course, Mark’s never shown a single violent tendency to me or any of the others who knew him at the hospital. Or, at least, not that any of us ever heard of. There’s no reason to assume he’d physically hurt Jackson...but there’d been no reason to suspect he’d kidnap him, either...”

Which could be why the police weren’t finding them. Not only were there fewer resources being allocated on a case gone cold, but Mark wasn’t a man who raised any alarms, or drew attention. Johnny parked at the daycare but left the engine running. Tabitha’s son’s father had been a nuclear medicine technician at the children’s hospital where she worked. He’d been wonderful with the kids, she’d told him months ago. The guy had quit shortly after Tabitha had broken up with him. His ailing mother had needed full-time care.

He’d still lived with her, apparently, although Tabitha hadn’t actually known that until after their breakup.

Those golden eyes with the flecks of green turned on him and Johnny had to draw a long breath. “What’s Mark going to do when Jackson challenges their mutual dependency? When Jackson wants independence?” she asked, meeting his gaze head-on. “Taking Jackson makes Mark a criminal, but it doesn’t make him violent,” he said, drawing on case studies from law school. “A man who made his living helping sick children... I assume he’d have to have a decent bedside manner to keep his job.”

She nodded and he continued. “And a guy who nursed his mother so she could die with dignity as she wanted to, at home...”

Tabitha had given him those details months ago. Thankfully he’d remembered enough to be able to repeat them back to her now, when she needed to hear them.

She nodded again. “You’re right. He’s gentle and nurturing...” She grabbed the handle of her door.

She was ready to go in. His job was done. For another few minutes, at least.

* * *

The Bouncing Ball could have been any number of other daycares she and Johnny had toured over the past six months in various southern California cities. Still wearing the jeans and matching purple polo shirts they’d worn all day on the truck, they’d seen the two rooms designated for two-year-olds. They also saw a larger three-year-olds’ room, for next year when “Chrissy” was ready to move up. They’d toured the walled-in outdoor playground, accessible only from inside the daycare and outfitted with top-rated equipment, including swings and slides geared for younger children. The lunchroom, was furnished with plastic tables and chairs suited to toddlers.

They’d seen a multipurpose room, complete with a small stage, and heard the sound equipment in use. They’d even been invited to take turns at the musical instruments in a soundproof room intended for early music lessons. While the orchestral instruments were only used by instructors, there was a keyboard, a drum set and a plastic guitar with real strings made for little fingers. And there were various other noisemakers, from maracas to bells and tambourines, that the kids could use with supervision.

From room to room, as she saw the high-quality accommodations, Tabitha couldn’t help gushing about how much “Chrissy” would love it there, how happy she, herself, would be as a parent to know that her child was spending her time away from home in such a safe and nurturing place.

Inside she was shaking—with relief, gratitude and fear—as she looked at the surroundings she was certain had housed her baby boy for the past year. Picturing Jackson there, believing that he’d been in this wonderful place, believing that Mark had at least found the best care for their son, brought the relief. The gratitude. Seeing what she supposed her son must have seen for the past year kept her tears close to the surface.

And the thought of being there, possibly tipping Mark off that he was soon to be caught, struck fear in her.

Twice she’d been on the verge of exposing too much of the emotion raging insider her, and both times she’d felt Johnny’s hand on the small of her back. Both times he happened to ask Mallory Harris a question pertinent to their tour. Both times she was grateful he was there.

And grateful that they’d be going back to their hotel together that night, to share a glass of wine in the living area of the suite Johnny always insisted on getting for them, before parting to go to their separate rooms. As with all the other tours, he’d sit with her, discuss what they’d seen and heard. He’d ask if she’d felt anything, if her mother’s instinct had alerted her to anything. And he’d be supportive. Helping her maintain hope. He was giving her wonderful memories in the midst of the absolute worst time of her life.

No matter how much she’d been craning to look for any sign of Jackson, she saw nothing that night.

Nor had Mallory said anything to indicate that something could be amiss. They had questions they asked on every tour. Carefully worded questions about steps daycare personnel take if they ever see or suspect foul play. How they handle bullying. And how they help children without siblings join in group play. Things that could indicate if they’d had any recent suspicions or experience with foul play, or a toddler with no siblings.

