A Father for Her Triplets. SUSAN MEIER
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Praise for Susan Meier
“Meier’s characters are realistic and likable
in this great story about dealing with life’s blows.”
—RT Book Reviews on Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins
“The strong attraction between Shannon and Rory,
of caution and mixed with the perfect blend of caution and
hesitation, makes their relationship really sizzle.”
—RT Book Reviews on Kisses on her Christmas List
“Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins packs in a power house of emotions, it’s heartbreaking yet truly heartwarming.”? —Harlequin Junkie on Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins
She walked into the kitchen. “What’s this?”
Everybody froze at the sound of her voice.
Wyatt said, “What did we practise?”
All three kids shouted, “Happy Mother’s Day.”
Owen raced over and caught her around the knees, hugging for all he was worth. Claire bounced off the stepstool and ran over too.
Lainie danced to the flowers. “These are yours.”
Her heart stuttered. Tears pricked her eyelids. She pressed her fingers to her lips and swallowed. Four Mother’s Days had come and gone with no recognition, and truth be told she’d been too busy to notice. If anything, she mourned her mom on Mother’s Day.
How could a man who thought to help her kids get her flowers for Mother’s Day, a man who was making her breakfast which she could smell was now burning, think he wasn’t nice?
She peeked over at Wyatt. “Thanks.”
Flipping scrambled eggs which smoked when he shifted them, he said, “It was nothing.”
It was everything. But she couldn’t tell him that.
About the Author
SUSAN MEIER spent most of her twenties thinking she was a job-hopper—until she began to write and realised everything that had come before was only research! One of eleven children, with twenty-four nieces and nephews and three kids of her own, Susan has had plenty of real-life experience watching romance blossom in unexpected ways. She lives in western Pennsylvania with her wonderful husband, Mike, three children, and two over-fed, well-cuddled cats, Sophie and Fluffy. You can visit Susan’s website at: www.susanmeier.com
A Father for Her Triplets
Susan Meier
For the real Owen, Helaina and Claire…
Thanks for being so adorable I had to write about you.
CHAPTER ONE
THE BEST PART OF BEING rich was, of course, the toys. There wasn’t anything Wyatt McKenzie wanted that he didn’t have.
Gliding along the winding road that led to Newland, Maryland, on a warm April morning, he revved the engine of his big black motorcycle and grinned. He loved the toys.
The second best thing about being rich was the power. Not that he could start a war, or control the lives of the people who depended upon him for work and incomes. The power he loved was the power he had over his own schedule.
Take right now, for instance. His grandmother had died the month before, and it was time to clear out her house for sale. The family could have hired someone, but Grandma McKenzie had a habit of squirreling away cash and hiding jewelry. When none of her family heirloom jewelry was found in her Florida town house, Wyatt’s mother believed it was still in her house in Maryland. And Wyatt had volunteered to make the thousand-mile trip back “home” to search her house.
His mother could have come. She’d actually know more about what she was looking for. But his divorce had become final the week before. After four years fighting over money, his now ex-wife had agreed to settle for thirty percent interest in his company.
His company. She’d cheated on him. Lied to him. Tried to undermine his authority. And she got thirty percent of everything he’d worked for? It wasn’t right.
But it also hurt. They’d been married for four years before the trouble started. He’d thought she was happy.
He needed some time to get over his anger with her and the hurt, so he could get on with the rest of his life. Looking for jewelry a thousand miles away was as good an excuse as any to take a break, relax and forget about the past.
So he’d given himself an entire month vacation simply by telling his assistant he was leaving and wouldn’t be back for four weeks. He didn’t have to remind Arnie that his gram had died. He didn’t have to say his divorce was final. He didn’t have to make any excuse or give any reason at all. He just said, “I’m going. See you next month.”
He revved the engine again as he swung the bike off the highway and onto the exit ramp for Newland, the town he’d grown up in. After buying the company that published his graphic novels, he’d moved his whole family to Florida to enjoy life in the sun. His parents had made trips home. Gram had spent entire summers here. But Wyatt hadn’t even been home for a visit in fifteen long years. Now, he was back. A changed man. A rich man. Not the geeky kid everybody “liked” but sort of made fun of. Not the skinny nerd who never got picked for the team in gym class. But a six-foot-one, two-hundred-pound guy who not only worked out, he’d also turned his geekiness into a fortune.
He laughed. He could only imagine the reception he was about to get.
Two sweeping turns took him to Main Street, then one final turn took him to his grandmother’s street. He saw the aging Cape Cod immediately. Gables and blue shutters accented the white siding. A row of overgrown hedges bordered the driveway, giving a measure of privacy from the almost identical Cape Cod next door. The setup was cute. Simple. But that was the way everybody in Newland lived. Simply. They had nice, quiet lives. Not like the hustle and bustle of work and entertainment—cocktail parties and picnics, Jet Skis and fund-raisers—he and his family lived with on the Gulf Coast.
He roared into the driveway and cut the engine. After tucking his helmet under his arm, he rummaged in his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. He slid them on, walked to the old-fashioned wooden garage door and yanked it open with a grunt. No lock or automatic garage door for his grandmother. Newland was safe as well as quiet. Another thing very different from where he currently lived. The safety of a small town. Knowing your neighbors. Liking your neighbors.
He missed that.
The stale scent of a closed-up garage wafted out to him, and he waved it away as he strode back to his bike.
“Hey, Mithter.”
He stopped, glanced around. Not seeing anybody, he headed to his bike again.
“Hey, Mithter.”
This time the voice was louder. When he stopped, he followed the sound of the little-boy lisp and found himself looking into the big brown eyes of a kid who couldn’t have been more than four years old. Standing in a small gap in the hedges, he grinned up at Wyatt.
“Hi.”
“Hey, kid.”
“Is that your bike?”
“Yeah.” Wyatt took the two steps over to the little boy and pulled back the hedge so he could see him. His light brown hair was cut short and spiked out in a few directions. Smudges of dirt stained his