CHAPTER ONE

      TERESSA WILDER DEPOSITED her armload of groceries on the kitchen counter and listened to the cadence of her mother’s voice as she read Sarah and Brendon a bedtime story. As a single mom, she didn’t know what she would have done the past six years without her parents’ support. Unfortunately, her mother never let her forget the sacrifices she’d made to help her.

      Two children from two different fathers, and now...

      She grabbed the small white bag from the pharmacy, slipped down the hall into the bathroom and tucked the bag under a stack of towels. No sense in dropping the P bomb until she knew for sure. Her legs gave out, and she dropped down onto the toilet and covered her face with her hands. Who was she trying to kid? She was a baby-making machine. Hence her six-year-old daughter, Sarah, and three-year-old Brendon. She was probably the only almost-virgin with two kids. She could kiss goodbye her lifelong dream of escaping her hometown and becoming a chef in Paris.

      “Teressa?” Her mother tapped on the door. “The children are asleep. Are you all right?”

      No, but she would be. She was an expert at sucking it up. “Of course. Be right out.” She flushed the toilet and splashed cold water on her face before returning to the kitchen.

      She stopped in the doorway to watch her mother put the groceries away. “Don’t bother with the groceries, Mom. You’ve helped enough for one day. Thanks for looking after Sarah and Brendon.”

      She tried to be as independent as possible, paying rent to her parents for the tiny carriage house that hid behind her parents’ big, old family home, and she worked full-time as a cook at the local café. Her café. She may only own a third of it, but having worked there for five years she knew the business better than her other two partners, Sylvie Carson and Adam Hunter.

      “You can’t leave chicken at room temperature too long.”

      Teressa bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue as her mother stashed the chicken breasts in the refrigerator. Her mother meant well, it was just... She was tired and needed to be alone. And she knew more about chicken than her mother, Sylvie, Adam and the whole damned town.

      “Dad’s probably wondering where you are. I’ll put the rest away.”

      Her mother, whom she’d for some reason started to think of by her name, Linda, made one of her sounds of disapproval that she so excelled at. “Dad’s asleep in front of the TV by now. That man.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter shape.

      “Maybe he should have a checkup. How long has it been since he’s seen a doctor?” Her mother was convinced Teressa’s father was the laziest person in their village, but Teressa worried he was the unhappiest. She hadn’t a clue how to help him, because he’d disappeared behind a wall of silence years ago.

      “You know your father and doctors. He’d have to be half-dead before he went to see one. There’s nothing wrong with him that a real job wouldn’t fix.” Linda sniffed her indignation. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t need any more help, I’ll be off.”

      Teressa scooted over to the door and held it open. “Thanks again.”

      Linda zipped up her fleece. “They’re my grandchildren. Of course I’m going to help. Good night, dear. And don’t stay up too late. You look a little peaked.”

      “Good night, Mother.” Teressa let the door swing shut as she went back to the groceries. Did people still use terms like peaked? How about devastated? Bummed out, desperate? Stupid? Yeah, definitely stupid.

      What had she been thinking, having wild, totally out-of-control sex with Dusty Carson? God, he was so hot, there were days she could barely stand to be in the same room with him. Unfortunately, he was also irresponsible and immature. As friends they got along great. And as lovers, too. If their one time together was any indication, there were certainly no problems there. But as partners? Okay, maybe once or twice she’d imagined them together, but her daydreams never lasted because she was talking about Dusty. Mr. Party Boy. His head was as far from marriage and responsibility as it could get. She frowned. Strange that she’d never wondered why he avoided serious relationships.

      She banged the cupboard door shut at the same time the phone rang. Checking the display to make sure it wasn’t doofus-man, she scooped up the phone. It was Anita Carson, doofus-man’s sister-in-law. Teressa didn’t make friends easily, but Anita, Cal Carson’s wife, was the kind of person who slipped under Teressa’s defenses without her noticing. They were slowly becoming good friends, although they were polar opposites. Anita was cool, always unfailingly polite and had a husband who would walk over coals to get to her. Teressa blurted out what was on her mind more often than not and was certain there wasn’t a man on earth who would care enough to take on her and her tribe of children.

      “Hey,” she croaked into the phone.

      “Teressa? Anita here.” Teressa heard the hesitation in Anita’s voice. “Did you pick up the test while you were in town?”

      Teressa tucked the phone under her ear and maneuvered a carton of milk into the refrigerator. “Yup.”

      “And?”

      “And nothing. I just got home. I haven’t had time to take the test.” In the tiny village of Collina, New Brunswick, it was next to impossible to keep a secret, and telling Anita she might be pregnant was the same as telling the entire Carson clan. But a part of her had instinctively known she needed help this time, and it wasn’t likely to come from her mother, so she turned to her new friend for help.

      “Would you like me to come over?”

      “Yes. No. I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and massaged her right temple. “I guess not. If I’m pregnant, I’m going to be a mess, and if I’m not I’m going to be a mess, only a happy mess.”

      Anita was silent for a minute. “I think I should come over. See you in a few minutes.”

      Resigned, Teressa finished putting the groceries away and slipped into the kids’ bedroom to check on them. As usual, the sight of them asleep softened her knot of anxiety. They may have started out as “mistakes,” but they were the best mistakes she’d ever made. She picked up Sarah’s rag doll from the floor and tucked it into bed beside her tiny daughter.

      Sarah had inherited Teressa’s red hair, but instead of being heavy and straight like hers, it corkscrewed out of her head in zany curls. Teressa had talked her into growing it long, hoping the weight would help straighten it, but that idea wasn’t working out so well. It wouldn’t be long before the insults started coming Sarah’s way on the playground. At least she could teach her daughter how to stand up for herself. As a child, it hadn’t taken Teressa long to realize that following her mother’s advice—to ignore what the other kids said and take the high road—wasn’t going to cut it. She’d gotten as good at handing out the insults as receiving them. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and moved across the room to Brendon’s bed.

      As usual he’d kicked off all his blankets. He had his father’s blond curls, and her brown eyes. She put her hand on her stomach. Would this baby have Dusty’s coloring? Dusty had blond hair and blue eyes so beautiful she could spend hours looking at him. He wasn’t movie-star gorgeous; he was a fisherman, after all, and his face was lined from years spent on his boat, and from laughing. Dusty laughed a lot. Often just thinking about him made her smile, but not tonight.

      Being a Carson meant something in the small fishing village of Collina. Not that the Carsons were rich. But Pops Carson was as close as they got to a mayor around here, and everyone respected the family. Growing up, she and Dusty hadn’t run with the same crowd, because he was four years older than she was. But once they hit their twenties, age didn’t matter as