“And over here—” they were finishing the tour with a miniature gymnasium, really only the size of a big bedroom, but complete with gym floor and miniature basketball hoops “—are our trophies,” Mallory said, taking them to a plexiglass-enclosed case that resembled something you might see outside a high school auditorium. Johnny moved forward; she knew he was something of a sports buff who’d played varsity baseball and basketball in high school.

Tabitha came up behind him to peer over his shoulder. Simply to be polite, not because she had an extra brain cell to allot to sports awards. She glanced at them, her mind on how to finagle a way to see Jackson. For the first time ever, she’d felt something when they’d walked in. Maybe if they enrolled “Chrissy” they could get a roster of the parents of the other two-year-olds for carpooling or fund-raising activities. Not that a roster would give her Jackson, since Mark had obviously changed their names or the police would already have found them. But she could see if there were any two-year-old boys who had only a father listed.

A little face had been staring back at her from a photo on one side of the case as her mind wandered...and then Tabitha was grabbing Johnny’s shoulders, leaning against his back, thinking she might actually be going down.

He turned, his arm sliding around her, and although she was still leaning heavily on him, the dizziness passed as quickly as it had come.

“That photo of the kids who were on the winning team in the Easter egg hunt...”

“As I said, we find ways to get everyone into the showcase,” Mallory said. “We have to be a bit creative with the littles, but at The Bouncing Ball, every single one of our children is a winner.”

Mallory’s voice faded in and out. Tabitha didn’t turn around, didn’t look at the photo again. Didn’t need to. She had a cropped copy of it in the purse she’d left in the car. It was the photo the mother had posted on the internet of her little girl at school this Easter.

“...not everyone wins all the time,” Mallory Harris was saying. “And there are some who think that teaching kids that everyone’s a winner is not preparing them for real life. But I believe that every single person on earth has the potential to win at something, whether it’s at being a parent or being good in a sport, at a job, good at cooking or growing flowers. Or good at smiling and making others feel happy. We all have something special to offer the world, and I like to think that after spending their first four years with us, our kids are better prepared to look for whatever that something special is—in themselves and others.”

Tabitha was nodding vigorously. She could feel tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. Jackson’s team had won an Easter egg hunt. The picture on the internet had just shown the top halves of the children’s bodies, not the entire scene out in the daycare yard.

“That little boy in the front of the photo... He’s holding the basket...”

“Jason, yes. He was the team captain and got to carry the basket,” Mallory was saying. She didn’t give a last name. Didn’t reveal any information. But...

Jason. Close to the Jackson the one-year-old had known as his name. Jason. Now they had a name to offer the police in Mission Viejo, who would get in touch with the San Diego department. She’d learned how it would work if she ever got any information regarding her son’s case. Not that she’d told anyone besides Johnny and the investigator he’d hired what she was doing.

The FBI had been called in when Jackson first went missing; they had a special team that had been particularly helpful during the critical first hours—but local police had also stayed involved.

Jackson was still on file as a missing person, but law enforcement had seen many other cases come and go since his disappearance. There was only so much they could do without more to go on. There’d been virtually no new leads.

Until she’d found one.

Jason.

“His parents must’ve been really proud of him,” she said, still leaning on Johnny although most of her strength had returned, for the moment, anyway, as she addressed the other woman.

“His dad was,” Mallory said casually as she led them back to the daycare’s entry. “Jason’s mom passed away, died of liver disease a year after his birth.”

Jason’s dad had been a single father for the past year. Jackson had been stolen away from her by his father a year ago. Jason’s mother had supposedly died a year after his birth. Jackson had been stolen from her a year after his birth.

Johnny held her up. They were at the door and she couldn’t make her feet move to get her out of there. Jason’s supposed mother had died of liver disease the year before. Mark’s mother had died of liver disease a year ago. It was something he’d be able to talk about in detail, having nursed her to the end of her life. That would have given credibility to his lies.

Jason was Jackson. She’d known. She’d hoped she was right. She’d thought she was.

Now she knew she’d known.

After twelve long, excruciating months, she’d found her son.

Chapter Three

Johnny understood life, particularly his role in it. He worked hard enough to be the best at whatever he did. He took satisfaction from that. He did what was expected of him, expected by himself and others. He went with the flow.

