Dear Reader,

Like my heroine—Hannah Ross—I’m a city girl, but I grew up in a small town that was like Timber Bay, Michigan, the fictitious setting for Finding Mr. Perfect. As I’ve changed over the years, so has my hometown. For instance, the drugstore, with its funky lunch counter, is now a sub-sandwich shop, but the glittering white band shell still graces the park on the bay and the library, where I spent so many hours as a kid, still stands. As does the opera house, sadly with no irreverent local hottie like Danny Walker to restore it—yet. And the tunnel that runs beneath the streets really does exist. Was it ever known as the Tunnel of Love? Hmm, maybe not. But as modern, practical Hannah finds out, a girl has got to believe in something.

I hope you enjoy spending the Fourth of July in Timber Bay with Danny and Hannah, and please come back soon to find out what happens when another big-city girl invades Timber Bay—and the heart of Danny’s best friend, Lukas McCoy.

Best wishes,

Nikki Rivers

“I do not hawk cereal,” insisted Hannah

“I am a research sociologist, working as an independent consultant.” It wasn’t her style to sound so haughty, but Danny Walker brought it out in her.

“What’s a consultant?” Uncle Tuffy asked.

Danny replied before Hannah could open her mouth. “That’s what a person does when she can’t find a real job.”

Kate, Danny’s mother, looked up from her lunch plate. “Oh, you poor dear. Have you been out of work long?”

Hannah gave Danny a look she hoped would freeze his mouth shut. “I am not out of work, Kate. I feel very privileged to be with a company modern enough to hire a sociologist for this project. Your family was chosen, Mr. Walker, because they embody standards and values that Granny’s Grains wants to promote. This contest, I mean project, was conducted in the same manner a scientific study would be.”

Danny gave a short laugh. “Well then that explains it, Professor. I always knew these studies weren’t accurate because if you think you’re going to find normal around here, you’ve definitely taken another wrong turn!”

Finding Mr. Perfect
Nikki Rivers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nikki Rivers loves writing romantic comedy because she believes that laughter is just as necessary to life as love is. She also gets a kick out of creating quirky characters, having come from a long line of them herself. Nikki lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her very own Mr. Right. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at RiversWrites@aol.com.

Books by Nikki Rivers

HARLEQUIN DUETS

66—A Snowball’s Chance

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

550—Seducing Spencer

592—Daddy’s Little Matchmaker

664—Romancing Annie

723—Her Prince Charming

764—For Better, For Bachelor

To my editor, Kathryn Lye, for the encouragement and the laughs—and for always making me work harder. Many thanks for helping give birth to my babies.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

HANNAH ROSS HAD NEVER SEEN such a long table in all her life. At the head of its glassy expanse sat Randall Pollard, the jowly and robust CEO of Granny’s Grains Cereal, Inc. On one side sat the CFO, a thin fierce-looking man, and on the other the impeccably dressed, bored-looking brand-new head of the marketing department. Hannah, in a tailored pantsuit that had cost more than she could afford even though it was on clearance, had the other end of the table all to herself. Plenty of room. But under her new suit jacket she was sweating as though she was in the middle of a crowded elevator stuck between floors.

Pollard had been on his cell phone ever since they’d sat down in the fifth-floor boardroom of the home office on Chicago’s south side. The wait was making Hannah more nervous by the minute. She focused her attention on the banner behind Pollard’s head. Printed in a font that mimicked cross-stitch, on paper that tried to look gingham, was Granny’s Grains new slogan: Granny is bringing America’s families back to the breakfast table.

A good slogan, but definitely problematic, thought Hannah. Chiefly because it was just as faux as the cross-stitch and gingham. The last three business quarters had been so dismal that Granny was in real danger of losing her ruffled apron.

It had been decided that the company’s flagship product, Super Korny Krunchies, needed a new image. Unfortunately, the advertising firm that had been hired to provide it had determined that Granny’s squeaky-clean image was at fault. They were sure the numbers would improve considerably if the box was adorned with a girl barely into puberty wearing a push-up bra and a shrunken T-shirt. The ensuing ad campaign, pushed through when Pollard was in Europe tracking dead ancestors so he could join some posh country club in the suburbs, had gotten Krunchies kicked off the shelves of several Midwest grocery chains and had yielded bags of mail from scandalized customers. Nobody wanted to buy cereal that had to be wrapped in a plain brown wrapper before they could bring it home to the kids.

When Pollard returned from Europe, the old box quickly replaced the new one on store shelves across America. Along with a few department heads, the advertising firm had gotten the ax and Hannah, a research sociologist, had been brought on board to help marketing find a new direction. Trying to figure out what kind of image would put Super Korny Krunchies on top once again wasn’t exactly what Hannah had planned to do with her master’s degree.

Less than a year ago, she’d been perfectly happy analyzing whether the new single suburbanites impacted the economy in the entertainment sector of urban areas (yes, nobody wanted to drive all the way back downtown once they were home). Although she’d been working on a very interesting theory that the findings could be an early sign that an entire generation would eventually lack all spontaneity, the funding for the project became a fatality of the new economy.

Jobs in sociological research weren’t exactly clogging the want ads. But consultants were in vogue for everything from jury selection to shopping for birthday presents. So when a friend from college contacted her about a consortium of consultants he was putting together, Hannah decided she’d been unemployed long enough. Granny’s Grains was her first client as a sociological consultant.

Pollard ended his call. His chair creaked ominously as he leaned back in it and folded his hands over his protruding belly. “Well, Miss Ross,” he said, “I hope you have something for us.”

“Something we can actually use,” the new head of marketing added cynically. It was no secret that he’d been against bringing in a scientist.

“I think you’ll be pleased with my results,” Hannah said as she opened her briefcase, took out a small stack of spiral-bound reports, and stood to hand them out. “The good news,” she said as the men opened their reports, “is that the new slogan is right on the money. If you’ll turn to page three you’ll see that my research numbers show that Americans really do want to come back to the breakfast table. The cocooning that started in the nineties has spilled into the new century. On page five, you’ll see that polls show a conservative shift in the nation and—”

Hannah spouted statistics and quoted studies until she noticed the CFO checking his watch. She decided it was time to lighten things up a bit. “So, in many ways, your new slogan is right in the ballpark.” She smiled brightly. “Or maybe I should say backyard.”

Nobody laughed at her little joke. Not even a tiny smile out of any of them. Which was a shame because it was the only joke in her entire presentation. Instead, Pollard threw his copy of the report on the table in front of him. Hannah winced as it slithered off the glossy surface and onto the floor. “These numbers mean nothing to me,” he said. “What I want to know, Miss Ross, is why aren’t the boxes moving off the shelves?”

This was the part that Hannah dreaded most. She was a good researcher and she was confident in her findings. But she didn’t feel at all confident in how the client would react to her findings—or in her ability to deal with the reaction.

Hannah had never pictured herself in the corporate world. In the movie of her life that had played in her head, she’d never been a number gatherer for middle-aged corporate types who were going to use her findings for advertising. In the rarefied theater of her mind, her work not only had purer motives but she’d also been wearing yoga pants and cross-trainers, not confining tailoring and pumps that pinched. But it was more than just her yoga pants she missed. Face it, analyzing the cereal-buying habits of Middle America hadn’t been anywhere at all on the preview reel.

But this was real life and the corporate types weren’t expecting an intermission. She took a deep breath and gave them what they paid for. “I’m afraid it’s partly because of the box itself.” Hannah nervously gestured toward the oversized rotating cereal box hanging from the ceiling, hoping that no one would ask her what the other part was. She’d hate to have to totally alienate her first consulting client by telling him that his product tasted more like the cob than the corn. “The current box,” she went on, “depicts an ear of corn wearing a superhero cape.”

“We know that, Miss Ross,” Marketing assured her with a long-suffering air. “Except for a brief period, it’s been on the box since the early sixties.”

“A classic, true,” she said, quite pleased with the diplomacy of her ad lib. “But in today’s world, your flying ear of corn isn’t the image the consumer wants in a product.”

“If you’re talking about modernizing it,” said the CFO, “that’s been tried. To disastrous results.”

