She studied at each brother in turn, the hope trans.m.u.ting into dawning joy. "By whom was I recommended?"

"All three of us," Mac said. "And Bronco."

"If I take what you're offering, I'd leave Trent shorthanded," she said, hoping it would force Trent to say something. To at least look at her.

"You can work out the timing of this with him," Mac said, rising. "I'll get a revised version of the corporate organization chart together, and James can let Gail know we'll need new a.s.sociates in corporate, family, and the newly created ADR Departments."

He left, clapping Trent hard on the shoulder on the way out, probably Mac's version of the happy dance.

"I'm not sure leaving you two unchaperoned is a good idea," James said. "Seems to me more like a great idea." He left as well, pa.s.sing his hand over Hannah's hair as he went.

"Are we supposed to carry on like a pair of minks now?" Hannah asked. She hadn't accepted the position, a detail neither James nor Mac seemed concerned about.

Trent shifted to sit on the table beside Hannah's chair.

"I ran this by your folks, Hannah, and they thought it was a splendid idea. You can't try cases in front of Louise anyway, and n.o.body would have looked forward to opposing you, given your family connections."

She had folks now, and family connections. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year forever-but did she have Trent? "Was this about my family connections?"

"In a way, yes."

Hannah folded her arms and laid her head in Trent's lap. Sleepovers had made her cuddly. Next, the thought of cheesy sh.e.l.ls would inspire her to purring.

"Honest reply, Counselor Knightley, but a little high-handed of you, cooking this up without telling me."

"I had to be sure it was truly a good idea, and not wishful thinking on my part. Mac said he'd been considering something similar, and James told me there's more money to be made in corporate arbitration than I ever dreamed of."

"Let's hope you're all right. I don't ever want to set foot in a courtroom again."

Silence settled as Trent smoothed Hannah's hair back over her shoulder. She wore it down now, the entire bun-and-barrettes drill having lost its appeal.

"What about a courthouse?" Trent asked quietly.

"Hmm?"

The rhythmic motion of his hand soothed Hannah's nerves, and tension she'd held inside for days unraveled. She wouldn't have to change jobs. She wouldn't have to leave the Knightleys' practice, and she wouldn't ever, ever have to litigate beyond the cases she'd handle for Trent over the next little while.

Neither would she have to worry that legal matters would come between her and Trent.

"I should be mad at you," she said, eyes drifting closed. "Letting me stew and worry and fret. What did you say about a courthouse?"

"I was hoping your allergy to courtrooms did not extend to the whole courthouse." His hand disappeared.

Hannah sat up and blinked. "What are you up to now, Trenton Knightley?"

"Let's talk about your schedule for the next few weeks. Your predecessor in my department was safely delivered of a slightly premature but healthy baby over the holidays. She expects to be back by the end of February. You willing to hang around family law that long?"

"Sure." Trent was holding out on her. Hannah could tell because he still wasn't meeting her gaze. Some of her anxiety crept back. "I guess that means I should be free to jump into this Alternative Dispute Resolution business by about March."

"March, it is. I think I can stand it that long."

"Stand what?" Hannah asked, her lawyer hackles coming up.

"Stand not being married to you, yet. While you still work for me, in a sense."

Yet...in a sense. Married. Married?

Hannah reared back in her chair. "Married, as in, married at the courthouse?"

"As in exactly that."

"You discussed this with my folks too, didn't you?" Her folks, who'd been all smiles and knowing glances when Hannah had had them over for dinner last night.

Trent didn't even look embarra.s.sed. "I need reinforcements sometimes too, Stark, particularly when the stakes are the highest I've ever faced."

"You brought it up with the girls?"

"Not yet. Not with the unicorns, either-did I tell you I think Trailclimber is a mare? We should talk to the children together, if you agree. I'm pretty sure they've already drawn some conclusions of their own."

He was nervous, and Hannah hated that, but she had one more question.

"Did you tell your brothers you had marital plans for the head of the newly hatched Alternative Resolution Department?"

"They love you," Trent said. "Even Mac said I'd be a d.a.m.ned fool to let you and Grace slip through my fingers." He smiled, suggesting Mac had said a bit more than that.

"Well, then, no."

Trent hung his head, then nodded once before shoving off the table and turning to leave.

Hannah's voice stopped him, though she had to speak to his back.

"No, I will not wait until March to marry the man I love, the man who has saved my hopes and my heart. The man who has found a way to reconcile our philosophical differences without sacrificing our professional integrity. I will not wait until March"-Hannah took an unsteady breath-"to marry the man who is the father my daughter should have had, and the husband I dearly need and want. I can't wait that long. I need him too much. Right now."

Hannah was afraid Trent wouldn't turn around, terrified despite his words and his deeds, he'd walk right out that door, taking her heart with him. She'd been rejected before, rejected and rejected and rejected.

She went to him and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his back. "Please, Trent?"

His arms closed around her, his embrace familiar and treasured. "They make you wait forty-eight hours for a license, and you have to pay cash."

"I have the cash. Race you to the car."

They were married at the county courthouse exactly fifty-two hours later. Attending as witnesses were the firm's two other partners, Judges Halverston and Merriman, both girls, and according to Grace, one smiling, spotted, winged white unicorn.

Order Grace Burrowes's next book

in the Sweetest Kisses series

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The First Kiss

A year in divorce purgatory had taught Vera Waltham two lessons.

