Dear Santa. Karen Templeton

and Justine. Not that he was particularly comfortable with that option, but the alternative—hurting her all over again before she’d had a chance to completely heal—was untenable.

      And why was it bugging him to no end that she hadn’t yet made up her mind whether to stay or not?

      “Grant.”

      Squelching a sigh, he smiled down into pale blue eyes.

      “Mother.” Noticing her hands were empty, he offered to get her a drink.

      She shook her head. “No, thank you, if I’d wanted a drink I could have gotten it myself.” The archetype of the fit, privileged Connecticut matron in her slim-skirted charcoal-gray suit and double strand of pearls, she frowned in Mia’s direction. At least, as much as her chemically enhanced epidermis would allow.

      “I still don’t understand why you’re fostering that relationship.”

      “Because Mia has a way with Haley that I don’t.” Grant took a sip of his own tepid, watered-down Scotch and soda, lifting his other hand to ward off his mother’s inevitable protest. “And right now, she needs people around who are only thinking of her.”

      “And I’m not? Honestly, Grant—she’s so…pedestrian. Who are her people?”

      “Nobody you’d know, Mother,” he said quietly, his mother’s snobbery, misplaced though it may have been, the least of his concerns at the moment. “I believe her father’s a retired policeman. In Springfield.”

      “That accounts for the accent, I suppose.”

      “Yes, the Kennedys found their Massachusetts drawl a terrible handicap.”

      His mother smirked, snagging a soft drink from a passing waiter. How Mia had managed a waitstaff on such short notice, he had no idea. “Be that as it may, she’s no Kennedy.” As Grant put a hammerlock on the comeback begging to be let loose, she said, “I mean, I know she graduated from one of the top schools—she’d have to for Hinkley-Cohen to hire her, wouldn’t she?—but has she made partner yet?”

      “Actually, she left the firm. A couple of years ago. To start her own business.”

      “Really? Doing what?”

      Grant swallowed the sip in his mouth. “Planning parties.”

      “Parties?” His mother snorted a dry, delicate laugh, then set her unfinished drink down on a nearby table. “Ivy League degree or not, the girl clearly doesn’t have a grain of common sense.”

      “It’s her life, Mother,” Grant said, the heat in his words taking him by surprise. “What she does with that life is no one’s business but hers. And not only has she worked wonders with Haley over the past few days, but if it hadn’t been for Mia coming to the rescue with this reception, I’m sure Etta would have walked out the front door, never to be seen again.”

      “Not that that would have been much of a loss,” Bitsy muttered. “And besides, it doesn’t exactly take a law degree to order a few cold cut trays from Katz’s.” Bitsy checked her watch, then patted him on the arm. “I need to get back, I’d invited the Hendersons for dinner weeks ago, it would have been beyond rude to cancel on them this late in the game. But if you need anything, let me know.”

      How about a do-over on my childhood? Grant thought irritably as he watched her leave.

      Although it wasn’t yet fully dark by the time the last guest left, Grant could tell the day had taken its toll on his daughter. In fact, when Mia asked her if she was ready for her bath, she’d given a nod that had clearly used up her last ounce of reserve. Mia—once divested of her Grace Kelly outfit that his mother clearly saw as just a thrift shop rag and back in her customary baggy jeans and sweatshirt—volunteered to do the honors. But a half hour later, she came downstairs and strongly suggested that Grant tuck Haley in.

      Over the panic slicing through him, she added, “Especially since I’ve done it the past two nights.”

      “I know, but…she’s more comfortable with you.”

      “For the love of Pete, Grant—who put her to bed all those nights she spent with you?”

      “Etta, usually.”

      “That’s beyond sad. You know, my father drives all his kids crazy on a regular basis, but at least he tries to communicate with us. Even if half the time we’re not exactly thrilled with the message. Well, bud, you’ve got to start the bonding process sometime. And four years late is better than never.” Then she startled him by adding, “There’s a good father in there somewhere, Grant. It’s okay to let him out.”

      Their eyes locked for an unsettling moment or two before, on a not-very-squelched sigh, Grant headed upstairs to Haley’s room. She was lying on her back in her bed, the toy lion propped on her tummy. From what he could tell they were having quite the conversation. When she noticed Grant, however, her head whipped around, a small wrinkle marring the space between her brows.