“That’s because the consumer group you need to target wants to buy a product that speaks of stability. They want a product that makes them think that if they use it their family will become what they wish them to be.”

Mr. Pollard frowned, sending his jowls to a new low. “And what do they wish their families to be, Miss Ross?”

“Normal, Mr. Pollard.”

“Normal?” The head of marketing spat out the word as if it tasted bad.

“Yes,” Hannah said emphatically. “Normal. Simply, perfectly normal.”

The three men at the table looked confused. Fortunately, Hannah was not confused. She knew all about what normal was supposed to be.

“Today’s parents are older, more educated, more sophisticated than ever before. But society is coming full circle, gentlemen.” This was more like it, thought Hannah. She was beginning to sound as though she knew what she was talking about. “What they want is really very simple. It used to be referred to as the American Dream. Picture, if you will,” she said, pacing the length of the conference table, “front porch swings and backyards full of toys and rosebushes. Pies cooling on the windowsill in summer and jack-o’-lanterns glowing from front porches in the autumn. Snowmen in front yards in the winter and Christmas trees winking in frosted windows.” As she paced, Hannah rhapsodized about tree forts and vegetable gardens, neighborly neighbors and Sunday picnics, painting the kind of picture that might be found in a 1950s magazine ad. And painting it well because, although she usually talked in statistics and averages, this was a subject close to Hannah’s heart.

As a girl, Hannah had wished for normal on stars like some girls wished for boyfriends. She’d pined for pastel painted houses with ruffled curtains in the windows. Craved cozy family meals and story time before lights-out.

“Women today—and my statistics show that women still do the majority of the family grocery shopping—want a safe, happy home and family. And if they thought there was a cereal on the shelves that could inch them any closer to that image, you wouldn’t be able to restock the shelves fast enough.”

Hannah took her seat again while Marketing rolled his eyes and the CFO checked his watch again. Reluctantly, Hannah looked down the table at Mr. Pollard, expecting to see his jowls hanging an inch or two lower in disappointment. Instead, he was rubbing his pudgy hands together with relish.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. Splendid idea. Really splendid. My grandmother made this company a success on just such family values. She always said that the family was the backbone of America. So why not put the great American family on our box of cereal? We’ll base a whole ad campaign on it. We could even do seasonal boxes. All featuring the same family.” He turned to the head of marketing. “Call the modeling agency. We need to start searching for the perfect models immediately.”

“No!” Hannah said with perhaps a little too much urgency.

“No?” Pollard said with the kind of tone that made her think the simple word was seldom said to him.

“What I meant to say was, models would be a mistake. Today’s consumer is too savvy to fall for a cardboard retread of Norman Rockwell. They want the real thing. This is, after all, the age of reality television. I think the only way this idea will hit home with consumers is if you put a real family on the box.”

Randall Pollard slammed his doughy hand on the table. “By George! That’s it!” he yelled, his jowls quivering in excitement. “We’ll put a real American family on the box. From a real American town. The most perfectly normal family from the most perfectly normal town,” Pollard gushed like an old-time politician. “We’ll make it a contest. Yes, a contest! And you, Miss Ross, will run it.”

“Me? But—” Hannah’s mind reeled. She’d never run a contest before. She’d never even entered one. She didn’t have a clue. “Surely there is someone else who—”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Pollard cut in. “Who better to choose our perfect family than a sociologist? We’ll continue to pay your consulting fee, of course,” he added, “plus, there would be a hefty bonus for you after the project was completed successfully. Shall we say—”

The figure made Hannah gulp. It would be enough to support her while she looked for another job in research. Maybe she’d never have to enter a boardroom again!

She could figure out how to run a contest, couldn’t she? It couldn’t be that different from doing a research study, could it? She’d merely gather data, analyze it, and—

“Miss Ross? We’re waiting. Are you with us or not?”

“Of course, Mr. Pollard,” Hannah said enthusiastically. “I’d love to run your contest.”

“IT’S LIKE YOU’VE FALLEN into the absolute perfect job. Practically custom-made just for you,” Lissa Hamilton enthused before she took a huge bite of her feta burger.

“Running a contest for a cereal company is the perfect job for me? You’re going to have to elaborate on that, Lissa. And make it good,” Hannah warned, “because otherwise I think I’ve just been insulted.”

They were sitting in a booth at their usual Greek restaurant in the Lincoln Park section of Chicago, where Lissa, a freelance photographer, had a small loft. Outside the dirty plate-glass windows, the March wind was crisp and the trees were still bare as the Midwest experienced the usual slice of unpredictable weather that kept winter from becoming spring.

Across the booth, Lissa waved her manicured fingers around in the air, trying to express something as she chewed. Lissa was never very still for long, but she never talked with her mouth full, either. After she’d swallowed, she said, “Hey, don’t get me wrong. I know it’s not the research you want to be doing, but I’m the right-brained one in this twosome, remember? Believe me, you’ll feel better about this whole thing if you look at this consulting job as the perfect opportunity to develop your creative side—not to mention that it will be an awesome playground for your inner child.”

Lissa leaned forward, waving a French fry, thick with catsup, as she talked. “Think about it. You get to find the kind of family you always wanted—and you get to live with them for—oh, maybe a month?” she asked before she popped the fry in her mouth.

“Right. I’ll have a month to do some advance work before Pollard and the marketing and advertising people arrive for the photo shoot.”

“What kind of advance work?” Lissa asked.

“Gathering data for press releases, conducting in-field interviews, recording observations. Basically, I’ll be compiling as much information as possible and evaluating it so I can assist the marketing department in building the family’s image in the media.”

Lissa smiled. “In other words, you have to get to know them.”

“Yes. I guess you could say that. Certainly, anecdotal information would be beneficial to the—”

Lissa waved her fingers again. “No, no, no. That’s the scientist talking. You’ll be good at all that stuff—goes without saying. But this is what is exciting about this whole thing—you get to find your ideal family and give them to yourself for a present. And you get paid to do it.”

Hannah stopped playing with her Greek salad. “Wow. I never thought of it that way.”

“That’s why we’ve been friends all these years, girl. We never think of anything the same way.”

It was true. They were nothing alike. Lissa was an artist. A little wild. With clothes to match. While Hannah was a scientist. A little conservative. With clothes to match. One of the things they differed on was how they perceived Lissa’s family.

“If I could pick the perfect family, I’d pick yours,” Hannah said.

“Spoken like someone who never had to actually live with them.”

“How is Aunt Alice, by the way?” Hannah asked.

“Still boring.”

“Oh, she is not. You don’t know how lucky you were to have so much family living together in that big old house. I would give anything if—”

Lissa laughed and shook her head. “That’s my point. Here’s your chance, girlfriend. Go find that family you’ve always wanted.”

BY THE MIDDLE OF June, Hannah found herself driving a company station wagon loaded down with cartons of Super Korny Krunchies along a two-lane highway in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, squinting at directions taped to the dash and hoping fervently that she wasn’t lost. But, no. There it was. As promised.

“Welcome to Timber Bay,” Hannah read out loud as she drove past the sign made of rough-hewn logs. She glanced at the directions again and turned right at Ludington Avenue. The heart of the town lay before her, pretty as a picture from an old calendar.

She drove past a red brick courthouse with green benches scattering its lawns and sweet william lining the long walk that led to its doors. In the next block there was a barbershop, with an old-fashioned striped barber pole out front, alongside a grocery store that looked like the only thing that had changed about it in the last fifty years were the prices posted in the window. She turned right at Sheridan Road where a corner drugstore that advertised a lunch counter and a stately bank with a four-faced clock anchored the town square. Farther down Sheridan she passed a library with wide granite steps and a movie theater with an old-fashioned marquee jutting across the sidewalk.

“Perfect,” Hannah murmured reverentially. It all looked so perfect. It all looked so normal. Which, according to the data Hannah had gathered, is exactly what Timber Bay, Michigan, was supposed to be. Okay, maybe not normal by today’s standards. The town didn’t appear to run on the same clock as the rest of the country. Timber Bay, no matter what the calendars in the town’s kitchens read, was marching to the beat of a drum from 1952. From its unemployment rate to its crime rate, from its abundance of stay-at-home moms to its low number of high-school dropouts, Timber Bay was a town that could have stepped out of time. Exactly the image Super Korny Krunchies was looking for.

