Maureen Mercer stood by the door, arm loaded with bags and her eyes impatient as she booted Skittles aside so she could close the door. "How many times do we have to go through this?" she grumbled, setting the bags aside so she could scold and lecture a fourteen-year-old mutt on manners. "No jumping. Especially on me. Especially on me when I'm carrying groceries."

Ever loving and ever the ham, Skittles plopped his butt down, and licked the tip of the finger she'd poked in his face.

With a good natured chuckle, Maureen fished out the Milky Bone she was careful to keep in her purse—for need of a diversion—and toss it in the air. Skittles caught it without his hindquarters leaving the ground.

"Darcy." Slipping out of her boots, Maureen eased from a crouch, her knees complaining miserably from the bitter bite of cold she'd braved for the sake of running to the corner supermarket. "Be a doll and give me a hand before this deviant gets his snout in these bags."

"It's your fault for spoiling him," Hunter answered as Darcy hurried forward to snatch Skittles by the collar seconds before he'd finished what was left of his bone and made a dive for the goodies that lay just out of reach.

Her eyes whipped up, her mouth formed into a tiny, stunned 'Oh!' while between them, woman and mutt went to battle.

"Easy." Darcy wrestled Skittles by the scruff of his neck and hauled him back on his hind legs and away from the package of bacon she saw poking out the top of a grocery bag. "Come on, idiot, you know the house rules. Downstairs."

With the will of Darcy pitted against the will of a dog scenting pork goodness put to the test, Maureen skirted around the bags to take hold of her son in a fast and fierce embrace.

"Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling boy. I have to look at you." She had his face framed in her cold hands as she eased back. So handsome, she thought, as she'd always knew he would be. And now suddenly so grown-up in the year since they'd last seen one another in the flesh. "Look at all this," she murmured and brushed a hand at his hair, rich russet brown and lightened with hints of deepest gold from afternoon's spent in European sun. "You've grown it."

A bit embarrassed by his rumpled appearance, Hunter scraped a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks then scooped up to thread his fingers through his thick waves. "I thought about cutting it but...well, with flights and such, seemed best to wait until I got back home. Maybe later you could..."

Maureen patted a soft hand against his linked in hers, and just like that, he was her little boy again, she thought, sitting in a chair by the bathroom sink while she worked on him with scissors and shears. Moved by the gesture he knew would mean so much to her, she swiped at fresh tears. "When did you get in? I thought you were supposed to stay in Rome for that charity auction."

"I was." Hunter stroked a finger down the side of her cheek, barely lined, he thought, or marred by time, and just as lovely as he remembered. "I wanted to be here. The auction will go on without me. My piece will sell handsomely and my publicist will offer condolences and make excuses—that's what I pay him for."

"If you'd called, we would've met you at the airport, brought you home."

"I wanted this to be a surprise." He walked towards the kitchen, carting the bags of groceries she'd hauled in from the car. "Dad at the garage? Still tinkering with that '62 Vette?"

"You know your father." Her lips twitched wryly as Hunter set down the bags on the island, reached in for the carton of eggs. "Here, I'll take care of those. You should get your things. Get settled."

"I'll get them later." He assured, patting his mother on the head, as he towered at least twice that over her, and reached around to open the fridge. Setting the carton on the second shelf, he turned back for the milk, bag of apples and sticks of butter.

Muttering and scowling, black pants covered in tufts of muddy grey fur, Darcy pushed back her mane of hair from her battle weary eyes. "Man that dog is something else. You'd think he was still a pup the way he carries on. The heck have we been feeding him?"

Swinging around the bar fridge nestled by the sideboard, she yanked out a bottle of white then faced the disapproving arch of Mama Mercer's brow.

"It's barely two." She said in her scolding voice designed to wither her children on the spot, but feeling safe with her brother newly home, Darcy brushed it off with a smile and a shrug.

"Yes, but this is a special occasion, and all, so a glass of white in the afternoon won't hurt and since this is the bottle he sent to us around the holidays, I think it's highly appropriate he be the one we open it with. Then he can tell us all the wonderful things he's been up to lately. It seems like years since we've talked face-to-face." Groceries unpacked and stowed away, he shut the refrigerator and turned to both mother and sister with a sigh. It had been forever, he thought. Far too long.

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't get home for Christmas. And your birthday, Dar."

