leading to the porch no longer sagged in the middle. Terra cotta flower pots filled with petunias, snapdragons and vinca lined the steps in welcome, and the huge, green lawn stretched out on either side of the house before giving way to uncultivated wilderness.
She could think of dozens of descriptions, but only one word came to mind.
Home.
“Here we go, baby.”
She patted her tummy, then grabbed her purse and climbed from the car, leaving her suitcases behind in the trunk. Big, burly brothers were good for a few things, after all. And Sophia didn’t doubt her brothers would be at the house. Sunday night dinners were legendary in the Pirelli household. Her mother always made enough food to feed an army. And over the years, between her brothers’ friends, girlfriends and later, at least in Nick’s case, family, an army of guests had frequently shown up, often out of the blue.
And Vanessa Pirelli always greeted her guests—expected or not—with a smile and a homemade meal.
“Spaghetti,” Sophia whispered as she walked toward the front door. “Please be having spaghetti.”
Not only because she’d missed her mother’s spaghetti, unable to imitate the handed-down family recipe no matter how many times she tried, but because the meal was her brothers’ favorite. Her mother often joked that a bomb could go off, and none of them would drop a fork.
Sophia hoped her mother was right, and she could drop a couple of her bombs without her brothers going ballistic. Sam, any chance you’ll save some meatballs for the rest of us … and oh, by the way, I was fired from my job. Drew, pass the milk, will you? I’m supposed to get more calcium, being pregnant and all.
And her parents … she could already imagine the disappointment in their eyes.
Her insides churning, her steps had slowed to a shuffle as she crossed the porch. The hoped-for aroma of simmering tomato sauce and garlic bread didn’t immediately tease her senses as she opened the front door and stepped inside. Sophia sniffed, but she couldn’t smell anything cooking at all. Nor did she hear the usual sounds of a Pirelli dinner, the clink of glasses, the scrape of silverware against china, the arguments between Nick and Drew over sports, the arguments between Sam and everyone over anything.
The updates to the outside of the house continued inside. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath a new coat of stain and faintly striped wallpaper brought out the floral patterns in the chintz sofa and armchairs. But the focal point of the room, a family portrait hanging above the red brick fireplace mantel, remained.
Taken several years ago, the portrait showed her three brothers in back. Nick, the oldest, was in the middle, flanked on either side by Drew, who shared Nick’s dark coloring, and by Sam, the only blond-haired one in the bunch. Her parents were seated in front of the boys—her father, an older, leaner version of his sons, his thick dark hair sprinkled with gray and laugh lines around his dark-brown eyes, and her mother, as petite as her husband and sons were tall, her chestnut hair cut in a sleek bob to frame her round face and green eyes. Sophia sat front and center, her dark hair longer back then, smiling at the camera with all the confidence of an eighteen-year-old kid ready to conquer the world.
Sophia sighed. Little had she known.
Walking toward the back of the house, she expected to find some member of her family—her parents would never dream of eating out on a Sunday night. But the comfortable kitchen, with its oak cabinets, matching table and chairs and green gingham accents, was empty.
Sophia turned in a circle, feeling somewhat lost in her childhood home, until the sound of laughter rang in the distance. With a glance at the back door, she smiled despite the churning in her stomach. Of course. The weather was perfect for a barbecue, and grilling outdoors was the one chance her mother had in getting someone else to cook a meal.
Plastering on a smile, Sophia opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch. “Hey, everybody, I’m home,” she announced, preparing for the usual enthusiastic greetings that never failed to disguise the worry and question in her family’s eyes.
Shouts of “Sweetheart!” “Squirt!” and “Fifi!” rang out, the last despised nickname coming from Sam, who called her that only to annoy her.
But one voice she never expected to hear spoke quietly in her ear. “Hello, Sophia.”
Speechless, she turned and gazed into Jake Cameron’s amber eyes.
Chapter Two
Jake Cameron. Here. At her parents’ house. With her family. Wearing—was that her mother’s apron? Sophia blinked hard, twice, but when she opened her eyes, Jake still stood mere inches away, his expression serious despite the frilly white apron covered by pink potbellied pigs.
She was dreaming. Her foolish, foolish wish of having Jake accompany her to her parents’ house had slipped into her subconscious, where she was too vulnerable to keep the ridiculous hope at bay. That was the only possible explanation. She was still asleep at some by-the-highway hotel, her face smashed into a cheap pillow, having a doozy of a nightmare. The breeze carried the scent of charcoal and the sounds of her family’s greetings, but none of it was real.
Jake even looked as he always did in her dreams—too tempting for her peace of mind and too good to be true, she thought, her hungry gaze taking in rugged features that had become breathtakingly familiar in such a short time. The setting sun burnished his brown hair, bringing out the highlights in the slightly shaggy strands, and turning his skin to gold. Faint lines fanned out from his whiskey-colored eyes, hinting at a smile that could flash lightning quick or start her body on a slow burn with sexy, seductive deliberation.
If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the heated promise of his lips against hers in intoxicating kisses that made her forget the harsh lessons of the past. But she didn’t need to close her eyes because she was already asleep. Sophia was sure of it …
Until Jake reached out, trailed his fingers down the all-too-sensitive inside of her arm and took her hand. Her heart slammed in her chest, hard enough to stop its beat and steal her breath, and Sophia knew this was happening, this was real. Because nothing—not a dream, not a nightmare, not a figment of her imagination—could affect her like this.
Nothing but living, breathing, flesh-and-blood Jake Cameron could make her feel this way.
Sophia jerked her hand from his as she choked out in a whisper, “What—what are you doing here?”
Before Jake had the chance to answer, Sam bounded up the back steps to the small landing. “We didn’t know you’d be bringing company, but hey! More the merrier!” Sam slapped Jake on the back hard enough to knock a smaller man aside, but Jake absorbed the blow with little reaction. Her brother dropped a kiss on her cheek as he brushed by. “Good to see you, Fifi. And about time, too.”
Sophia could barely manage a response to her brother’s greeting. She’d imagined dozens of scenarios where she had a chance to confront Jake Cameron and let him have it for lying to her. In those somewhat vengeful daydreams, she was sharp, clever and cutting enough to bring him to his knees. Never, though, in any of those scenes had she pictured a moment like this.
“Let me guess,” she said, a hint of hysteria creeping into her voice, “the apron was Sam’s idea.”
Jake glanced down at the parade of pigs. “He said it was the only one.” His knowing