If the Henry Walker family, the family Hannah had chosen as Granny’s Grains Great American Family, looked as good as the town they lived in, Hannah was going to be adding that bonus Mr. Pollard promised to her bank account in no time.

The sound of children drifted through the open car windows as Hannah drove past a park. Mothers sat on benches watching children play on swings and teeter-totters. An old-fashioned wooden band shell, painted white, graced the edge of a boardwalk. Beyond it, the body of water that bore the same name as the town spread out toward the horizon, glittering bright blue in the sunshine.

She pulled up to a Stop sign across the street from an old hotel. It had probably been the pride of the town back in the days of logging and lumberjacks, but now it was abandoned, its windows boarded up, its front steps crumbling. A shame since the little coffee shop on the other side of the hotel looked as if it had been refurbished. Cute café curtains in the windows, a wreath on the door, and—

“Oh, my,” Hannah murmured when she noticed the man in front of the coffee shop.

He was sitting on a plain wood chair, tilted back far enough to raise the front legs off the sidewalk. His arms were up, elbows out, hands linked behind his head, eyes closed, his face tilted skyward, soaking up the afternoon sun. Above him was a sign that said Sweet Buns. And quite a delicacy he was, too. True, she couldn’t see his backside so she had no idea if his buns were sweet, but what she could see was pretty yummy. His muscles did a nice job of filling out his simple white T-shirt and battered, faded jeans. His brown hair, brushed back from his face, was a little long and attractively tousled. He had a square chin, a strong jaw, and a wide, full mouth.

Beefcake. Right out there on the main street of town. But sweetly meaty specimen that he was, what made him even more compelling was the look of pure, obvious pleasure on his face. Hannah was still staring when he lowered his head, opened his eyes, and looked straight at her.

She’d never seen eyes that blue before. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring but when she caught his mouth lifting into a wry little grin, Hannah decided she’d been looking too long already.

She jerked her gaze back to the road and started to ease her foot off the brake just as an elderly man with a cane stepped off the curb. She hesitated seconds too long and ended up having no choice but to wait for him to cross the street. Hannah concentrated on his shuffling feet, steadfastly ignoring the urge to look over at the coffee shop. She ran her hands through her windblown chin-length brown hair, trying to comb out the knots with her fingers, then took her time picking a piece of lint off her black suit jacket. But the pull from those blue eyes was stronger than the will to not embarrass herself again.

She gave in and turned her head—and found herself nose to nose with the beefcake in denim.

Oh, those eyes. They were enough to make a girl shiver.

“Lost?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said, using haughtiness to keep the shivers away.

The beefcake leaned his head farther into the car to look at the slip of paper taped to her dash. “That the address you’re looking for?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but, yes, it is.”

“Then you might not be lost yet, but you’re on your way.”

“Excuse me?”

“You made a wrong turn.”

The last thing Hannah wanted to do was ask him for help, but she was already running late. She looked at her watch. The Walkers expected her for lunch and it was after one. She sighed. “Would you mind giving me directions, please?”

“That might be kind of hard to do, considering your bad sense of direction. Tell you what, I’ll show you the way.”

She thought he was going around to get into the passenger seat and she totally panicked. “I—I don’t think that will be necessary,” she yelled out the window. “I’d really rather you didn’t get into—” she broke off when he plopped himself down on the hood of the Granny’s Grains station wagon. Apparently, he had no intention of getting into the car.

“Make a U-turn,” he yelled.

She stuck her head out the window. “Are you insane? Get off my car.”

He rapped his knuckles on the logo emblazoned on the hood. “Doesn’t look like it’s really your car. Looks like it belongs to Granny’s Grains. So unless you’re Granny—”

“Save it. I’ve heard that same joke several times in several different ways all the way up from Chicago. I’m late. So if you would please—”

Behind her a car honked. And then another. She closed her eyes and groaned. Nice entrance. Holding up traffic in a town with such a low crime rate might be transgression enough to make the front page of the local paper. Mr. Pollard would not be pleased. Behind her, the honking started again so she set her jaw, stepped on the gas and made the U-turn, all the while hoping that the beefcake would fall off in the process.

He didn’t.

Instead he’d turned into a talking hood ornament. “Full speed ahead,” he commanded loud enough for her, and probably the whole town, to hear.

Hannah slunk down in the seat and started to drive, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Fat chance with the local hero waving and yelling at just about everybody they passed. Bad enough she’d had to drive all the way from Chicago in a bright red station wagon with the company logo displayed prominently in several places, now she had to arrive to meet the Walkers with the local beefcake perched on the front of the car like it was a float in the homecoming parade. She felt like she was hanging onto the last of her professional dignity by her very short, ratty fingernails.

Luckily, they’d only gone a few blocks when he yelled for her to pull over. She checked the address taped to her dash. Yes. This was it.

The house was large, its narrow clapboard siding painted lemon-yellow. The shutters on the windows that reached nearly to the ground were painted white, as was the trim. And there was a huge porch stretched low across the front with a swing swaying gently in the early June breeze.

“Perfect,” she murmured again. Just the kind of house Hannah had always dreamed about. It was even better than the one Lissa had grown up in.

“Want me to carry your cereal for you, sweetheart?”

While she’d gaped at the house, Hannah had nearly forgotten all about him. He was leaning in the passenger window this time.

“No, thank you,” she said stiffly as she got out of the car. She was glad she’d worn the black tailored pantsuit and the gorgeously tailored white shirt she’d borrowed from Lissa. It made her feel professional enough to put the beefcake in his place. He was draped attractively against the car, showing no sign of leaving. “I don’t think I’ll get lost between the front sidewalk and the front door,” she told him. “You can go now.”

She didn’t wait to see if he did. This was too exciting a moment to let him spoil it. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t a real scientific research study, but Lissa had been so right. It was going to be quite an adventure—getting to know the family that was going to represent not only Super Korny Krunchies but also her fondest fantasy.

It wasn’t until she was standing at the Walkers’ front door, ready to ring the bell, that she realized that she wasn’t alone.

He was lounging there next to the door, his wide mouth quirked into a grin, his blue eyes glittering.

“Look, do you mind?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said while his gaze wandered suggestively down to her mouth. “That depends on what you’re asking me to consider.”

“I’m asking you to consider leaving.”

“I already considered it. I decided not to.”

Hannah groaned. This was ridiculous. The Walkers were her ideal family. She couldn’t show up at their front door with this lunatic—albeit very attractive lunatic—at her side.

“Aren’t you going to ring the bell?” he asked. Before she could stop him he reached past her and rang it himself.

Hannah was trying to decide if she could manage to disappear before anyone came to the door, when it opened.

“Hi, Ma,” the beefcake said. “What’s for lunch? I’m starved.”

2

BY THE TIME HANNAH HAD met Kate Walker, her husband Henry, and Henry’s older brother, Tuffy, who lived with the Walkers, she was starting to recover from the shock of finding out that her beefcake hood ornament, aka Danny Walker, was a member of Granny’s Grains Great American Family. It helped that he’d disappeared right after introductions. She knew it was probably very un-Great American Family of her, but Hannah fervently hoped Danny was having lunch elsewhere.

Mrs. Walker led her through a bright, charming living room and a dining room with crystal candlesticks and real flowers on the table to the kitchen at the back of the house.

It couldn’t have been better if Hannah had dreamed it up herself. The cupboards were painted white and the walls were papered in tiny blue flowers. There were blue gingham curtains at the windows and needlepoint on the walls of a spacious alcove that held a big oak table already set for lunch. Something was bubbling merrily in a pot on the stove and the aroma was enticing enough to make her mouth water.

“This place is for you, Miss Ross,” Uncle Tuffy said as he pulled out a chair for her then bowed in a courtly fashion.

“Thank you, Mr. Walker,” she said as she took it.

Tuffy chuckled delightedly. “I’m not Mr. Walker,” he said. “Henry there—he’s Mr. Walker. I’m Uncle Tuffy.”

“Then, thank you, Uncle Tuffy,” she said.

