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be, she’s still your mother. She loves you both, and she deserves your respect. Are we clear on that?”
    “Yes, sir,” they mumbled obediently.
    “Good.” Sterling paused, carefully choosing his next words. “There are things about me and your mother…things about our relationship that you boys are too young to understand. But just because we argue, that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. We just see certain things differently, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
    When Michael and Marcus traded dubious looks, Sterling heaved a resigned sigh. His sons were too smart, too intuitive, to swallow the sugarcoated explanation he was trying to feed them.
    Staring down at his can of beer, he decided to level with them. “Your mother and I are having problems. Serious problems. We’re going to do everything we can to work through them because we love each other, and we love both of you, and we want to keep our family together. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make everything instantly better, but I can’t. What I can tell you is that no matter what happens, we’re all going to be okay because we’re family, and nothing will ever change that.”
    When he’d finished speaking, his throat was tight, and the boys’ eyes were bright with unshed tears. As if they sensed that life as they knew it was about to come to an end.
    “I wish we could go back to Mama Wolf’s house,” Marcus said glumly.
    “Me too, Dad,” Michael agreed. “You and Ma were happier there.” Remembering Celeste’s entreaty for them to move to Savannah, Sterling smiled at his sons and said quietly, “As your wise great-grandmother used to tell me and your uncle, ‘Happiness doesn’t come from where you lay your head. It comes from where you lay your heart.’ ”

Chapter Seven
    Celeste paused outside the open doorway at the end of the darkened hospital corridor. Her heart was drumming erratically, and her hands were damp with perspiration as she stared at the brass nameplate on the door.
    DR. GRANT J. RUTHERFORD, M.D., NEUROSURGERY.
    After not seeing him for over a week, she’d been secretly pleased to find herself on call with Grant that evening when the nurse regularly assigned to neurosurgery was unable to come in. Celeste had assisted Grant as he performed emergency surgery on a car accident victim who’d suffered massive head injuries. After the successful operation, he’d discreetly pulled Celeste aside and asked her to stop by his office before she went home. She hadn’t asked him what he wanted. She didn’t care.
    After getting the patient transported to the post-anesthesia care unit, she’d hurried to the restroom to brush her teeth and freshen her lipstick before making her way to Grant’s office.
    Now, standing there in the silent corridor, she felt a moment’s hesitation. At two in the morning, the hospital was practically deserted. She should have gone home after the surgery, like the anesthesiologists and scrub tech had done. She was a married woman, a mother of two. So she had no business being alone with the very same man whose mere existence threatened to destroy everything that mattered to her.
    Go home , her conscience warned. Go home to your family before it’s too late.
    She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep, shaky breath.
    And then she stepped into the open doorway.
    Grant was seated behind a large cherry desk in the elegantly furnished office.
    He was munching on a chocolate bar as he scribbled on a tablet, dictating the operative notes he was required to submit after every surgical procedure. He’d exchanged his scrubs for a Harvard University sweatshirt and khaki pants. His curly black hair gleamed in the soft glow cast by the brass desk lamp. Celeste’s fingers itched to plunge through the thick strands, to luxuriate in the silky texture.
    Swallowing hard, she shifted nervously from one foot to another. Grant didn’t look up from his writing. Assuming he hadn’t noticed her, she opened