Sweet Talk. Susan Mallery

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      To my agent, Annelise Robey.With heartfelt thanks for all the support and hard work.

      You’re amazing and I adore working with you. Here’s to

      all the success in the world … for both of us!

      CHAPTER ONE

      CLAIRE KEYES jumped to answer the phone when it rang, deciding an angry call from her manager was more appealing than sorting the pile of dirty clothes in the middle of her living room.

      “Hello?”

      “Hi. Um, Claire? It’s Jesse.”

      Not her manager, Claire thought, relieved. “Jesse who?”

      “Your sister.”

      Claire kicked aside a blouse and sank onto the sofa. “Jesse?” she breathed. “It’s really you?”

      “Uh-huh. Surprise.”

      Surprise didn’t begin to describe it. Claire hadn’t seen her baby sister in years. Not since their father’s funeral when she’d tried to connect with all the family she had left only to be told that she wasn’t welcome, would never be welcome and that if she was hit by a bus, neither Jesse nor Nicole, Claire’s fraternal twin, would bother to call for help.

      Claire still remembered being so stunned by the verbal attack that she’d actually stopped breathing. She’d felt as if she’d been beaten up and left on the side of the road. Jesse and Nicole were her family. How could they reject her like that?

      Not knowing what else to do, she’d left town and never returned. That had been seven years ago.

      “So,” Jesse said with a cheer that seemed forced. “How are you?”

      Claire shook her head, trying to clear it, then glanced at the messy apartment. There were dirty clothes piled thigh-high in her living room, open suitcases by the piano, a stack of mail she couldn’t seem to face and a manager ready to skin her alive if that would get her to do what she wanted.

      “I’m great,” she lied. “And you?”

      “Too fabulous for words. But here’s the thing. Nicole isn’t.”

      Claire tightened her grip on the phone. “What’s wrong with her?”

      “Nothing … yet. She’s going to have surgery. Her gallbladder. There’s something weird about the placement or whatever. I can’t remember. Anyway, she can’t have that easy surgery with the tiny incisions. The lapi-something.”

      “Laparoscopic,” Claire murmured absently, eyeing the clock. She was due at her lesson in thirty minutes.

      “That one. Instead, they’re going to be slicing her open like a watermelon, which means a longer recovery time. With the bakery and all, that’s a problem. Normally I’d step in to help, but I can’t right now. Things are … complicated. So we were talking and Nicole wondered if you would like to come back home and take care of things. She would really appreciate it.”

      Home, Claire thought longingly. She could go home. Back to the house she barely remembered but that had always placed so large in her dreams.

      “I thought you and Nicole hated me,” she whispered, wanting to hope but almost afraid to.

      “We were upset before. It was an emotional time. Seriously, we’ve been talking about getting in touch with you for a while now. Nicole would have, um, called herself, but she’s not feeling well and she was afraid you’d say no. She’s not in a place to handle that right now.”

      Claire stood. “I would never say no. Of course I’ll come home. I really want to. You’re my family. Both of you.”

      “Great. When can you get here?”

      Claire looked around at the disaster that was her life and thought about the angry calls from Lisa, her manager. There was also the master class she was supposed to attend and the few she had to teach at the end of the week.

      “Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I can be there tomorrow.”

      “JUST SHOOT ME now,” Nicole Keyes said as she wiped down the kitchen counters. “I mean it, Wyatt. You must have a gun. Do it. I’ll write a note saying it’s not your fault.”

      “Sorry. No guns at my house.”

      None in hers, either, she thought glumly, then tossed the dishcloth back into the sink.

      “The timing couldn’t be worse for my stupid surgery,” she muttered. “They’re telling me I can’t go back to work for six weeks. Six. The bakery isn’t going to run itself. And don’t you dare say anything

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