He grinned and Hannah tried not to think of lawn ornaments. He was short, slightly built and wiry, except for a rather large potbelly that strained the buttons of his red plaid shirt. With round cheeks above a whiskered chin and white hair that stood out in wispy tufts from his pink scalp, he looked like a gnome. All he needed was a stocking cap.

From her seat Hannah could see out the windows to the backyard where a lilac bush was in full bloom and a swing hung from an old oak tree.

“I see you have a greenhouse.”

“Kate raises her babies out there,” Uncle Tuffy said.

“Her babies?”

“That’s what I call my plants, dear,” Kate Walker answered from the stove where she was dishing out plates of food.

How sweet, Hannah thought. Calling her plants her babies. Kate came over and put a plate of food down in front of Hannah. Creamed chicken on popovers. How classic was that? Served on china that was edged with blue forget-me-nots, it looked like a picture from the pages of a woman’s magazine. Hannah raised a forkful to her mouth. Heaven.

“Mrs. Walker, this is delicious. But I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble because of me. We do want you to just be yourselves, you know. I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Why, I didn’t go through any trouble at all, dear. Just creamed Sunday’s leftover chicken, as usual,” she said as she sat down to join them. “And please call me Kate.”

Leftovers. The word brought back memories. Until she’d started hanging around at Lissa’s house, the only leftovers Hannah had been familiar with were cold pizza or congealed Chinese. But at Lissa’s the leftovers morphed into what Mr. Hamilton called surprise pie. He loved to joke that you never knew what would be under the crust. Hannah had made it a point to eat at Lissa’s house whenever they had leftovers.

She took another forkful of food. It was so yummy that she wondered why the Walker family would want to eat the bland, oversugared cereal they would soon be representing. But eat it they did, and, according to Hannah’s data, they ate it in very large quantities.

“How long has your family been eating Super Korny Krunchies, Kate?”

“Well—um—let me see.” Kate seemed a little flustered suddenly.

Uncle Tuffy beamed. “I been eatin’ it since they been makin’ it,” he said proudly.

“And how long have you been hawking it?” Danny Walker asked as he came into the room and started to fill his plate at the stove.

“I do not hawk cereal,” she answered. “I am a research sociologist, working as an independent consultant.” It wasn’t Hannah’s style to sound so haughty, but Danny Walker seemed to bring it out in her.

“What’s a consultant?” Uncle Tuffy asked.

“That’s what some people do, Uncle Tuffy,” Danny said as he slid into a chair right across from her, “when they can’t find a real job.”

Kate looked up from her plate. “Oh, you poor dear. Have you been out of work long?”

Hannah gave Danny a look she hoped would freeze his mouth shut. “I am not out of work, Kate. I feel very privileged to be working with a company modern enough to hire a sociologist for this project.”

“Contest, you mean,” Danny said as he poured himself iced tea from the glass pitcher on the table.

Hannah preferred to think of it as a project. “As I was saying—this project—”

“But, Miss Ross, it was a contest, wasn’t it?” Tuffy asked, worry puckering his forehead. “We won, didn’t we? We get the year’s supply of cereal, don’t we? I’m gonna be on the box, aren’t I?”

“Yes, of course, you won—”

“Then it was a contest,” Danny said, his blue eyes mocking her like the devil. “So what did we have to do to win? Send in the most box tops?” he asked as he raised a glass of iced tea to his mouth.

“No, Danny,” Tuffy answered enthusiastically. “We won for being normal.”

Danny nearly spit out his iced tea. “Normal? Sweetheart, do you have any idea what normal is?”

Why couldn’t the man have an addiction to fast food, thought Hannah with a sigh. Why couldn’t he be out somewhere supersizing instead of sitting across from her, being super-irritating? “Your family was chosen, Mr. Walker, because they embody standards and values that Granny’s Grains wants to project.”

“So basically, sweetheart, this is just an advertising gimmick.”

“No. Of course not. And I would thank you not to call me sweetheart. I have a master’s degree in sociology. This contest—I mean project—was conducted in the same manner a scientific study would be.”

He gave a short laugh. “Well, that explains it then, professor. I always knew those studies weren’t worth the price of a two-penny nail.”

Hannah wished she’d taken her suit jacket off. It was feeling a little tight what with all the bristling she was doing. “Exactly what does that mean?”

“It means, professor, that if you think you’re going to find normal around here you’ve definitely taken another wrong turn.”

Forget mocking like the devil. Danny Walker was the devil. Her own personal devil. Just what she needed. How on earth had he slipped through the cracks of the carefully prepared questionnaires the finalists had had to complete? He’d taunted and ridiculed her from the moment his blue eyes had first locked on hers. He was cocky and obviously irresponsible. Jumping on her car like he was some kind of teenager, Hannah scoffed inwardly.

According to her data, Danny Walker was thirty years old. He owned his own building company but still lived at home with his parents, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen the Walker family. Multiple generations of a family living together was a trait that Hannah’s research determined a large number of Americans approved of today and looked to as an ideal worth upholding—and one of the reasons Hannah had always envied Lissa’s hodgepodge of a family. So Danny had definitely been a deciding factor when she chose the Walkers as Granny’s Grains Great American Family. But Hannah was beginning to wonder if she should have looked more closely at the family in Boise, Idaho, that had four children under the age of five. The fact that only one of the children could talk was definitely beginning to look like a plus.

Hannah decided to ignore Danny’s last remark and turned pointedly to his father.

“Mr. Walker, I believe you always come home for lunch. Is that right?”

“Yup. Always do. Nothin’ better than the wife’s cookin’,” said Henry before shoving another forkful of food into his mouth.

Henry Walker was a man of few words, apparently. Still, compared to her own father, he was almost glib. He didn’t exactly look like what she’d envisioned a steel company owner would, but his flannel shirt might play well to their target group. They’d have to get rid of the coveralls, though. They were a little greasy and just a tad more blue collar than the image they were going for. Though Hannah could see that he had once been a handsome man. It was clear that Danny got his eyes from his mother because Mr. Walker’s were brown, but the interesting angles of Danny’s face he owed to his father.

A slurping noise from the other end of the table brought her attention to Uncle Tuffy, who was noisily enjoying his iced tea. Although Uncle Tuffy also figured in Hannah’s choice, he was somewhat problematic, as well. But maybe his childlike demeanor would be endearing to middle America. The old, simple bachelor uncle. And they could always do something with his hair before the photo shoot.

But Kate Walker was the real find. She was perfect just as she was. In a pale yellow cotton dress and a flowered apron tied around her waist, her champagne blond hair worn softly around her kind face, Hannah could easily see her picture making a box of cereal more attractive to a harried working mother. Betty Crocker come to life.

She couldn’t wait to meet Sissy, the married daughter who lived close enough to take a walk over for a cup of coffee in the afternoon, and her husband and two children. Sissy was a stay-at-home mom. A rarity these days. And the Walkers were very much “hands-on” grandparents.

Hannah loved the whole Walker family setup. Sort of like a buffet of all-you-can-eat relatives. So there was one questionable dish on the buffet table? At least he was a gorgeous dish, she thought as she looked at him through her lashes while she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. His skin was tanned a warm, golden brown and there were streaks of pale blond in his hair. The sun that had browned his skin and bleached his hair had etched lines at the corners of his eyes—those striking blue eyes—that deepened when he smiled or when he laughed. Of course, he was mostly laughing at her. But still, Danny Walker, irritating as he was, was going to sell a lot of cereal.

The thought made her remember that she had business to discuss.

“I’ll need to set up interviews for all of you and for Sissy and her family, as well. I also intend to meet with the mayor, the chief of police, and the high-school principal.”

Henry grunted and Kate looked a little baffled. “Such a lot of work, dear. Is it really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so. One of my jobs is to supply the company with information they can use to create press releases. We expect there to be plenty of media interest in our Great American Family.”

“That’s us, isn’t it?” Tuffy asked anxiously. “We get the year’s supply of cereal, right?”

“Yes, of course. But, even better, in a month, Mr. Pollard, CEO of Granny’s Grains, will be arriving with an advertising crew for a photo shoot. The entire family will be featured on a whole series of cereal boxes to coincide with our Bringing America Back to the Breakfast Table campaign.”

