She's going to take Nick away.

Izzy Connors was going to lose her son. One midnight phone call, and Izzy's mind, body and soul ached from the sleepless night. Nick's birth mother, Sabrina Reems, had never been one for reasonable, rational discussion. Sabrina's words rattled in her head refusing to quiet. I'm coming home in a month, and I want to see Nick. She'd want to bully her way back into their lives and ignore the damning reasons for her continued absence.

How the hell was Izzy supposed to focus all day when she was in the fight of her life to keep Nick? Too bad her manager didn't care about her family dramatics.

Izzy squinted against the dazzling daylight warring for center stage with Simon's Ken—Doll good looks in her cramped and cluttered office. Using her hands, she blocked the glare of sunlight as he blathered on about her upcoming gallery opening, using words like, strategic and tactical and poised.

All very good words if he were giving a marketing presentation. But he wasn't. He was her perfect, MBA—strutting, stably employed, want—to—be boyfriend, Simon Jensen. The kind of man, who, if she married him, could help her accomplish the one thing she wanted the most. Adopt Nick. But she wouldn't, couldn't, use anyone to get what she wanted. No matter how badly she wanted to keep Nick.

She had a month until Sabrina's return, two weeks before her scheduled monthly meetings with the family court judge. She'd think of a solution before then.

Not like I have a choice.

Given Sabrina's history, Izzy had petitioned to adopt Nick more than once in the fourteen years she'd raised him. And more than once, the court had turned her down. Lack of stable income, the judge wanted to reunite mother and son, her race—the reasons didn't matter, the result was still the same. No adoption. She never should have agreed to the lopsided guardianship agreement with Sabrina.

"We have to think of your brand. Z Con will be a household name before we're done," Simon continued, unaware of her change in mood, his long fingers rubbing against the smooth line of his mahogany—colored skin.

She could always get a second job, not that her studio didn't make enough. It did. But the money went to Nick's school fees and college fund first, everything else second.

She glared at the wheatgrass shot on her desk, courtesy of Simon. She hated wheatgrass. Instead of a romantic breakfast date complete with mimosas and strawberries, he handed her a yogurt with granola, and a vile wheatgrass shot.

She stared at the murky green liquid and willed it to turn into champagne. It didn't. Like the rest of her life, wishing wouldn't make it so.

"Izzy, it's imperative …right people…the proper contacts… catapult…"

"Uh, hmm," she muttered, trying to focus on his words, but unable to force her mind to latch on. Echoes of Sabrina's voice the night before wafted into her consciousness. I'm coming back in a month. I want to see Nick.

Taking a deep breath, Izzy shoved the thought to a far corner in her brain and locked it in a trunk. She would think about it later. There was nothing she could do about Sabrina right now, and she had a life to tend to.

Izzy held her breath and took the shot, trying not to gag as the forest green liquid glooped down her throat.

Simon beamed at her. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

She chose deft avoidance. "Simon, the gallery opening will be great, but I want to make sure we keep it small, intimate, you know, and—"

His booming laugh interrupted her, sucking all the air out until she felt as if she needed to ration her breathing. "Small? Honey, I don't think you get it. We're going to put you, Z Con—international photographer, on the map."

Her eyes searched his for some sign he was her Mr. Perfect. She wanted to feel something, anything. Anything beside the mild affection and sometimes annoyance over his continued assurance they were perfect for each other.

She waited for the breathless, giddy anticipation of longing to wash over her. Waited for the staccato rhythm of a heart in love to tick away in her chest. Waited for the heated blush to take a languid stroll over her skin leaving a wake of goose bumps.

The only thing she felt was queasy dread that she'd never experience those things. Or maybe it was the wheatgrass.

His chocolate skin and lean athletic build should make her heart prance whenever he turned his signature grin on her. His Blair Underwood meets Taye Digs good looks, should make her fuzzy and cozily dreaming of Sunday lie—ins complete with a steamy romp and Sunday paper. His pedigree, charm and zest for life, should have made him a dream candidate for the future Mr. Connors.

Should, should, should. Except, they didn't. Despite every reason to want him, not a single butterfly fluttered anywhere near her belly—or—lower. He was handsome, no doubt, but the last thing on earth she wanted to do was sleep with him. She'd done everything she could to discourage his feelings, but he insisted they were right for each other. Insisted she only needed time to get used to the idea.

She gave him another quick once over. Hot and heavy, he did not make her. More like lukewarm. But, according to her mother, what was marriage if not a strong steadfast friendship? Her mother loved Simon. Everybody loved Simon. Everybody except the two people closest to her, Nick and her assistant, Jessica. They both thought he was boring.