"Honey, we understood. You had a showing in January. We're all so proud of you, Hunter. Your father must've bought out almost every issue of Forbes magazine when they did that feature article on you. It was all he could talk about for weeks."

Though Darcy had been only poking at him in playful fun, that didn't mean the underlying jab didn't ring true. But that was going to change. While he'd loved and adored his time in abroad, Rome in particular, he meant to make this return to Toronto permanent. Where the thrill of adventure and discovery had been so important, so enthralling once, five years abroad was enough of living among strangers and bouncing through hotels to see him through the rest of his life.

He'd made the most of that time, studying in Greece and working through to Paris, exploring the ruins in old cities and crumbling castles, wandering the cliffs of Spain and beaches of Portugal. The first year, especially, he'd lived cheap and dirty, holed up in single rooms on the rougher edges of town. When there'd been a choice between feeding his body or his passions, he'd gone to bed with dreams whirling in his brain and a snarling stomach.

Those lean moments had taught him to appreciate what he had, and more, what he could do when left with nothing but his own two hands to scrape by.

Handing him a glass of white, freshly poured, and to her mother, Darcy sipped from hers and approved.

"Tastes better than I remembered." She sighed, rolling the golden liquid in the glass in reverent fondness of her brief stint in Italy. She'd gotten the taste for Europe, though she had always longed to take off and travel the way Hunter had. Her time would come, she vowed, once Menagerie was fully off the ground and established in the fashion circuit, her time would come.

First things first meant setting down firm roots in Toronto, and then later, once the books were good, she'd branch out with a second in New York, and if in a few years' time, things continued to flow the way she envisioned, she could consider making herself international with a third in London. Or Paris.

Enough, she scolded herself, and shifted her smirking eyes to her brother. "So, Big Shot, any plans for this year?"

"Actually," Hunter scraped a hand over the back of his head, rumpling already messy waves of hair, "I need to get in touch with Ada, set up a meeting with her sometime tomorrow."

"Oh?" Darcy arched a perfectly manicured brow, slanted her gaze to their mother who had seated herself at the edge of the island with her barely touched glass of white perched in her hand.

Hunter took a long gulp from his glass, smacked his lips in appreciation of the Vernaccia di San Gimignano. "One of the senior executives at the Art Gallery of Ontario got wind of the auction taking place tomorrow at the Boscolo Hotel, and reached out to me last month with an offer." He swigged again, leaving both his mother and sister in avid suspense.

"Well?" Darcy swatted his arm impatiently while he leisurely drained his glass dry.

"Well," Hunter echoed, topping himself up from the bottle, and smiled toothily at his mother's frowning glance. "They want me. Or an exhibit, I should say, in early spring, to showcase most of my pieces from last year, along with a commission for three new ones to be revealed here in Toronto."

"Oh darling." Maureen slid down from her stool to embrace him. "That's wonderful, absolutely wonderful. In fact, I am going to call your father and tell him we have two things to celebrate tonight. Your homecoming and this exhibit."

"Before you do," Hunter took her hands, held her in place so she couldn't escape into a puff of excitement. "This...well, I was hoping, seeing as I have no plans to..." And as always, he stumbled and fumbled over his words like a jittery puppy, but she knew her baby, Maureen thought, brushing a hand over his cheek. Oh, did she know her baby and understood that he had come home, truly come home.

At long last.

"For as long as you need," she whispered, blinking away joyful tears, then swept her hands over his shoulders, fixing his shirt over his broad frame. "Now, why don't I rustle up some of my jarred tomato sauce for dinner?"

Hunter did his level best not to salivate. "Lasagne? With extra cheese?"

"And baked lemon pudding for dessert."

"Brat," Darcy sniped when their mother was out of earshot, following him into the lounge for his bags. "And don't think that just because you've buttered her up with news of your intentions to stay home, that you're getting yourself out of dish duty tonight."

"We'll see, sucker, but I think I can play this out at least for a week before she ropes me in on chores. He called out as he lumbered up the back stairs. "You'll be my puppet. My slave." He added a victorious smirk before he rounded the sharp bend in the stairs and, in a random act of karma, smacked straight into the low-hung ceiling. Hearing his snarled oath, Darcy's pleased laughter drifted up.

Served him right, he supposed. Rubbing at the side of his head where a lump was sure to form before dinner, Hunter booted open the first door on the left and surveyed his surroundings.