Strong urges, other than the normal sexual ones a guy got, didn’t play a significant role in his life. He wasn’t driven. Had no great passion. He was a mind guy all the way.

Which was why that Monday night in July, the evening of his daycare visit with Tabitha, would remain with him forever. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t walk away from her—the steps it would take to get him to his room in their suite. His mind told him to leave. Something unfamiliar held him rooted to the spot.

“Go have your shower,” he told her. “I’ll order some dinner and open a bottle of wine.” They’d picked up a couple of bottles down by the beach the evening before from a shop selling local wines. They’d bought a limited-production white that had won an award at San Diego’s Toast of the Coast Wine Competition.

They’d talked about having a glass. He’d been thinking about it on and off all day. A glass of wine with Tabitha. But she’d been quiet on the ride back from the daycare. The kind of quiet that meant she needed some time alone. Some space.

Usually they talked after a visit, but when she got quiet like that, he was supposed to leave her alone in her world, knowing she’d be back when she was ready.

He was supposed to go to his room.

That was their way, and it had been established from the very beginning—by deed more than conversation—and neither of them had ever deviated from it.

So what the hell was he doing? More crucially, why?

It wasn’t the first time she’d thought she found her son. He was quite certain it wouldn’t be the last. He only wished he was as certain that she would find the child someday. And that this boy, Jason, was her Jackson...

He’d rinsed off quickly, dressed in a newish pair of tan shorts and a black polo shirt, and was pouring the wine by the time Tabitha’s bedroom door opened. He hadn’t been sure she’d come back out.

She’d put on the tie-dyed, spaghetti-strap, calf-length sun dress she wore at home a lot on her days off. It had reds and browns in it, offset by gold. The casual red Italian sandals she wore with it struck him as odd, since they weren’t going anywhere. He was barefoot. Just as he always was around the house these days.

He kept looking at the curves of her calves, finding them erotically attractive—calves. Tabitha’s calves.

One look at her face, though, and erotic thoughts fled. This was Tabitha. And the unfamiliar light in her eyes, as though she was bursting with secrets and ready to fly off her rocker in some kind of desperation, or so his imagination told him, called to him in an entirely different way.

He handed her a glass of wine. Held his up and waited for her to tip hers to it, as they always did.

“To our goals,” he said. She clinked her glass against his, but didn’t repeat the toast. She sipped instead. Then she curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked into that cute butt.

He sat on the other end of the couch, glass in hand.

“It’s him, Johnny.”

She sounded...different then she had before. The whole desperation thing?

Again, what did he do with that!? His job was to encourage her, to keep her spirits up so they didn’t pull her permanently under. To let her know she wasn’t alone.

And to be Chrissy’s dad sometimes.

Hers was to help him make a success of Angel’s food truck.

He had another three months of sabbatical. There was no reason for her to panic, yet. To think her time was running out.

“A lot can happen in three months,” he said.

Her nod was a relief. Until she said, “We need a plan, though. Time’s not the issue. Neither is the truck, since we’re doing better than either of us imagined and sold more here in one day than we have anywhere else. We can come down every week on my days off. It’ll save having to get permits in other counties, finding new spots... You’ll be able to build a real following.”

The food truck was his last concern at the moment. But he liked the practical way her mind was working, so he nodded. “Fine with me.”

Her smile warmed him as he took his next sip, and he told himself it was really the wine that had affected him. But he wasn’t exactly buying the explanation. Two days in a row now, he’d been getting the hots for Tabitha.

Stranger things had happened than a perfectly healthy guy being attracted to an absolutely gorgeous woman. Except that he’d been traveling with her, living next door to her, sharing dinners and suites with her, for months without thinking about taking her to bed.

“We need a plan,” she said again, her expression needy, confident and expectant all at the same time.

A plan for sleeping together and remaining friends until their exit date? He’d set aside a year of his life to honor Angel. He couldn’t sleep with another woman.

Trashing his first “plan” thought, he took a moment to come up with another.

Tabitha had been different ever since she’d seen that online picture of the boy at The Bouncing Ball the previous week. She’d run over to his house, coming in without knocking—which they did when they were expecting each other. But this time there’d been no warning. He could’ve been standing in the kitchen naked instead of in his pajama bottoms...

He might have said something, too, if he hadn’t noticed the tears in her eyes, the trembling of her hands as she held out the picture she’d just printed.