“Sounds like advertising to me,” muttered Danny.

“Mr. Walker,” she said reasonably but firmly, “the results of my work will be used in an advertising campaign but that doesn’t take away from the fact that the process used to select your family as Granny’s Grains Great American Family was a scientific one. Now,” she said, turning back to Kate, “these interviews will be informal so there is nothing to worry about. It’s important that you just go about your regular daily lives so that I can get the flavor for how you live.”

“Ma, you should take the professor out to the greenhouse for feeding hour,” Danny suggested.

Well, thought Hannah with satisfaction, her tone had obviously worked. Danny had decided to be helpful. Still, he did have that twinkle in his eye—

“Are you interested in tropical plants, Hannah?” Kate asked.

“I’m interested in anything you do, Kate. I’d love to watch you feed your plants. In fact, the greenhouse should probably go on the list of possible sites I’m compiling to give the photographer when he gets here.”

“You mean he might want to take a picture of my babies?”

“Oh, absolutely. The company has gotten whisperings of interest from a few women’s magazines. The fact that you’re a gardener will, I’m sure, add to their interest.”

“You mean a picture of me and my babies in Gardening Today?”

“Possibly, Kate. If we get the press we want with this, you might even make the afternoon talk shows.”

“You could take your babies with you, Ma,” Danny put in. “Let ’em perform on the air.”

Hannah frowned. “Perform?”

Kate laughed and flapped her hand. “Oh, Danny is just being silly, Hannah. My babies can’t perform. Although it can be very entertaining to watch them eat.”

Hannah opened her mouth to ask another question, but decided it was just Kate Walker’s rather singular way of speaking. Watching her plants eat, of course, merely meant watching liquid fertilizer sink into the soil.

“Come along, my dear. I’ll introduce you to all my little darlings. You can even help me feed them!”

Hannah forgot all about the mocking devil sitting at the table watching her. She felt positively glowy inside. She barely remembered her own mother. She’d certainly never gardened with her. It seemed like such a mother/daughter thing to be doing. So sweet. So wholesome. So—well, so Great American Family.

She’d better take notes. It wouldn’t do to forget what she was really there for.

“I’ll just run and get my notebook and tape recorder out of the car.”

“Don’t be silly, dear, they don’t chew loud enough to record,” Kate said sweetly before she sailed out the back door.

Chew? “What did she mean chew?” Hannah asked Danny.

“You’re the intrepid researcher, professor. Shouldn’t you find out for yourself?”

Hannah opened her mouth to take the bait then thought better of it. Ignoring him, she left the kitchen and headed out to the station wagon for her things. When she came back through the kitchen with her notebook and recorder, Danny was, thankfully, gone.

Out in the backyard Hannah could hear Kate humming in the greenhouse as she made her way down the little brick walk lined with shrub roses that were just starting to bud. The song of birds and the scent of lilacs filled the air. This, thought Hannah with satisfaction, was just as it was supposed to be. Perfectly normal. Even better, it was perfectly perfect.

The greenhouse had a peaked roof and one of those doors that were cut in half like in the pictures you see of old country cottages. The upper half was open. Kate, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, was inside talking sweetly to her plants, holding one up in a hand that was covered by a cotton gardening glove sprinkled with tiny pink roses. In her other hand, she held a jar of—Hannah squinted and leaned in over the bottom half of the door for a better look. It couldn’t be—

But it was. Kate, looking like something on a Mother’s Day greeting card, was holding a glass jar of dead flies.

“There you are, dear,” she trilled when she saw Hannah. “Come in and meet my babies.”

Hannah sincerely hoped she wasn’t talking about the flies. She pushed open the half door and went inside.

Long wooden tables on either side of the room were filled with the strangest-looking plants Hannah had ever seen. She reached out to touch the fringed leaf of one and Kate said, “Oh, no, dear. Mustn’t touch. It makes them think you’re giving them something to eat and they could never digest anything as big as your finger.”

Hannah quickly pulled her finger back. “Excuse me?”

“Why, that’s a Dionaea, dear. My favorite one, in fact. I call her Dee Dee Dionaea. She’s highly carnivorous, you know.”

Hannah gulped. “Carnivorous?”

“Why, yes. All my little babies are meat eaters. You probably know Dionaea as Venus flytrap. Those colorful ones over there are Byblis and those,” she pointed with pride at a squat plant that looked like a specimen from outer space, “those are Australian Pitcher Plants. They drown their prey before digesting them.”

Hannah looked from the weird flora to the jar of dead bugs in Kate Walker’s dainty, rosebud-covered hand. For a second she thought she was going to lose her popovers. “And you feed them—”

“Flies, my dear. The neighbors have one of those bug zappers so I just go over there every few days and sweep them up from the patio.” Kate looked around as if to make sure no one was listening, then she leaned closer to Hannah and lowered her voice. “They have a dog over there—one of those silly standard poodles—so there’s always a lot of flies available. If you know what I mean.”

Hannah knew exactly what she meant. Suddenly the greenhouse seemed awfully warm, the scent of damp rich earth nearly overpowering.

“Of course, they also eat live insects,” Kate was saying. “In fact, they prefer them. Perhaps you’d like to take one up to your room while you’re here, dear? Just to make sure you’re not bothered by flies.”

The idea of trying to sleep with Dee Dee on the bedside table slowly munching moths or whatever other creatures flew by night was enough to bring on nightmares.

“Um—no, I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Hannah started backing toward the door. “Um, I think perhaps I’ll take a walk around town and sort of get my bearings.”

Kate looked concerned. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m—uh—fine.” Hannah pressed a hand to her stomach. “Just ate too much at lunch, I expect.”

“Oh, then perhaps a walk—”

Hannah didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Outside again the air was cooler. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, and her popovers settled back down.

Terrific, she thought as she crossed the back porch and went into the house. Just terrific. Meat-eating plants. Not exactly normal. Okay, so maybe it was her fault for expecting nothing more exotic than an orchid or two. Obviously, there should have been a follow-up question on the entry forms. Do you garden—followed by just what the heck grows in your garden? Or even better yet, does your plant’s lunch have wings?

“Pollard isn’t going to like this,” she muttered to herself as she went through the kitchen. Maybe she could just cross the greenhouse off the list of possible sites for photo shoots. In fact, it might be better to keep the subject of gardening out of the picture entirely. “Calm down,” she told herself as she went through the lovely dining room and the inviting living room. So there was one little thing that didn’t quite fit the perfect picture. She’d just have to find a way around it, she thought as she opened the front door. Danny Walker was standing on the other side of it.

“Feeding time over already?” he asked.

Okay, thought Hannah with a groan, make that two little things that didn’t fit.

“Would you please remove yourself from the doorway so I can pass?”

“What’s the matter, professor? Did your data promise you a rose garden?”

“Very clever, Mr. Walker. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t,” she said curtly and started to step around him.

He put out his arm and braced it on the doorframe next to her, blocking her way. “But, professor, aren’t you afraid you’ll get lost again?”

This close to him, getting lost wasn’t what she was afraid of at all. More like afraid her heart was going to jump right out of her chest. She thrust her chin up defiantly. “I think I can manage.”

He lifted a hand and reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, then he leaned in close, so close she could feel the heat coming off his skin. So close she could smell him. Sawdust and sunshine. Her pulse shot up at least another half dozen beats when he whispered, “But I know secret places in this town that no one else knows about.”

She didn’t doubt it for a moment. Already he’d found a highly erogenous zone in her ear that she hadn’t even known existed. Enough, she told herself. You’re a scientist, not a pushover for a cocky slice of beefcake. She stepped back from him and folded her arms across her chest.

“You might want to save all this charm for the local girls, Mr. Walker. It’s totally wasted on me.”

“Liar,” he said.

“Unbelievable. You really think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”

He grinned and her stomach took a dive. “Well, aren’t I?” he asked.

“Watch, Mr. Walker,” she said. “This is me resisting.” She ducked under his arm, crossed the porch, walked down the stairs, and started up the street. She could hear his laughter all the way to the corner.

