The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire
crinkled in a warm smile. “Where’s Jack?”
“I just put him down for a nap in the guest room,” she told him, her return look just as fond. “But it required a promise that you’d wake him up the minute you got home.”
Home? Did Grant Ashton, the down-to-earth farmer from Nebraska who’d stormed into California demanding to know his real father, consider Louret Vineyards home? Did Anna?
They weren’t living at the house but staying in the cottage and carriage house on the property. Yet they did seem rather settled.
“I’ll get him when he calls,” Grant promised, shaking his head to decline an offer of wine that Jillian made. Again he directed his attention to Paige. “Any news on the investigation?”
No tiptoeing for this big man.
“Nothing concrete,” she said. “The detectives are trying to trail some evidence of blackmail.”
He snorted a little and threw a glance at Anna. “Probably a lot of opportunity for that in the old man’s past.”
Paige swallowed as an uncomfortable silence fell over the lanai. “Yes,” she finally said, looking down at her lap. “I’m sure there is.”
“Hey,” Grant’s voice pulled her gaze back up to his. “Whatever he was, it sure isn’t something his kids need to take the blame for.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak. Here was yet another half brother touching her heart. For one wild, insane moment, Paige wondered what it could be like if all these families—all these smart, talented, ambitious and dynamic offspring of one man—could actually live in some semblance of peace.
Was that too much to ask?
Paige gave him a smile of genuine warmth. “I appreciate that, Grant.”
With a barely noticeable sigh, Caroline stood and excused herself, and suddenly the impromptu lunch party came to an end. As Paige pushed her chair back, she reached down to pick up her handbag and happened to take a quick glance under the table.
In that flash of a second, she could have sworn she saw Anna’s tiny hand enclosed in the much bigger one of Grant Ashton.
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