His room was exactly as he remembered, minus the usual scattering of discarded clothes and other childhood debris. The walls were still a bold and cheerful yellow—not so harsh as to hurt the eyes, with the robin's egg blue curtains on a black rod. The hand-me-down furniture gleamed with a ruthless shine and the air carried the scent of lemon, which meant mom had spent her morning buffing it to a gleam.

Because the door was open, Hunter stuck his head into the adjoining bathroom he'd shared with Tristan to see it had been newly renovated. Once thin as a sliver, it now boasted a large tiled shower with glistening fixtures, a double vanity of white marble to soften the muted grey splashed on floor and wall.

Shaking his head, Hunter brushed a hand through his thick waves of brown that clashed with the familial Mercer black his brother and sister had inherited from their parents.

The bed was also new, he noted leaving the bathroom to heave his bag at the foot of it. A dark cherry wood frame with a mattress large enough for two, though that would never be an issue—the curse of living in the family home, he thought glumly. No privacy and paper thin walls. Not that it was any great loss with no woman presently in his life for him to worry about hoping in to bed with.

Sitting down next to his bag, Hunter brushed a hand over the handmade quilt, a bright and gawdy confection his mom had made just shy of his tenth birthday. She had been so proud of it, stitching together scraps of his favourite basketball jerseys, a few from the teams he'd played on in his youth, and the rest from the major leagues he'd so admired.

Oddly touched, Hunter smiled at the memory. She'd laboured and toiled in secret for six long months to get it ready for him. Suffering late nights, cramped joints and sore fingers, as she had never been one to wield a needle a day in her life. But that was the year dad had suffered his on the job accident, Hunter recalled.

And since disasters usually rolled in pairs, mom had lost her position in the bank when her boss decided to retire. Seeing no use for a middle-aged executive assistant, they let her go to bring on the younger variety in a tight skirt that would do the same job but for far less money.

Those had been some hard times. But they'd come together as a family, suffering the bare cupboards and tight belts until three years in to a ruthless battle with Level Best Construction, dad won and secured a settlement that had changed their lives immeasurably.

Setting down his bags, Hunter indulged in his first shower in the new bathroom, turning on the heat to high and blasting body jets as he worked out the travel weary kinks in his back. He'd flown back home economy, though he had the means to slip into business, the part of him that had grown up pinching pennies to buy his first bike when he was twelve, somehow couldn't justify the exorbitant fare of almost ten grand.

But as he stood now, hot water streaming over his body, he swore the next time he flew international, it wouldn't be cramped into coach.

Shutting off the valves, and feeling somewhat human again, he changed into a fresh shirt and sweats just as he heard voices swarming downstairs and a loud male voice that brought a smile to his face.

He knew who it was, even before he heard the pounding of feet barreling up the hall, and turned to the embrace of his child hood friend.

"Fucker." Grant Rhodes laughed, hugging hard and fast in a clasp of arms that transcended to brothers forged of something other than blood, but just as bone deep. "You never told me you were heading in."

"Guess no one seems to appreciate the thought behind a carefully laid surprise then, eh? Mom call you?"

"Yeah." Easing back, Grant hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, dressed in weathered jeans, scarred boots and a beat up sweater that meant he'd probably swung over straight from the job before heading home to freshen up. His face was a little rougher, than Hunter remembered, with sharp angles and hard lines to match the deep and dangerous glow of his brown eyes, a shade darker than his tawny complexion offset with wings of sable hair that he pushed back with a labour toughened hand.

"Saw the sexy little Mercedes out front. She yours?"

"Good eye." Hunter nodded, reaching for his duffel bag. "Yeah, just a rental for now until I set my eyes on something I'd like to own. Don't suppose you've decided to come to your senses and let me take Shirley off your hands?" Aside from the ever lovable Mama Mercer, Shirley, was quite possibly the only woman Grant had come close to loving in his life.

A sexy little '69 Coup De Ville he'd driven all the way down to purchase from a man in Georgia back in the Spring of '08. She'd cost him a pretty penny, but to Grant's mind it had been money well spent to bring her back to Toronto. Together, with Hunter and Mr. Mercer, he'd sweated and toiled and laboured to bring her back to shining like new.

Grant's smile was sharp as a blade in a face he knew made women's legs weak. "Keep dreaming, bro. In your hot, wild and kinky dreams."

Hunter laughed, piling a bundled of clothes he hadn't bothered to fold into the top dresser drawer, knowing that come morning, it would be miraculously sorted, folded and arranged by colour. Such was the magic and wonder of home and mothers.