Casting Simon another glance, Izzy willed her lips into a smile and told herself love could grow on a person. Like a fungus.

He tried so hard to make her happy. He pushed her at break—neck speeds because he wanted her to succeed. He brought her breakfast every morning, just to make sure she remembered to eat. Too bad he includes the wheatgrass.

"Iz, I know your own gallery showing during Pasadena Art Night is scary, but I think you can do it. If anyone can, it's you."

If he'd stopped there, that would have been fine. Better than fine. Her brain could have accepted the statement as a cheerleader's pitch. Instead, he added, "I've already promised them forty pieces."

"Forty?" Shit. With the opening in three months, that didn't leave enough time to get them all canvassed, framed and ready to display.

Simon nodded. "Perfect number, right?"

She knew she needed to focus on the good news. The gallery opening was just the thing she needed to catapult her career. But the feeling of suffocation, instant and unavoidable, spread over her like a warm, wet blanket in the middle of August.

Tell him no. As quickly as the thought formed, she tangled it with thoughts of Sabrina. Simon had worked his tail off for two years to make her a name. He'd gotten her this far when, by rights, she should be living the life of a starving photographer in a one—bedroom hovel.

Any of her friends, if she'd had time for friends besides Jessica, would think she was insane for not getting with him. Too bad every time she thought of him naked, she felt the tickle of a giggle in her throat. And while it had been a long, long time since she'd done the do, Izzy knew giggling was not on the approved list of responses to nakedness.

"Izzy, are you listening to me?"

Busted.

She sighed and put down the balance sheets she'd been moving around her desk. She picked up a camera to clean as she always did when she needed to think. "Yes, Simon, I'm listening, but I'm not sure if I can be ready for a gallery opening in time. Things are kicking up again with Nick's school and tennis, not to mention Sabrina's coming back. This could finally be my chance to adopt Nick. I don't want anything to get in the way of that." Translation, you were insane to promise forty pieces.

"You can do it. It'll be great," he said in a rush. The way he always talked as if he were a chipmunk on caffeine.

She sucked in a deep breath. Replacing the lens, she told herself it was caution not fear that made her hesitate. "Keep in mind, something like that takes time to put together. I've never had my own gallery opening before."

Simon's lips rolled inward showing his poorly concealed annoyance at her hesitation.

"Izzy, I know how important Nick is to you. But your career is just as important. You can prove to the judge that your income is stable. Besides, a gallery opening of your own is a huge break. No more portraits of old ladies and babies and pets." He waved her appointment book in the air.

Simon finally noticed her lack of response. He placed the appointment book back on the desk and reached cross the desk for her hand.

Out of habit, she let him take it, even though her fingers twitched, desperate for release. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckle in an attempt to make her more comfortable.

"If push comes to shove with Sabrina, you know the court is more likely to let a celebrity black woman adopt a white kid, than a regular black woman with a job, a good job, but—you get my drift. You need to focus on what's important—providing for Nick. This opening will let you do that in ways you've never even conceived. When Nick was younger, you needed to be selective about jobs. He's fourteen now. It hurt your career not to be as available as other photographers, even if you were better. Your time is now."

He was right. She needed the gallery opening. It was the next logical step. "I know. I want to be able to do both." She leveled her eyes at him to make her point. "But, if it comes down to Nick or the gallery opening, you know what I'll choose, right?"

His smile displayed perfect Chiclets for teeth. "Damn, Izzy, you make me insane. But yeah, I hear you. You won't regret it."

She smiled, surprised she didn't need to force it. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other."

He held her gaze for a moment too long. When he looked away and stepped toward the window, she breathed her relief on a sigh. She didn't have the heart for the battle she knew was coming.

"One more thing, Izzy."

Oh boy. She prayed she could avoid the "Let's take this relationship to the next level," conversation for one more day. It wasn't the first time they'd had it, and she was too tired to have it again. Plus, Mrs. Wilks from Nick's school was due in at twelve o'clock for a portrait, and she still had to prep and set up.

He must have seen something in the rigid posture of her back because he didn't bring it up. "I made an appointment for you to do a celebrity spread. Sports Illustrated is thrilled at the idea of working with you again. They loved what you did with Lebron."

She felt the joy swell in her chest for the barest instant before she locked it away. "Okay, I assume you talked to Jessica, and she put it in my calendar?"