First lesson: When her ex acted like an idiot, she was allowed to be angry-she was getting good at it, in fact.

Second lesson: Vera could rely, absolutely and without hesitation, on her attorney's word. If Trent Knightley said somebody would soon be on her doorstep with a copy of the restraining order, that somebody was already headed her way.

Vera's emergency automotive repair service was a shakier bet.

"Ma'am, if this is the number where you can be reached, we'll call you back when we've located a mechanic in your immediate area."

"In my immediate area, you'll find cows, chickens, and the occasional fat groundhog. The truck is sitting in my garage."

"Then this isn't a roadside emergency?" The dispatcher clearly had raised small children, for she'd hit the balance between dismay and shaming smack on the nose.

"I'm stranded without wheels, nothing but open fields, bad weather, and my lawyer's phone number to comfort me. Please get somebody out to fix that tire, ASAP."

Vera was stranded in her own toasty kitchen, but what if Twy came home from school with a sore throat? Long walk to the urgent care in freezing temperatures, that's what, because bucolic Damson County boasted no rural taxi service.

"We'll do the best we can, ma'am. Please stay near your phone until a mechanic calls you back."

"Thanks. I'll do that."

The line went dead, which meant the next step was locating the truck's owner's manual. Vera was still nose down in a description of something called the spare brace a.s.sembly when wheels crunched on the crushed gravel of her driveway.

An SUV pulled up at the foot of her steps, and a man in a sheepskin jacket and cowboy hat got out.

Could be a mechanic. He was broad-shouldered, he drove a motorhead's sort of vehicle, and he wasn't wearing gloves.

A pianist noticed hands. His were holding a signature Hartman and Whitney navy blue folder. When he rapped on Vera's door, she undid all three dead bolts and opened it.

Not Trent Knightley, but a close resemblance suggested Vera beheld one of the brothers with whom he shared a law practice. Same blue, blue eyes; same lean, muscular height; same wavy hair, though this guy was blond rather than dark.

"h.e.l.lo," she said, opening the door wider. "You're either from Hartman and Whitney, or you're the best dressed truck mechanic I've ever seen."

"James Knightley. Pleased to meet you." He stepped over the threshold, removed his hat, and hung it on the bra.s.s coatrack. "Trent asked me to bring you a copy of a restraining order. He said it was urgent."

"My thanks, Mr. Knightley." Vera closed the door behind him and shot the dead bolts, then extended her hand in antic.i.p.ation of gaining possession of a copy of the court order.

Instead, Vera's hand was enveloped by a big male paw, one graced with calluses she would not have expected to find on a lawyer.

James Knightley had manners-also warm hands. When he'd tended to the civilities-firm grip, not out to prove anything-he pa.s.sed her the blue folder.

Vera flipped it open, needing to see with her own eyes that he'd brought her the right court order.

"Was there a reason to get it certified?" she asked.

"The courthouse was on my way here. If you needed a certified copy, then nothing less would do."

Consideration and an eye for details were delightful qualities in any man.

As were warm hands and a mellow baritone voice.

"May I offer you a cup of tea, some hot chocolate? It's cold out, and this errand has brought you several miles from town." Vera offered out of basic good manners, but also because anger eventually burned itself out, while a front tire on her only serviceable vehicle was still slashed, and the intricacies of the spare brace a.s.sembly thingie had yet to reveal themselves to her.

Then too, James Knightley had something of his brother's rea.s.suring air. Maybe lawyers took cla.s.ses in how to be rea.s.suring, the way a pianist took a master cla.s.s in Brahms or Rachmaninoff.

As he unb.u.t.toned his jacket, James glanced around at the foyer's twelve-foot ceilings, the crown molding, the beveled gla.s.s in the windows on either side of the foyer. Vera had the sense he did this not with a mercenary eye-not pricing property in antic.i.p.ation of litigation-but rather with the slow, thorough appraisal of the craftsman. Pine dowels in the cross beam, handmade stained gla.s.s insets for the oriel window-he inspected these, the way Vera had to stop and listen for a moment to any piano playing in any venue, however faintly.

"A cup of hot chocolate would hit the spot," he said, shrugging out of his jacket. "Trent said you had a lovely old house, and he did not lie."

That smile.

Good heavens, that smile. Trent Knightley was tall, dark, and handsome, a charming and very intelligent man whom Vera had happily flaunted in Donal's face, but this James...

He left a subtly more masculine impression. Donal would hate him on sight.

James's gaze held a warmth Trent's had lacked, at least when aimed at Vera. His smile reached his eyes, eyes a peculiarly dark shade of blue fringed with long lashes.

Vera had no business admiring a man's eyelashes, for the love of St. Peter. Or his hands, or his voice.

"To the kitchen, then," she said, leading James through the music room and into the back of the house. "My favorite room in the house."

"I'd guess this place predates the Civil War. Did you have a lot of work done?"

"I intend to raise my daughter here, so I had the house fitted out exactly as I wanted it." Right down to the security system, which had done her absolutely no good earlier that very afternoon.

"I have a renovated farmhouse of my own. Every night when I tool up my driveway, and she's sitting under the oaks waiting for me in all her drafty splendor, I am glad to call her mine."

A poet lawyer, who composed odes to his farmhouse. Different, indeed.