Yeah, she’d been different ever since.

And so had he.

This whole thing of his...it was her fault. Her barging in on him in his pajamas.

“What kind of plan?” he finally asked when nothing useful was forthcoming.

“Detective Bentley won’t be able to compel a DNA test based on what we’ve got. We need to find a way to get more. Alistair can follow up on the name Jason, but without a last name...”

Alistair Montgomery was the PI Johnny had hired. The guy was willing to do whatever Johnny asked as long as he got paid for it. But following up on a common first name? In San Diego?

Not liking where this was going, he felt everything slow down as he watched her. “What exactly have we got?”

“Jason—Jackson. Single dad. A year. Liver disease. A picture that matches the age-progression photo.”

She listed everything as though going over facts that were a given, as though hoping they’d see what might be missing. He wondered how long it would be before she figured out he was missing from this collection of hers. Or rather, his buy-in... The picture might closely resemble the age-progression, but he wouldn’t call it a match.

“Liver disease?”

“Mark’s mother died of it,” she said, and he remembered her having told him that. After he’d first met her and she’d been telling him her story. That last visit, Mark’s mother had just died, but she hadn’t known that when she dropped Jackson off at the home Mark shared with his mother. They passed off in the driveway...

He nodded. “That’s right...” He drew the word out, as if he was getting it now, while frantically trying to figure out how to support her, be a friend, encourage her, without lying.

“So, any ideas?”

He wanted to empty his glass in one long gulp. He held on to it, instead, saying nothing.

“Come on, Johnny, you’re always the one with the plans. What can we do, legally? What rights do I have?”

She was serious. Stone-cold, go-to-your-grave serious.

Brain in full gear, he ran the facts through his mind. A little boy, Jason. A missing one, the same age, with a similar name, Jackson. One appearing in San Diego about the time the other disappeared from Mission Viejo. Single dads. A mother and a wife dying from the same disease at the same time.

It was enough to give false hope to a desperate woman—he could see that. But it was circumstantial at best. And not even enough of that to compel law enforcement to do anything.

“I admit that there are similarities.” He started slowly. He couldn’t dash her hopes. Not because of any role he was playing in her life, but because...he just couldn’t. This was Tabitha. And he couldn’t do that to her. Even with cause.

“It’s him, Johnny, I’m sure of it.”

He wanted to believe her in the worst way.

Tried. But couldn’t.

Still, what did he know about mother’s instinct and such? Or any pull from the gut that was nonsexual in nature?

He loved his folks. Had loved Angel, too, although his feelings for her had been more of a warm fondness than any great passion. They’d grown up in the same circle. They’d probably gravitated to each other because they were the only ones in their group of rich kids at their private school who hadn’t had siblings. Or divorced parents. Or both. Their parents had always thrown them together, wanting them to marry. She’d made no secret of the fact that she was deeply in love with him. And he’d truly loved her, although he just didn’t seem to be the type of guy who got passionate about anything.

Hence, his quest to see Angel’s passion through.

In any case, he’d loved her. Still loved her. But his feelings were just...there.

There wasn’t the kind of bone-deep need in them that Tabitha clearly felt for her son. He’d never felt that way about anyone, in any situation. He’d probably understand it better when he had a child of his own, but until then...

“We have to figure out a way to get DNA samples,” Tabitha was saying, sipping wine with more passion than usual.

“Unless Jason’s father gives consent, you’d need a warrant,” he stated the legal facts. And if Jason’s father was Tabitha’s Mark, the chances of him giving consent were nil.

But...what would it hurt to help her try to get the sample? Let the science tell her the boy wasn’t hers?

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. They’d buy some time. He’d be able to help her one hundred percent. And someone else could be the bearer of bad news—at which point, she’d still have his support and they’d keep looking.

“Do you think we should ask to speak with Jason’s father, then? That we should just ask Mark, or whatever he’s calling himself these days, to prove that Jason isn’t Jackson?”

He didn’t immediately respond to her question. If he went along with this, helped her as though he believed, maybe he could prepare her for the possibility that the test, once they found a way to compel it, could come back negative.

Yes. He liked this idea. It was a good one.

With that thought, he drank some of his wine. He could delve into the legal problem at hand. Be a partner to Tabitha again.