Shooting celebrities wasn't her favorite work, but Simon was right. It was good for her profile. Some celebrities were palatable, but the majority seemed to think she was the hired help, and she found it difficult to keep her tongue in check.

And it paid well. A job like that would complete Nick's college fund.

As she ushered Simon out of the gallery as quickly as she could, she wondered if it was a bad thing that his cologne made her think of balance sheets as opposed to satin sheets.

***

Hours after Mrs. Wilks had come and gone, Izzy dragged leaden feet to go and deal the deathblow to her son's happy normal life. With a sense of doom, she shoved away from her light table and proofs. Her stomach growled, which meant she'd forgotten to eat—again.

Casting a glance at the wall clock, she muttered a curse as she put away the proofs for her new Homelands book. Her publisher had called asking if she could get the photo book out earlier. As usual, she accommodated. Accommodating meant a happy publisher, which also meant a successful gallery opening, which meant she could take better care of Nick. For Nick, she could accommodate.

The clock chimed four—thirty, and she muttered another curse as she grabbed her bag. "Jessica, I'm heading to the house. If Simon calls, tell him he can reach me on my cell."

Jessica's head, topped with a fuchsia—colored bob, peeked out from around the receptionist's desk. "Sure thing, Izzy. Have a great night. And don't worry about the supplies that came in, I'll sort them and put them away before I leave tonight."

Izzy smiled a grateful thank you as she wondered if that was a new piercing she'd seen in Jessica's cheek. Ouch.

Jessica's non—conventional looks weren't for everyone, but the perpetual grad school student was organized, efficient, and a no—nonsense type. Not to mention, she was one of the few friends Izzy'd had over the years. One of the few Izzy allowed herself.

Not for the first time, Izzy was thrilled only a backyard separated her studio from her house. After long days like this one, the shortened commute helped improve her mood. She headed across the backyard, picking up two hackeysacks, a skateboard and a tennis ball, along the way. No matter how many times she'd told Nick to pick up after himself, he somehow managed to forget. A byproduct of being a teenage boy?

The moment she entered the backdoor, she knew Nick was home. Rap music blared through the stereo in the living room.

Izzy dropped her bags on the large kitchen island, and as her shoulders slumped, she groaned with relief. Recessed lights twinkled above and washed the kitchen a warm glow. Removing her shoes, she made her way toward the din.

"Nicholas Reems, you may not care about your ear drums, but I certainly care about mine. I need you to turn down the Snoop, okay?"

Was she really that old? "Well at least you know it's Snoop on the stereo," she mumbled. She dreaded the day when she would have no idea what her son listened to.

"Not your son yet, Izzy," she mumbled to herself. She couldn't get used to not thinking of him as hers. Every time Sabrina returned home, that one fact came back to haunt her.

Deep breath. You're going to do everything in your power to change that.

She swallowed and forced the bile back into the darkened depths of her belly where it belonged. She needed to tell Nick about his mother's call. Today. Before Sabrina called again and told him she was on her way home.

Izzy rounded the corner of the dining room into the living room and stopped as if rooted by super glue to the maroon runner between the two rooms.

Two blond heads jumped apart. One, the familiar sandy blond she'd been yelling at for days to get a haircut, the other, pale, almost platinum, matched to fair, near—white skin.

Nick reddened to the tips of his ears, and Izzy did her best to hide her smirk. Busted, punk.

Nick stammered. "M—Mom. I didn't hear you come in."

This time, she did smirk. "It's no wonder with the music as loud as it is." She inclined her head toward the waify blonde. "Who's your friend?"

A pixie—like girl around Nick's age, jumped off the couch to walk around. She also wore a pink shade of embarrassment like a well—fitted mask. Izzy took small solace that neither of the kids needed to rearrange their clothing.

"O. M. G. Izzy Connors, it's so awesome to meet you. Nick's told me a lot about you."

The use of her first name surprised her. She wished she could be one of those parents that thought it was cool for kids to refer to them by name, but she wasn't. Old school values instilled from her southern mother shined through.

Nick seemed to find his voice at last. "We've got a Trig test coming up. We were studying, Mom."

With their lips? Izzy tried to hide the knowing smirk that wanted to break free again. She turned her attention on the girl with a welcoming smile, or at least what she hoped was something near a welcoming smile and not the one her mother had used to chase boys from the house when she was Nick's age. "How about you call me Miss Connors. What's your name?"

The girl's wide blue eyes misted over with confusion, and Izzy wondered if she'd lost cool points.

"Samantha. Samantha Tisdale."

Izzy nodded. "Do your parents know you're here, Samantha?"