3

LAUGHING, DANNY WATCHED Hannah walk away. She had a determined stride on her—no surprise—and long legs. Too bad she dressed like a man. For a moment he wondered what might be underneath that severe black pantsuit but shook off the thought in a hurry. Hannah Ross had so much starch in her a man could get hurt if he got too close.

He sauntered down the steps and out to his pickup parked in the driveway. Windows down and the radio blasting something about broken hearts, Danny drove across town to Lukas McCoy’s freshly painted Victorian. He turned into the driveway and coasted around to the back where the old carriage house and stable was now home to Timber Bay Building and Restoration. He parked in front of the cumbersome double doors that his partner Lukas refused to replace. Never mind that the place housed a computer, a fax machine, and just about every power tool known to man. Lukas insisted on keeping the old doors for authenticity.

Danny got out of the truck and walked around to the side door that led to the office. Inside, Lukas sat at an old oak desk he’d restored, his fingers plunking away on the computer keys as he filled out an invoice.

“I thought you were going over to take some measurements at the church.”

“Just want to get these couple of invoices in the mail, Danny. We can use the cash.”

“Huh—no kidding.” Danny picked up a stack of mail from the desk and started to flick through it. Mostly bills. Bills needing that cash Lukas mentioned. “Any messages?”

“Not the one you want,” Lukas said.

Danny threw the mail back on the desk. “Damn, I hate this waiting. And if I know the dragon lady, she’s making us wait on purpose.”

“Take it easy, Danny. It’s only been two weeks since we sent the proposal to her lawyer. For all we know, the rumor that Agnes Sheridan wants to restore the old hotel isn’t even true.”

“That job would make all the difference to this company, Lukas. And if we don’t get it because of me—”

“Ancient history. Agnes Sheridan is a smart woman. We’re the best for the job and if she looks into it she’s going to know it.”

“If she looks into it.”

“Will you chill? Tell me about lunch. Did the cereal rep show?”

Danny grinned. “With a little help from me.”

Danny told Lukas about jumping on the hood of her station wagon and Lukas shook his head slowly. “Now that kind of behavior, Danny, is exactly the kind of stuff that always got you in trouble,” he said, but Danny could see the laughter in his partner’s eyes.

That’s how it had always been. Danny had been the one forever in a scrape and Lukas had always been the good guy, admonishing Danny’s antics but secretly admiring his guts. They’d been best friends since third grade when Lukas, who’d towered above Danny, rescued Danny’s jacket from the basketball hoop where some older bullies he’d messed with had tossed it. Lukas, at six foot four, still towered over Danny’s five foot ten. And he was still the good guy as far as Danny was concerned.

“I got a feeling that I’m going to be in a lot of trouble during the professor’s visit.”

“The professor?”

Danny shrugged a shoulder. “It suits her. She’s got ice in her veins and she likes to throw her master’s degree around. I don’t know how smart she could be, though, if she chose us to be on that box of cereal. Perfectly normal, we ain’t.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to head on over to the high school to have a look at those warped floors. Catch ya later.”

“Yeah, later,” Lukas said absently.

Danny left him to his hunting and pecking and headed back out to his pickup. He spent about an hour at the high school, taking measurements to replace warped floorboards in a few of the classrooms, then took a slow ride down Sheridan Road and pulled up in front of the old hotel that Agnes Sheridan still owned.

Man, he wanted that job so bad he could feel it in his skin. And not just for the money. He was tired of building kitchen cabinets and replacing floorboards. He wanted a challenge. Plus, a job like restoring the Sheridan Hotel would involve hiring sub-contractors and that would raise Timber Bay Building and Restoration to a whole new level. They were ready for it. They could do it. And if old lady Sheridan would meet with them, they could get that job. Danny just knew it.

If she’d meet with them.

An old restlessness started to stir and haunt. The kind of restlessness that always got him into trouble. He made a U-turn and started back down Sheridan Road with a vague idea of heading for the highway out of town. Sometimes, if he drove fast enough, he could outrun the restlessness. Then he saw her.

There was no mistaking that brisk, long stride or that ramrod-straight back. You’d think she was trying to balance that master’s degree on the top of her head. He grinned when he thought of the look on her face after her visit to the greenhouse. Something told him Hannah Ross wasn’t used to surprises. He chuckled. Wasn’t it his duty as a human being to help change that?

“Danny boy, I think it’s time to give back to your fellow man,” he murmured as he pulled over to the curb just ahead of her and waited until she was walking past the truck. Then he leaned over to the passenger window and gave a long, low whistle. The surprise on her face when she turned her head made her look like the teenager he was feeling like inside.

“Hey, baby,” he drawled in his best teenage male predator drawl, “want a ride?”

Hannah groaned. Danny Walker. She should have known.

She’d been walking around town all afternoon and had come to the conclusion that Timber Bay was just as she’d expected. Perfect. She’d found plenty of picturesque sites for possible photo shoots that more than made up for a few dozen meat-eating plants. Until she’d turned to see those blue eyes mocking her, she’d almost forgotten that there was another fly buzzing around the ointment—and, unfortunately, this one was too big to feed to Dee Dee Dionaea.

She decided it was better if she didn’t break stride. “I’ll thank you not to call me baby,” she said, looking straight ahead. “And, no, I don’t want a ride.”

She expected him to laugh at her and speed away. She should have known she wasn’t going to get what she expected from Danny Walker. He started riding the curb, slowly enough to keep pace with her. Why was there never an illegally parked car around when you needed one?

“Bet you were one of those kind of girls that never said yes.”

That slowed her down a little. “Excuse me?” she asked, refusing to look at him.

“Bet you never let the boys pick you up.”

“Of course not.”

“Then let’s make up for lost time. Come on, baby. Get in. You won’t regret it. Promise.”

Oh, he was impossible. “Will you stop it,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

“Sorry, babe, didn’t hear you,” he yelled with the kind of gusto usually reserved for requesting encores at rock concerts.

This was getting embarrassing. People were starting to stare. She halted, turned, and stalked up to the truck. “Will you please stop it?”

“Stop what, baby?” His lopsided grin was insufferable. Sexy, but insufferable.

“Stop making you want to jump in my truck and let me take you for a ride?”

Oh, she had no doubt that’s exactly what she’d be taken for if she got in that truck with him. “That’s not likely to happen in this lifetime,” she said as she turned away and started walking again.

He followed, still hugging the curb and begging her noisily to get in.

People on both sides of the street were slowing down and staring. A carload of teenagers went past, hooting and honking. Was she forever going to make a spectacle of herself in this town with this man? If word of these little scenes got back to Pollard, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to see dollar one of that bonus—even if she could get rid of those meat-eating plants before his visit.

“Would you please get lost?” she said.

“Can’t. If you don’t say yes it’ll ruin my perfect record.”

Despite herself, that got her attention. She looked at him. “Your perfect record?”

“Nobody ever turned me down before.”

Oh, she could believe it. There he was, his hair looking like someone just ran their fingers through it, his blue eyes glittering with mischief and one corner of his incredible mouth quirking naughtily. What girl wouldn’t be tempted to take that ride?

But Hannah was no girl, she reminded herself. She was a grown woman, in Timber Bay in a professional capacity.

“Hey,” Danny suddenly yelled, “there’s the mayor. Didn’t you say that you wanted to meet him?”

Hannah furiously looked around until she spotted an official-looking car coming their way.

“I’ll call him over,” Danny said then started to do just that.

Hannah gave in and got into the truck.

“That was dirty,” she said as she slammed the door. “You knew I wouldn’t want to meet the mayor this way.”

Danny shrugged. “Hey, good guys finish last.”

“And I bet Danny Walker is always first in line.”

He laughed while he fiddled with the radio and she was slightly astonished at how much she liked the sound of it. It gave her a little jolt to know that she was the one who had caused it. When he stopped at a station that was playing a song she loved, a slow, sexy rock ballad, she started to think it was a good thing the Walker house was only a few blocks away. But instead of going straight down Sheridan Road, Danny made a right turn at Ludington Avenue.

“This isn’t the way to your parents’ house.”

“Nope. It’s not.”