“That’s not a good idea,” he finally replied. “We don’t want to force his hand and have him run off again.”

“I know. But now that we’ve found him, maybe if we just confront him...”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Do you think he’s going to give up his son at this point and let himself be carted off to jail?”

She held his gaze for a moment. Long enough to make him feel good all over. To forget, for just a second, what they were doing there. And then she said, “No, of course not.”

He nodded. “So we need to keep being Chrissy’s parents, keep our undercover identities, and see if there’s any more we can find out. We need something compelling enough that when we go to the police, they can do more than just question Mark...which would only tell him it’s time to run again—which is why I think we need to stay physically away from the daycare. If that boy is Jackson, you don’t want Mark to come walking in and find you there. What we need is to somehow get enough of a lead to help Alistair. A last name would be a great place to start. He could look into this Jason’s father.”

She nodded, then took a sip of her own wine. In his opinion, the wine was excellent. She seemed to think so, too. He stood up to get the bottle to top off both their glasses.

“You don’t think we should go to the police yet? Call Detective Bentley? Or have someone here in San Diego at least do a wellness check on Jason?”

Her pleading glance made him sit closer to her as he shook his head and rejoined her on the couch.

“First of all, Mallory—whom you obviously trust—didn’t give the slightest hint that there’s anything wrong. Unless there’s some reason to suspect something’s wrong, more than we currently have on Jason, they won’t be able to do any more than tell him someone asked for a wellness check. They’d more than likely see that he’s well.”

“Couldn’t we have them ask him for a DNA sample, just to settle this?”

“If they’d even agree to do that, which is highly unlikely with only circumstantial evidence, I can almost guarantee you his answer would be an unequivocal no. And then, if it is Mark, he’ll definitely be tipped off.”

“Wouldn’t that be like an admission of guilt?”

“You’d think so, but no. People guard their privacy, especially these days. But what it could do is make Mark nervous...”

“...and that we don’t want. Not while he still has Jackson. Not only because he could run again, but because we have no idea if...”

The stark fear in her gaze burned a hole so deep in him, he felt places he hadn’t known existed. “You’ve said all along that he’s gentle and kind. Patient. Great with kids,” he quickly reminded her. He didn’t know whether a man who was unhinged enough to kidnap his son because his own mother had died would be capable of hurting the boy. He just knew that Tabitha’s clutching that fear served no good purpose.

“He is.” She nodded once again, her smile filled with the kind of thanks a man wanted to hold on to.

He wanted to hold on to her. To pull her into his arms and keep her there. For a little while, anyway. Then he’d let her go. Before violating their friendship, making things messy, which would lead to an earlier end to their relationship than planned.

He didn’t want that.

Tabitha wasn’t anything like the other women in his world—and had absolutely no interest in becoming one of them—a woman who lived in the society he’d been born to. And he couldn’t see himself as anyone other than Johnny Brubaker, top legal counsel for his father’s holdings until the old man retired, if he ever retired, at which point the holdings would belong to Johnny. It had all been loosely mapped out before his birth.

“I think what we need to do first is fill out that application and see if we can get Chrissy enrolled at The Bouncing Ball.” Legal pitfalls bounced all around him. Over him.

“Don’t we need a two-year-old girl to do that?”

“She’s not the one who’ll be looked at. We will be.” He’d already perused the application. It was general stuff. Their jobs. Addresses. “We can use your home address and then the address of the commissary I rented here for the week...” Food truck laws in California required a street address for the business, one that passed health code regulations for storing and preparing food, and included a place where the truck could be parked. “I’ll rent it for the rest of the month. We can explain that we’re moving here and that Chrissy’s at home with...my mother.”

For the first time that day, Tabitha’s features relaxed. She looked like herself. Because they had a plan.

He thought about his mother...and Tabitha...and started to squirm inside again.

Tabitha knew his family had money, that he and Angel had gone to private school with limousine transportation to and from. She knew he’d been legal counsel for his father’s business. She didn’t know how rich they were and that he’d been groomed to be lead counsel for a team of about twenty. And his parents had no idea how or where he was currently living. There was no way he was inviting them to the little place he’d bought. They’d worry about him more than they already were. They’d agreed to give him his year to grieve Angel, to leave him alone as long as he called regularly.