Samantha wrinkled her blond brow. "Uhm, no." Then she appeared to think better of her last statement. "No, ma'am."

She'd gone from Izzy to ma'am in three point four seconds. Izzy was only thirty—two, she wasn't a ma'am. She knew who Tupac was, after all, and Snoop. "Do me a favor and call your parents. Tell them you'll be on your way home in half an hour. Do you have a ride?"

Samantha shot a plea for help look in Nick's direction. Nick, true to form and his young age, provided no assistance and stayed silent.

"N—no, Iz…erm, Miss Connors. We took the bus."

Izzy nodded and turned her gaze on the lanky form to her right. "Nick, call Jessica. She's still at the office. See if she can take your friend home. I'm going to get dinner started so you guys have till about five—thirty to wrap up your studying."

Izzy ignored the look of horror on Nick's face when she mentioned dinner. "Samantha, why don't you come over for dinner one of these nights? Make sure it's fine with your folks first though, okay?"

Samantha's eyes widened. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Nick looked stricken, but Izzy couldn't help feeling more buoyant.

In the kitchen, Izzy helped herself to a chocolate chip cookie. An honest—to—gosh real chocolate chip cookie. No soy, wheat germ or flax seed to be found. She needed it after that make—out scene. She tried not to think about the last time she'd made out with anyone. Too depressing.

Her baby was growing up into a man. Not your baby.

Because she needed the fortification, she shoved another cookie into her mouth and pulled out the casserole dish from the fridge. Thank God for their part time housekeeper. As much as she hated to admit Nick's fear of her kitchen skills had merit, she knew what her strengths were and what they were not. She'd never mastered the art of cooking. Nick's culinary skills were better than hers, any day.

Somewhere after five, Nick strolled into the kitchen. "Nothing happened, Mom, I swear."

Izzy shoved the casserole in the oven and prepared the potatoes for mashing.

"We were just studying." Then, in an attempt to change the topic, he added, "Grandma called."

Izzy turned to give him a look, "Studying? Is that what we're calling it now?" Then she smiled and added, "Nice try tossing your grandmother under the bus, but she can't save you."

Nick blushed again. With his height and burgeoning muscles, he looked older than most boys his age, easily passable for seventeen. But, at heart, he was still a kid.

"She's the hottest girl in school, Mom, and she asked me to study. What was I supposed to do?"

Izzy sighed and turned to face him, no idea how she was going to traverse this minefield. She didn't need another embarrassing round of the sex talk. "Look, Nick, I know you're interested in girls, but remember we had a deal. School first, always. Then the extracurricular activities you've committed to. Only after that come friends and girls. Remember the conversation we had about taking things slow and respecting women?"

Nick hung his head nodding. "I know, Mom, I just…I don't know."

She turned the oven on to preheat as the cooking label said. She wasn't concerned with the girl so much as she worried her baby was growing up faster than she could control. "Do you really like this girl?"

Nick shrugged. "I dunno, I guess." Then he wrinkled his forehead. "You're supposed to wait for it to preheat before you put the casserole in."

She turned to survey him. When had he grown up? How much time would she have with him? She pulled the casserole back out of the oven. "Fair enough, invite her to dinner here so I can get to know her, okay?"

He nodded and indicated the boiled potatoes. "I can do that." His gaze shifted, and he changed the subject. "Simon joining us tonight?"

His pretended nonchalance didn't fool her. Izzy looked up to find him grinning. No matter what she tried, the two of them had never bonded. "You're cheeky, you know that? What's wrong with Simon?"

"You mean besides being boring, thinking he always knows best, and his not noticing that we hate wheatgrass?"

Izzy tried to swat him with the towel, but he scuttled out of the way, laughing all the while. She sighed. Wished he didn't have a point. Now sober, she handed him the premade salad bowl from the fridge. "I have something to talk to you about, Nick."

There must have been something in her voice. He stopped smiling. Serious brown eyes stared at her. "What's wrong?"

Shit. She didn't mean to worry him. "No, Nick. Nothing's wrong." She moved to stand in front of him. Even at fourteen, he dwarfed her. "Your mom called. She's coming back."

He put down the salad bowl and crossed his arms in stubborn refusal. "When?" His voice was steady, yet—hardened. When had that happened?

She shrugged. "She said about a month. Not really sure with her."

She watched him work his jaw back and forth. The motion was familiar to her, especially as he got older.

"I don't want to see her."

She put her arms around him and waited till he relaxed and hugged her back. "Unfortunately, Nick, we don't have much of a choice."