"So, where you keeping her these days?"

"Housed out in Barrie." Grant lowered to the edge of Hunter's bed, propping a foot on the frame. "Can't drive her in this," he gestured absently to the mess of ice, snow and salt covered streets. "I bought me what I call my 'day-to-day' car. Maria, a sassy little Audi in bullet grey. She handles like a dream and gets me through the hard weather." Shifting over so he could sit at the end of the bed, Grant wiggled his brows. "So tell me the latest and greatest. Did things go down with Anna-Lucia?"

Hunter paused in his packing, sighed in wistful memory of the hot blonde with the brilliant smile, miles of leg, eyes like a lover's dream and a body that wouldn't quit. "She was like fire, dude, and had energy for days. I think she kept me up straight for a week. I almost died."

Laughing, Grant shook his head. "That's the only way to go. Man, I knew she'd be killer. But that was what—four...no, five months ago? Come on, there has to have been scores of others since."

Nope, Hunter thought with a weary sigh. He'd gone bone dry since summer and was now itchy as a stud in heat.

"How about you and Tess over at KPMG?" Dumping jeans in another drawer, he switched gears, bringing the subject of conversation around to where Grant usually liked it most, on him and his conquests.

"Man, almost forgot about Tess." His smile softened, wistful in memory. "She had hair all the way down to her ass, a remarkable ass thanks to that Brazilian Butt Bootcamp she took every Thursday. Now she was a natural. Totally relaxed, completely uninhibited which contrasted those tight, corporate, buttoned-up numbers she wore. And she had the most amazing...personality." Grant raised his hands to chest level and rounded them generously.

"So, what happened?"

Grant tossed a shoulder. "You know the drill, bro. Always cut 'em loose after the second month. No ties, no binds, no messy leftover business. I like my life clean. Uncluttered. Like my condo. Void of the unnecessary."

Empty, Hunter thought, but kept the comment to himself. That wasn't the sort of life he was after, nor was his hopes for a home crowded with noise and children the sort of future he could ever expect Grant to understand. The two had always been as different as land and sea. But, for whatever reason, their bond had struck fast and held firm, despite their many philosophical differences on life, work and women. Where many had failed, Grant has always been there. Never faltering, never wavering. As true a brother as any forged from blood.

"Oh, but I should have told you about Catherine." Grant rolled back his eyes, let his tongue hang as he roped Hunter out into the hall. "Now there was a firecracker. Ecuadorian and Pilipino with a hint of Arabic. Black haired beauty with eyes like honey and skin of gold."

"Hm." Hunter nodded, shuffling down the stairs. "Sounds hot."

"Dude." Grant paused mid-way down. "She had a serious oral fixation, if you catch my drift, and wasn't the least bit shy. In fact, I think part of her liked the thought being discovered, which is hot. She loved to take risks in restaurants, especially. Some seedy little ethnic hole in the wall with dark corners and spiced air. And one time," he continued down the steps, met Hunter near the bottom and swung an arm around his shoulder, "she even—oh, hi, Mama." Though his eyes still glimmered mischievously, Grant had the grace to look mildly embarrassed at being caught red-handed. Hunter swallowed the laughter that threatened to strangle him, and pinned it in the base of his throat.

"Boys," Maureen said dryly, propping her fist, wrapped around the slotted spoon, on her generously curved hip. "It's nice of you to bond over your mutual cultural...appreciations, but I ask that you refrain from doing so in my kitchen." Falling back on innocent charm, and because he knew it would make her smile, Grant scooped her into his arms, kissed her noisily on the brow. "Smells fantastic, as always, Mama. How about you get off your feet and I'll take over with serving? A lovely woman like you shouldn't work so hard."

"Always were too quick with that tongue of yours, oh go on and make yourself useful." Maureen handed over the slotted spoon and turned to reach for the special plates, only to find Hunter had beat her to it.

"Go." He winked. "Grant and I can take over from here."

She paused by the doorway, one hand bracing the jamb as she watched both of her beloved boys, one born from her body and the other born from circumstances and fate, shoulder to shoulder in front of the stove as they snickered and shared the sorts of hushed words privately exchanged between men.

My boys, she thought again, settling her handover her happily beating heart. Her home was almost complete, and wondered whenthe stray, Tristan Mercer, would finally make his way back, too.