And he couldn’t very well just show up at the mansion with Tabitha, unless he gave her some kind of heads-up.

It wasn’t like his family owned a business that she could just look up on the internet and learn all about them. More like, his father invested in many diverse interests, from patents to oil rigs, but only with his own capital. He wasn’t an investor for others. Sometimes he invested in failing companies and brought them around. It was always about the next challenge to him. Just as it had been for his father before him.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Johnny,” she said, “But if you need me to wash your clothes for you for the rest of your sabbatical, I’m game.” Her grin was like a hundred others she’d given him over the months and the world righted itself.

Then he caught a glimpse of a random drop of moisture on her top lip. He couldn’t look away. And knew he’d pay a high price for what that minute drop of wine made him want to do.

Chapter Four

Tabitha stared at Johnny’s bare feet. He had nice feet. Toes aligned. Tanned. Nothing knobby about them. Good enough to be a foot model, if he’d been so inclined. She’d told him so once.

He’d quirked his eyebrow at her and continued whatever conversation they’d been having at the time.

“Did you go barefoot a lot growing up?” she asked now, still thinking about him saying they’d say that “Chrissy” was with his mother as they sat together on the couch in their suite sipping wine. She understood why she hadn’t met his family, but that didn’t mean she didn’t wonder about them.

Other than this year away, his entire life revolved around them. He worked for the family. Had married his parents’ best friends’ daughter. Lived close enough to them that he’d made it to his own bed with his own two feet after getting blistering drunk in his father’s den, with his father, on the night of his wife’s funeral. He had more aunts, uncles and cousins than she had acquaintances. And he was an only child.

She didn’t know that man. But as their time together grew shorter, she wanted to know him. Felt she needed to know him.

She was ready to recover her son. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to lose the friend she’d found in Johnny. Wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for that.

And yet she realized she had to be. She was a loner. Other than her small circle, anonymity was her comfort.

He hadn’t answered her question. He was watching her, though. Probably wondering why she was talking about feet when they’d been discussing their plan to get Jackson back.

“I like it that you go barefoot,” she told him, needing to have a moment of non-Jackson conversation. To breathe. “You’re so...smart. And together. It’s not surprising that everything you touch turns to gold. You have life so figured out, it actually works the way it’s supposed to—well other than Angel, of course...” She paused, and then added, “But your whole life has been a plan...and yet your feet...they’re free. You’ve got things together enough to leave room for freedom.”

If there’d ever been babbling, that was it. Award-winning wine was potent.

“I’d never gone barefoot in my life, other than at the beach, the pool or in the shower, until I moved next door to you.”

Wait. Was he saying he was barefoot because of something she’d done? That she’d released something inside him?

Impossible! But...maybe?

The way he was looking at her...he seemed to need her to understand something important. And she wanted to. For months she’d been wanting to. Their time together was going to be gone soon and she didn’t know him well enough.

Didn’t know what he felt when he got all quiet on her.

Didn’t know how he really felt about her. Other than as the other participant in their time out of real life to reach their goals.

“It started with your sabbatical?” she asked. “Going barefoot, I mean.”

“The carpet in the house is white,” he reminded her.

Cream-colored, but...yes. And the soles of his shoes would mark it in a day. So practical. So...Johnny. Maybe she knew him better than she thought.

“So our plan is to put in an application at The Bouncing Ball to gain access to more information in the hope of finding something that will link Jason and his father to Mark and Jackson?” she asked, her mind back on track. “We can enroll over the internet, so we don’t have to go back where Mark might see us, and maybe get a parent list? At the very least we need Jason’s last name.”

They needed to stay on track. It was just so hard, being alone in the world except for her coworkers, who’d once been closer friends than they were now. She’d shut them out to focus fully on her search for Jackson. Losing her son made her feel so powerless. So helpless.

“That’s the plan,” Johnny said, willing, as always, to let go of any moment that might verge on discomfort.

With her, anyway. In his real life he was a high-powered corporate attorney.

A man she didn’t know.

Setting down her glass of wine, Tabitha thanked him for being the best friend she’d ever had and said good-night.

She wanted to stay. To ask him tough questions. Real questions. To touch his heart, let him know how much he’d touched hers.

To ask if there was any way he’d be willing to consider a longer-term agreement.