“Well, then, turn this truck around.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed, wondered Hannah. There was sexy music spilling from the radio and fresh wind pouring through the open windows and the hottest-looking man Hannah had ever seen in the flesh was in the driver’s seat. There had to be a reason this wasn’t good. “Well—your mother is expecting us for dinner,” she said, pleased that she’d remembered.

“We’ve got a little time.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He looked at her briefly. But not so briefly that she didn’t notice a spark of what looked like real interest in his eyes. “You really do hate surprises, don’t you?” For once, his voice was soft, his smile softer. “Shame ’cause it looked good on you when I surprised you back there.”

Why was he looking at her like that? When had the mocking look turned into something else? And why did it seem as if the truck had looked a lot bigger from the outside? It’s like the thing had shrunk into one of those tiny imports.

“Mr. Walker, I’ve changed my mind. Please stop this truck and let me out.”

He shot her a look. “Does that master’s degree of yours tell you how you’re gonna make me?”

Hannah bit her lip. Why had she brought up her degree, for heaven’s sake? It wasn’t her style. But he’d been so infuriating. He was supposed to be the all-American big brother, for heaven’s sake. He wasn’t supposed to act like a sixteen-year-old brat that you’d never in a million years want your girlfriends to meet. And now, here she was, in danger of succumbing to all that bad-boy charm. She’d do well to remember why she was even in the same town as Danny Walker in the first place.

“All right,” she said as she opened her shoulder bag, “since you refuse to stop I might as well make good use of the time.”

“I didn’t think you were interested, but come right over here, baby,” he said as he patted the seat next to him, “and we’ll make excellent use of our time.”

She refused to think about what it would be like to slide over next to him and ride off into the sunset. Absolutely refused to think about it. Instead, she got out her tape recorder and notebook. She flipped open to a page full of questions and turned the recorder on. “Interview with Danny Walker,” she said into it. “Now, for the first question—”

“Hey, professor,” Danny said as he reached over and turned the recorder off, “it’s summer. No school.”

“I have a job to do, Mr. Walker,” she said as she turned it on again. “Now—how would you describe your childhood?”

Danny pulled to a stop at a red light and looked at the microphone and then at Hannah. That no-nonsense name sure fit. She sat there with her recorder, looking at him with that straight little nose of hers slightly in the air, all ready to put him under a microscope. Well, if she thought he was going to cooperate with this crazy contest, she was in for yet another surprise. “Come on, professor, have a heart. If I have to go to summer school, at least make the test multiple choice.”

“It’s not a hard question, Mr. Walker. How would you describe your childhood? Happy? Fulfilling?”

“How about wild and adventurous?”

She gave him a look. “I meant your home life.”

“So did I,” he said as he eased his foot off the brake when the light turned green. “Living in the Walker homestead can be a harrowing experience.”

Danny could tell by the way she set her lips that she didn’t like that answer at all. She scribbled something in her notebook and said, “Perhaps we can come back to that question later. Now, then, were you and your sister close?”

He shrugged. “We played it like we couldn’t stand the sight of each other but when trouble came we were always right there for each other. Still are. But I wouldn’t say we’re all that close.”

She started scribbling again and he leaned sideways a little trying to get a look at the notebook but she caught him at it and shifted it.

“What about your father? How would you describe your relationship with him?”

“Indescribable.”

“That’s no answer. It’s too vague.”

He gave her a grin. “So is my relationship with my father.”

She jotted something down.

“And your mother? How do you feel about her?”

“Hey, a guy loves his mother,” he told her. And he did. He loved his ma to death.

“Yes, of course,” she said impatiently. “But you must have other feelings, too.”

What did he feel? His emotions concerning his mother had always been pretty mixed. There were times he wanted to hug her and other times she drove him up the wall.

“My feelings for my mother are complicated,” he found himself saying. “I mean, she was always the first one there to feed the gang, always the first one there with the bandages, always the first one there with the pat on the back. She was great. But—” Danny let the word trail off and wondered when he’d started cooperating.

“But?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “Sometimes a guy wants a mother he can actually talk to.”

“You feel you can’t talk to her?”

Jesus, why was he saying this stuff to her? And what the hell was she writing down in that notebook?

“Look, Ma’s great. Don’t get me wrong. She’s just a little dizzy.”

The professor grimaced as she turned off the tape recorder. “Do you think we could pick another adjective?”

“Why? You think cereal eaters don’t know what dizzy means?”

She arched her brow and stuck her nose in the air. “One wonders, Mr. Walker, since you seem to think so little of your parents, why do you still live with them?”

He looked at her. “Is that one of the questions you’ve got written down there?”

“No—I’d just like to know.”

“Fair enough. I love my parents. But this is the real world, not a commercial. And as for why I live with them—you’re the sociologist. I’m sure you have a theory.”

“Money?”

“Not bad, professor.”

“But I thought your business was successful.”

“Successful enough,” he said. “Let’s just say I have a very expensive obsession.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You mean you live off your parents so you can spend all your money on a woman?”

“Hey—get something straight. I don’t live off my parents. I pay my own way. And who said anything about a woman?”

“What then? A gambling problem?”

Christ. Could her opinion of him get any lower? “You know, professor, you’re starting to put a real damper on this car trip.”

Danny didn’t like this a bit. Hell, he was supposed to be the one riling her up, not the other way around. But damned if she wasn’t starting to really bug him with her preconceived ideas and her useless studies. Well, he’d show her something that wasn’t in her statistics.

“Hang on, professor, you’re about to meet my obsession.”

The truck tires squealed as he made a U-turn and headed back down Ludington, then took a right at Sheridan and a left just past the hotel onto Miller Street. Neither of them spoke until he pulled up to the curb in front of the boarded-up building that had consumed him for years.

“There she is, professor. The lady who takes my money—not to mention my blood, sweat and tears.”

He wished he could relish the look of surprise that flooded her face, but he was too pissed off that she’d goaded him into bringing her here. This part of his life was not for publication to sell cereal.

“An opera house?”

“That’s what it says above the door,” he said, aware that he sounded surly as hell.

She looked at him. “You’re obsessed with an opera house?”

“What’s the matter, professor? Do your studies show that guys like me don’t own opera houses?”

“You own it?”

He nodded. “The town wanted to tear it down. I went to the council and got them to sell it to me. I’ve applied for historical status so I can get some funding, but in the meantime—” Danny broke off. He didn’t appreciate the look on Hannah Ross’s face. “Better close your mouth, professor, before your eyes pop out and drop into it.”

“Sorry, it’s just that—”

“It’s just that your statistics show that men who work with their hands spend their free time watching wrestling on TV and listening to country on the radio. Proving once again the idiocy of statistics.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And you’re in way over your head.”

She thrust her chin up stubbornly. “And just what does that mean?”

“It means that Granny picked the wrong person to run her contest.”

HANNAH WAS BARELY ABLE to enjoy her meat loaf. The family dinner she’d been so looking forward to wasn’t exactly cozy. Henry, still in his grimy coveralls, was hiding behind the sports section. Every once in awhile his fork would sneak out the bottom, load up some food, and disappear under the baseball scores again. Kate was fretting over a list that had something to do with her church group and Uncle Tuffy had taken his plate into the living room to watch cartoons. None of this was, in her opinion, Great American Family behavior. But what was even worse was the fact that Hannah had to, once again, sit across the table from Danny.

Danny Walker was shaping up to be the worst problem in the family. His demeanor was definitely not Great American Family caliber. She could clean up Henry and Uncle Tuffy. She could find a way to get Kate to keep her thoughts—and her greenhouse—to herself for the duration of Pollard’s visit. But how on earth was she going to get Danny to stop acting like something out of a Tennessee Williams play?

She sure hadn’t done much of a job controlling him that afternoon. She was still angry at herself for getting into his truck. But what else could she have done when he’d started waving and yelling madly at the mayor? What on earth would the Honorable Ed Miller have thought of her for standing out on the street of his low-crime-rate town having a shouting match? It just wasn’t like her.

Big surprise. Danny Walker had the power to make a woman forget herself.

But even worse, she couldn’t get what he’d said out of her head. Granny picked the wrong person to run her contest. It rankled big time—mostly because she’d wondered the very same thing once or twice that day herself.

Was Danny Walker right? Was she in over her head?

