Do-Over Read Free

any way around the monumental step he was about to take.
    If he accepted their offer, he’d be a partner in Saperstein, Underwood within six months. On the whole, the firm suited him. While some of the partners seemed a little squirrelly, they were bright, aggressive and had a reputation for being among the best. Working with Cara Adams would be an added benefit. He had to admit to a flash of pleasure when he’d seen her name listed on the firm’s letterhead. If anything, now she was even sharper than she’d been in law school, and she’d been no slouch back then. She hadn’t exactly been hard on the eyes, either.
    Six years ago, checking out her long legs, slender hands and sweep of red hair nearly dark enough to be auburn had beat the hell out of pondering the intricacies of the Uniform Commercial Code. He smiled at the recollection and at the memory of their encounter the night after completing the Michigan bar exam.
    If he had to move home, Saperstein, Underwood was the place to be. The money wouldn’t be the same as at his current firm, but expenses in the Midwestwere hardly the same as those in Manhattan. Besides, income had never been an issue.
    He was exiting the expressway when he concluded that if there was another way to deal with this mess—one that would sit equally well upon his conscience—he couldn’t grasp it. And he was a fairly bright guy.
    A few minutes later, Mark pulled off Lakeshore Drive onto a ribbon of road marked Private—No Trespassing. Home lay ahead. Three generations of Morgans had lived in Lakewind, an Arts-and-Craftsstyled tribute to industrial wealth. He doubted he’d be generation number four. Though the place was undeniably beautiful, he preferred a home somewhat smaller than an apartment complex. As far as he was concerned, the time had come and gone for enormous estates. One day in the far-off future, when the decision was his to make, he’d find a use for Lakewind that benefited more than just the Morgan family.
    Mark pulled his dad’s classic convertible Jag into its bay in the garage, hung the keys on the rack and made his way across the herringbone-patterned, redbrick courtyard to the house’s kitchen entrance. The scents of comfort greeted him: rich, brewing coffee and sweet cinnamon and sugar from the cinnamon rolls cooling on the stainless-steel shelf above the stove.
    His back to Mark, a broad-beamed man hummed as he wiped down a countertop. As Mark took in the sight of Jerome Jones, suddenly everything seemed so simple. So right.
    “So you made me cinnamon rolls,” he said. “They always were my favorite.”
    The man turned around, his face creased by a wide smile. “’Bout time you got yourself home.” His bossy words came with a bearlike hug.
    Mark grinned at the gentleman who in his heart was a second mother. And yes, he meant “mother.” No hard-assed father stuff from Jerome, just kind words, cookies and cinnamon rolls, and a sharp-tongued reminder of manners when he stepped out of line.
    To Mark, the fact that Jerome was male was inconsequential, as was the fact that he was gay. Jerome had worked for the Morgan family since before Mark had been born. And while his mom had always done her best by him, it was Jerome who’d covered for her at home while she was at the Charity Premiere Night of the Detroit Auto Show or her museum board meetings or whatever else filled eighty percent of her time.
    Mark had understood his mother’s absences and never resented her for them; they were part and parcel of being a Morgan. Family obligation, noblesse oblige and all that jazz. His affection for Jerome—who’d rescued him from more teenaged crises than he could count—was limitless.
    “And it’s about time you got out of bed,” he said. “I was here early this morning.”
    “Well, these old bones don’t move as fast as they used to.”
    Mark laughed. “No pulling the pity card. We both know you could still corner me, then rip me up one side and down the