Zeke Montgomery knew Morgan West was going to be trouble the minute he laid eyes on her. She stood at the foot of the steps to her own front door — the front door he’d been waiting outside of for the past couple of hours, not that he’d been counting or anything — with her arms folded, looking sternly at him like he was a little kid who’d just drawn on her walls with a crayon. She was very small and wore a not particularly flattering uniform of dark brown pants and khaki shirt, with a dark brown parka that nearly swallowed her thrown over the top. And her strawberry blond hair, the color of which reminded him of apricots, was in a very severe ponytail down her back. She wore no makeup, her face freckled and wholesome, with those bright blue eyes, the ones he remembered from Cal’s funeral that had been red from weeping then, but were much brighter now. They were also very, very direct. And she was still the prettiest thing he’d seen for months, if not years. All of which spelled trouble with a capital ’T’. She said crossly, “Where on earth have you been,…