His easy smile followed her across the room as he lifted the bottle they’d been sharing and poured himself a little more wine.

With the half wave that was her usual “see ya,” Tabitha closed her bedroom door, buried her face in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

In fresh jeans and a clean purple Angel shirt, Tabitha brought along a fresh state of mind as she worked beside Johnny the next morning in the prep kitchen he’d rented for the next month.

He grilled the pork and steak while she seasoned and cooked all the beans. Everything would be refrigerated, then reheated as needed throughout the day.

“I don’t think we should cut back on the beans,” she told him. “We almost ran out yesterday.” Their weekly plan—a spreadsheet he always provided that was taped to a cupboard between them—indicated one gallon can less of each. He’d based that on foot traffic research he’d done on the beach area, which he’d averaged for Tuesdays.

What she wanted to tell him was that she had an idea for a new plan. She’d thought she’d do it on the drive over that morning, but he’d been hell-bent on a particular cup of coffee from a particular place—his favorite—and she’d figured he deserved a morning when coffee was the most important thing on his mind.

Lord knew, between the two of them and their individual needs, those kinds of mornings were few. At least, when they were together. What he did when they weren’t working she couldn’t say.

Because she didn’t ask.

“We should still cut back,” he said. He stopped what he was doing to send her a warm smile, as if to soften the blow of his refusal to accept her opinion on the needed quantity of beans. Johnny almost never paused when he was chopping. Especially beef. Seeming to remember that, he glanced at the knife in his hand and returned his attention to the board on the counter in front of him. “It’s Tuesday,” he said, by way of explanation.

In the six months they’d been actually out food trucking, as opposed to getting things set up, he’d run out of food exactly twice. So she went along with one fewer can of beans.

“I think instead of applying for Chrissy, we should tell Mallory Harris the truth.” That wasn’t quite how she’d planned to present her idea, but there it was.

She didn’t look at Johnny as she added the bag of his premixed spices to the pan of black beans, adjusting the heat underneath them as she stirred. She listened to him chop, thankful for the even, rhythmic beat of blade against board.

“You’re the one who always wants to do things on the up-and-up, to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. And finally having found Jackson, I don’t want to do anything that might make me seem less than...”

She barely registered his lack of chopping before she felt his hands on her arms. “It’s okay, Tabitha.” His easy tone settled the tension building inside her while his hands distracted her from the reason for that tension.

Johnny’s touch...it always did that to her. Distracted her. And reassured her.

“You don’t have to sound so defensive or feel like you need to convince me. Finding Jackson—how we do it, that’s your call.”

It was part of their agreement. He called the food truck shots. She called her own.

And suddenly she didn’t want to. Not without his input. Not now that they’d found Jackson. Her son was so close, yet not really within her reach.

“I want to tell her,” she said again. “She seems to truly care. The way she talked about her hours, working late at night after everyone leaves, and if she’s there during the day, which by what she said she is... I get the feeling that The Bouncing Ball is way more than a business to her.”

“Again, I’m not arguing.” He’d moved back to his board but wasn’t chopping. They had a prep time limit, one he was going to miss if he didn’t get going. Which could mean they’d lose their prime parking spot.

“I think she’ll help us,” Tabitha said, a spoon in each hand as she stirred both pans of beans. It had only taken her a week to get her prep responsibilities down to a science. When she glanced at him, he quickly looked from her to his board.

He’d been watching her.

“What?” she asked, watching him now. Stirring beans didn’t require constant vigilance like wielding the knife did.

He shrugged and she suddenly wondered what those shoulders looked like in a suit coat. Probably not as good as they did in the tight-fitting polo shirt. They’d be as strong, though. As supportive.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Please. I’m asking because I need to know.” About Jackson. And the next move in her quest.

“Mallory’s first loyalty will likely be to Jason’s father. She clearly had sympathy for him and appears to hold him in high regard.”

“You’re basing that on what?” she asked. The side of his clean-shaven face told her very little, except that he wasn’t smiling.

“The warmth in her voice as she mentioned him, for one.”

“You think she has a thing for him?” She hadn’t gotten that impression at all.

“No. She just seemed...fond of them as clients and might try to protect them.”

“You think she’ll tell him?”

“I think it’s a possibility you should consider.”

