Elizabeth Bevarly - A Ceo In Her Stocking

He nodded. “One of the guards named you after the warden’s mother because your own mother didn’t name you at all.” Wow. She’d had no idea he would dig that deep. All he’d had to do was make sure she was gainfully employed, reasonably well educated and didn’t have a criminal record herself. He hadn’t needed to bring her— She stopped herself before thinking the word family , since the people who had donated her genetic material might be related to her, but they would never be family. Anyway, he hadn’t needed to learn about them, too. They’d had nothing to do with her life after generating it.

“And I know that after she and your father were convicted,” he continued in a low tone of his own, “there was no one else in the family able to care for you.”

Thankfully, he left out the part about how that was because the rest of her relatives were either addicted, incarcerated or missing. Though she didn’t doubt he knew all that, too. She listened for traces of contempt or revulsion in his voice but heard neither. He was as matter-of-fact about the unpleasant circumstances of her birth and parentage as he would have been were he reading a how-to manual for replacing a carburetor. As matter-of-fact about those things as she was herself, really. She should probably give him kudos for that. It bothered Clara, though—a lot—that he knew so many details about her origins.

Which was something else to add to the That’s Weird list, because she had never really cared about anyone knowing those details before. She would have even told Brent, if he’d asked. She knew it wasn’t her fault that her parents weren’t the cream of society. And she didn’t ask to be born, especially into a situation like that. She’d done her best to not let any of it hold her back, and she thought she’d done a pretty good job.

Evidently, Grant didn’t hold her background against her, either, because when he spoke again, it was in that same even tone. “You spent your childhood mostly in foster care, but in some group homes and state homes, too. When they cut you loose at eighteen, where a lot of kids would have hit the streets and gotten into trouble, you got those three jobs and that college degree. Last year, you bought the bakery where you were working when its owner retired, and you’ve already made it more profitable. Just barely, but profit is an admirable accomplishment. Especially in this economic climate. So bravo, Clara Easton.”

His praise made her feel as if she was suddenly the cream of society. More weirdness. “Thanks,” she said.

He met her gaze longer than was necessary for acknowledgment, and the jumble of feelings inside her got jumbled up even more. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.

Their gazes remained locked for another telling moment—at least, it was telling for Clara, but what it mostly told her was that it had been way too long since she’d been out on a date—then she made herself look back at the scene in the bedroom. By now, Francesca was seated on the floor alongside Hank, holding the base of a freeform creation that he was building out in a new direction—sideways.

“He’ll never be an engineer at this rate,” Clara said. “That structure is in no way sound.”

“What do you think he will be?” Grant asked.

“I have no clue,” she replied. “He’ll be whatever he decides he wants to be.”

When she looked at Grant again, he was still studying her with great interest. But there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Clara had no idea how she knew it, but in that moment, she did: Grant Dunbarton wasn’t a happy guy. Even with all the money, beauty and privilege he had in his life.

She opened her mouth to say something—though, honestly, she wasn’t really sure what—when Hank called out, “Mama! I need you to hold this part that Grammy can’t!”

Francesca smiled. “Hank’s vision is much too magnificent for a mere four hands. My grandson is brilliant, obviously.”

Clara smiled back. Hank was still fine-tuning his small motor skills and probably would be for some time. But she appreciated Francesca’s bias.

She looked at Grant. “C’mon. You should help, too. If I know Hank, this thing is going to get even bigger.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Grant Dunbarton looked rattled. He took a step backward, as if in retreat, even though all she’d done was invite him to join in playtime. She might as well have just asked him to drink hemlock, so clear was his aversion.

“Ah, thanks, but, no,” he stammered. He took another step backward, into the hallway. “I... I have a lot of, uh, work. That I need to do. Important work. For work.”

“Oh,” she said, still surprised by the swiftness with which he lost his composure. Even more surprising was the depth of her disappointment that he was leaving. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you later, then. I mean... Hank and I will see you later.”

He nodded once—or maybe it was a twitch—then took another step that moved him well and truly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Clara went the other way, taking her seat on the other side of Hank. When she looked back at the door, though, Grant still hadn’t left to do all the important work that he needed to do. Instead, he stood in the hallway gazing at her and Hank and Francesca.

And, somehow, Clara couldn’t help thinking he looked less like a high-powered executive who needed to get back to work than he did a little boy who hadn’t been invited to the party.

* * *

Grant hadn’t felt like a child since... Well, he couldn’t remember feeling like a child even when he was a child. And he certainly hadn’t since his father’s death shortly after his tenth birthday. But damned if he didn’t feel like one now, watching Clara and her son play on the floor with his mother. It was the way a child felt when he was picked last in gym or ate alone at lunch. Which was nuts, because he’d excelled at sports, and he’d had plenty of friends in school. The fact that they were sports he hadn’t really cared about excelling at—but that looked good on a college application—and the fact that he’d never felt all that close to his friends was beside the point.

So why did he suddenly feel so dejected? And so rejected by Clara? Hell, she’d invited him to join them. And how could she be rejecting him when he hadn’t even asked her for anything?

Oh, for God’s sake. This really was nuts. He should be working. He should have been working the entire time he was standing here revisiting a past it was pointless to revisit. He’d become the CEO of Dunbarton Industries the minute the ink on his MBA dried and hadn’t stopped for so much as a coffee break since. Staying home today to meet Clara and Hank with his mother was the first nonholiday weekday he’d spent away from the office in years.

He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t even noon. He’d lost less than half a day. He could still go in to the office and get way more done than he would trying to work here. He’d only stayed home in case Clara turned out to be less, ah, stable than her résumé let on and created a problem. But the woman was a perfectly acceptable candidate for mothering a Dunbarton. Well, as an individual, she was. Her family background, on the other hand...

Grant wasn’t a snob. At least, he didn’t think he was. But when he’d discovered Clara was born in a county jail, and that her parents were currently doing time for other crimes they’d committed... Well, suffice it to say felony convictions weren’t exactly pluses on the social register. Nor were they the kind of thing he wanted associated with the Dunbarton name. Not that Hank went by Dunbarton. Well, not yet, anyway. Grant was sure his mother would get around to broaching the topic of changing his last name to theirs eventually. And he was sure Clara would capitulate. What mother wouldn’t want her child to bear one of the most respected names in the country?