She raised her eyes from her untouched mashed potatoes to sneak a look at him. He caught her at it. Maddeningly, he winked at her and it filled her with the ridiculously childish urge to stick out her tongue at him. Instead, she filled her mouth with mashed potatoes, and filled her mind with new resolve. Danny Walker was not going to be right. Granny’s Grains did not pick the wrong person to run their contest.

After dinner, Hannah insisted on helping Kate with the dishes.

“Besides,” she said after everyone else left the kitchen, “this will give me a chance to ask you a few questions.”

“What sort of questions, dear?” Kate asked as she poured pink dish soap into the running water.

“Oh, just family things. For instance, did your children eat breakfast before school when they were young?”

“Well, yes. Of course, dear. Breakfast is, after all, the most important meal of the day.”

Yes! thought Hannah with relief. Kate was a normal mother, even if her taste in gardening was a bit bizarre.

“I’m sure your mother felt that way, too, didn’t she?” Kate asked.

“I wish I remembered,” Hannah murmured.

Kate looked at her, her eyes wide. “You don’t suffer from amnesia, do you, dear? The people in my soaps are always coming down with it, but I’ve never known anyone in person who had it.”

Hannah grimaced slightly. You never knew what was going to come out of Kate’s mouth. She was never malicious, of course. She couldn’t be sweeter. She was just a little—um—dizzy. The fact that Danny’s word was a perfect fit didn’t help Hannah’s mood.

Hannah sighed. “No, Kate. I don’t have amnesia.”

“Oh,” Kate said with a disappointed little frown on her face.

“My mother died when I was very young. My father raised me.”

“Then who fixed your breakfast, dear? Your father?” Kate asked.

The image of Orson Ross trying to flip a pancake with that perpetually distracted air almost made her laugh. He’d have the pancake turner in one hand and an open book in the other and the pancake would end up on the floor, totally unnoticed, while he read. “I doubt if my father ever even thought about breakfast,” she said. “Or any other meal, for that matter.”

And it was true. Her father was a dear, but when he wasn’t in a classroom or lecture hall, he was in his study with his papers and books. “I learned to order takeout when I was five and to make simple meals when I was six,” she told Kate. “I used to bring him a plate in his study at night.”

“You mean you didn’t even eat together?”

Kate’s face was all soft and concerned and Hannah realized she’d crossed a line. She was supposed to be asking the questions, not revealing personal information about herself. “Oh, I wanted to ask you about that,” she said, segueing into the next question quite nicely. “Did your family always eat breakfast together?”

Luckily, Kate was easily distracted.

“Oh, yes! Always.”

“Did you ever have a problem getting everyone to the breakfast table?”

“Why, no, I never did.” Kate thought for a moment. “I think it was my meal system that did it.”

“Your meal system?”

Kate nodded. “Pancakes on Monday, over easy on Tuesday, waffles on Wednesday, scrambled on Thursday and French toast on Friday.”

Hannah frowned. Kate hadn’t mentioned cereal. “But, didn’t you—?”

“Oh, no, dear. I never varied it. That was the whole point, don’t you see?”

Hannah forgot about cereal for the moment. “No, I’m afraid I don’t see.”

“Well, if you knew that you had to wait a whole week for another waffle Wednesday, wouldn’t you eat them when they were put in front of you?”

It made a wacky kind of sense, Hannah had to admit. But where did cereal, particularly Super Korny Krunchies, fit in?

“Kate, when did you serve cereal?”

“Oh, I never served cereal when my kids were growing up. I always insisted they eat a cooked breakfast because everyone knows that—” Kate broke off, her hand flying out of the water to her mouth, sending little puffs of soap suds into the air around her head like a housewife’s halo. Only the halo was a little crooked. “Oh, dear,” Kate said.

Oh crap, thought Hannah. Another glitch. A huge one this time. Big. Very big.

“Got a problem, professor?”

She didn’t have to look to know that Danny Walker would be leaning in the doorway, hip cocked, mouth quirked, wry twinkle in his eyes. With all the twists and turns this day had taken, one thing she could be sure of. If she had a problem, Danny would be sexily draped somewhere nearby, ready to give her a hard time.

“You don’t look so good. Meat loaf upset your tummy—or is it the taste of failure? Didn’t I tell you that studies and surveys were bogus?”

Hannah glared at him. “As I said earlier, there is a margin for error in every research study. But if a subject is going to lie—”

“Watch it,” Danny warned as he came away from the doorway. “Lie is a strong word.”

“But it’s the right word,” she retorted. “I could go upstairs right now and produce the original entry form that states that your entire family eats Super Korny Krunchies. And that’s not the only problem with that entry form, either. Several answers are definitely misleading.”

“Or maybe you just asked the wrong questions,” Danny said.

Hannah threw her hands into the air. “What difference does it make what the question is if the entrant is going to lie?”

“Uh—excuse me, professor, but I think that’s an argument for my side. How can you possibly know what is and what isn’t a lie when you read those forms of yours?”

“Oh—” Kate cut in “—I’m sure Uncle Tuffy didn’t think he was lying.”

Hannah forgot the insult she’d been about to hurl at Danny. She swung around to face Kate. “Are you saying that Uncle Tuffy filled out the original entry form?”

Kate nodded. “Tuffy is Henry’s brother—not the—um—brightest in the family. So he might have gotten some things wrong. He’s always needed someone around to take care of him. But he’s got a kind heart and he really does love your cereal and he eats it every day,” Kate assured her eagerly. “And he wanted so badly to win. It’s just that the rest of us don’t eat it. But when Tuffy figured out that he ate enough for a family of four, why he thought—”

Hannah held up her hand. “Wait—let me get this straight. No one else in the family eats Super Korny Krunchies?”

“Have you tasted it?” Danny asked.

“Of course, I’ve tasted it,” Hannah answered impatiently.

“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”

Hannah thrust her hands into the pockets of her pants. “You know I’ve about had it with you getting a laugh at my expense, Walker. This isn’t very funny to me. First I find out that no one is really quite like they’re supposed to be. You’re like a family picture taken out of focus. And now I find out that nobody but Uncle Tuffy even eats the cereal you’ve been chosen to represent. And you stand there, with that mocking look in your eyes and—”

“Wait!” Kate cried. “Susie and Andy eat it!”

Hannah jerked her focus away from those mocking eyes and back to Kate. “Sissy’s children?” she asked.

Kate nodded. “Whenever they’re here they always eat it with Uncle Tuffy. Every morning and then again before bed. I try to get them to put fruit on it, but—”

“That’s wonderful!” Hannah interrupted. She was desperate and could care less if the kids put crushed candy bars on it, just as long as they could eat a bowl of it in front of Mr. Pollard without gagging.

Whew. Close call with disaster, thought Hannah as she slumped against the counter. But just to be on the safe side, she had better ask a few follow-up questions.

“Is there anything else I should know? Any other information that might not be entirely correct?” she asked. “Sissy is a stay-at-home mother, right?”

“Yup,” said Danny, his eyes twinkling. “In fact she never stops talking about it.”

Hannah ignored the twinkling and asked, “And she has a traditional husband?”

Danny seemed to find this even more amusing. “Traditional is the perfect word for Sissy’s husband Chuck.”

So far, so good, thought Hannah. “When am I going to meet them?” she asked.

Danny nodded toward the windows. “Any second now.”

Hannah looked out the window. Two children, a boy and a girl, were dashing across the yard, while a young woman carrying a huge tote bag was just coming down the alley behind the Walker house. She was followed by a young man who looked enough like Elvis to be the ghost of the King of Rock and Roll. He was talking urgently and gesturing a little wildly with his hands as he walked but the woman didn’t bother to turn around. When she came through the gate to the backyard, she locked it behind her, leaving the Elvis look-alike on the other side, still pleading his case.

The children clattered up the steps and across the back porch. The screen door slammed against the wall as they tumbled into the kitchen. They were both towheaded and as golden-brown as their uncle.

“Children!” Kate exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Mommy left Daddy again,” the little girl said as if she’d announced nothing more important than what she’d just watched on television. Then, barely missing a beat, she asked, “Can we have some cereal?”

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