“And by the time I convince her I’m right, Mark will be gone...with Jackson.”

She knew what his shrug meant that time.

“I see the risk, I just wish we could tell her.” She turned back to the beans.

“Then let’s find something convincing enough to allow us to do that.”

Tabitha’s heart gave a lurch at the supportive tone in his voice. She looked at him, needing him more than ever. Needing him to know that.

And to need her, too.

He was busy chopping meat.

* * *

Like Tabitha, Johnny didn’t feel good about putting in Chrissy’s application. Tabitha had spent her fifteen-minute break going over the forms she’d filled out sometime between leaving him the night before and them leaving that morning because they’d been waiting for her down at the front desk where she’d emailed them for printing. Forms she’d filled out, even though she’d wanted to forego the Chrissy route and tell Mallory Harris the truth.

Hoping to enlist the daycare owner’s help.

Ethically and legally, helping them out could be a disaster for the Harris woman. Unless she had a lawyer watching her every move, protecting her against misadventure.

Tabitha reached above his head for a package of napkins early Tuesday evening, putting her breasts directly in his line of vision. Close enough that if he leaned forward and moved to the side, he could touch one with his lips.

Instantly engorged, Johnny moved, all right, directly forward, tucking the bulging evidence of his inappropriate erection under the prep board.

What the hell! She’d been reaching for napkins for months. In the same purple shirts.

So what was this about? Boredom with the task at hand? He’d never been passionate about the food truck business, but he’d been determined to see Angel’s dream through to fruition. He owed her that.

“I think we should hold off on Chrissy’s application,” he blurted, spraying and wiping the prep board. Tabitha, now back at the closed serving window, filled the napkin dispenser she’d set on the ledge for when they opened the next day.

He’d been reviewing her idea to tell Mallory Harris the truth and actually given it serious consideration. The kind he’d give if he was at work, doing the job he’d been trained to do.

A distraction from getting the hots for his life-quest partner?

For whatever reason, this time, this place, this daycare, seemed different from all the rest. Tabitha felt strongly enough about engaging the Harris woman’s help, being honest with her from the beginning, that she’d asked him for advice. Thoughtful, professional advice.

He really wanted to provide it.

A pile of napkins in hand, she held them above the open dispenser, watching him.

“What?” he asked. The concern creasing her brow, shadowing those golden-green eyes, struck his gut.

“You don’t want to apply with me?”

Had he said that? And why did kissing those lips seem like such a good move at the moment? It was wrong.

All wrong.

Pulling himself back to their current conversation, he said, “I think I’ve come up with a way to tell Mallory Harris the truth.”

Her brow cleared. Good.

“You think we can get her to help us rather than telling Mark we’re here?”

He nodded.

You don’t want to apply with me?

He hadn’t skipped past those words as easily as she had.

Finished with the napkins, she closed the dispenser and turned to him, eyes wide open. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”

You don’t want to apply with me?

“Why would you think I don’t want to apply with you?”

A direct, personal question. She should turn away. Or he should. She held his gaze. So he held hers, too. Waiting to see what would happen.

“It’s...a step we’ve never had to take before,” she said, her voice more hesitant than he was used to. Did the fact that he liked hearing more than her surface tone make him some kind of jerk?

“But it’s always been part of the plan,” he started. What had changed? Was he sending out bad vibes? Did she somehow sense that he was lusting after her, all of a sudden?

“Talking and doing are different sometimes,” she said, giving him her full attention. It would be rude of him to spray and wipe.

“We’re putting lies down on paper,” she continued. “And I know how you are about paper trails. If it’s written down, you want it to be accurate enough to stand up in court.”

He couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face, feeling like he’d dodged a bullet.

“The application itself wouldn’t get us into trouble,” he told her. “Presenting an actual child under false pretenses, or taking part in daycare activities with other children under false pretenses, that could do it. But the information we put down here, on this initial application, isn’t about our imaginary Chrissy. It’s about us, and as far as it goes, it’s accurate. It says we run a food truck. We do. It gives the kitchen as a contact address, for the next month, it is. It doesn’t say you’re not a nurse, or I’m not a lawyer, it just doesn’t say we are. And, for now, this week, we’re a couple. We don’t put on here that we’re married. Your reference, your friend at the hospital, is legitimate, and my reference is, too.”

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