Tend to your soul,
his friend and former neighbor, Mrs. Watson, had said more than once. It had, in fact, been the last thing she’d said to him—her final words. Jayce wondered if he’d ever adjust to the loss of their unique friendship. Since moving to New York, he had elected to keep new acquaintances at arm’s length. He didn’t trust easily, and he’d always been intensely private. Most people respected his boundaries. Mrs. Watson, rest her soul, hadn’t been most people. She’d been as close as he’d had to a confidante in this city, and now she was gone.
Not yet ready to face the bare walls of his co-op and therefore the enormity of this move because, Christ, it was daunting, Jayce sat on the stone steps of the historic building and made the call he’d been putting off until his plan was in motion. He didn’t think twice about calling his oldest friend at 7:00 a.m. Dev had been getting up at the ass crack of dawn since they were teenagers. “Hey, man. Free to talk?”
“You called me.”
“I know.”
“No.
You
called
me.
Not the other way around. Just want to be clear on that.”
Amused, Jayce dragged a hand though his longish hair. “What are you smokin’, dude?”
“Need that distinction in case Rocky tries to tear me a new one.”
“Lost here.”
“She told me not to call you. I didn’t. You called me.”
“We’ve established that. So what did I just give you the freedom to tell me?”
“Rocky’s en route to JFK.”
A major airport within minutes of Jayce. His heart slammed against his chest like a steroid-shooting linebacker.
Jesus.
“Why?” The thought of her coming to her senses after thirteen years and coming after
him
made him rock hard and slightly light-headed.
“Cupcake Lovers got a book deal and she’s flying in with Tasha to meet with the publisher.”
Jayce blinked, the words almost Greek to him because, hell, that wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. He took a second to respond. Or maybe it was five.
“You there?”
“Yeah. I just … What the hell are you talking about?” Jayce breathed the crisp air, trying to snap out of his disappointment as Dev explained.
“She’s staying at the Hotel Chandler until Sunday. Could you just … be available in case she needs you?”
So much for starting his road trip within the hour. “Sure.” He didn’t feel any more comfortable about Rocky being alone in the city than Dev did. Yes, she was tough and smart, but not big-city smart. She didn’t know this town. Jayce did. Rocky was Hollywood gorgeous. She typically wore her long blond curls in two braids.
Easier that way,
she’d once said, but the tomboyish style just looked plain sexy to Jayce. As did her sultry blue eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips, milky-white complexion, and the generous curves that would make a dead man drool. The thought of Rocky Monroe walking the streets of Manhattan, unaccompanied, chilled his bones. Stunning young woman. Unsuspecting innocent. She didn’t have a clue. He did.
“I’m not asking you to tail her—”
“On it.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“So why did you call?”
Jayce rolled back tense shoulders. “I’m moving home.”
Now it was Dev’s turn to pause. “To Sugar Creek?”
“Remember when I said I couldn’t decide whether to lease out my parents’ house again or to sell?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not doing either. I’m moving in.”
“Really. Huh.” Another awkward pause. “I mean … I’m thrilled you’re coming home. It’s just…” Dev lowered his voice. “You’re not exactly fond of that house.”
“Something I’d like to come to terms with.”
“Well, hell, Jayce, that’s great. That’s … It’s about time.”
The heartfelt sentiment, in addition to Mrs. Watson’s gentle nagging, reinforced Jayce’s decision to slay his demons in a bid for peace of mind and a slice of heaven. Jayce’s personal paradise included a certain blond hellion, three or four kids, and a couple of dogs. Maybe a cat. The amount of kids and animals was negotiable. The woman was not. He was also keen on surrounding himself with the most caring brood he’d ever known—the Monroes.
Jayce had grown up with Dev, best friends since grade school. Dev’s mom and dad had been a guiding force in Jayce’s life. Daisy Monroe had treated Jayce like any one of her many grandchildren. Luke had been like a sometimes annoying, always entertaining younger brother, and Rocky … Yeah, well, that’s where things got complicated. “Do me a favor,” Jayce said. “Don’t spread the news just yet. Let me ease into it.”
“Not to dissuade you, but there’s not a big market for private detectives in Sugar Creek.”
“Got that covered. I’ll explain later.”
“When should I expect you? Please tell me not until after Sunday.”
Jayce thought about Rocky, naïve and vulnerable, had-him-by-the-balls Rocky. “Not until after Sunday.”
* * *
Rocky was damn proud she didn’t hurl when the plane hit turbulence. She even kept her cool during the harried transfer from charter jet to private limo. John F. Kennedy International Airport was a frenzied center for hordes of travelers, many of whom were short on patience and manners. Holding her tongue around so much obnoxious behavior was nothing short of a miracle. Or maybe she was too floored to comment.
Mostly she was impressed with herself when she didn’t climb over the seat of the hired limo to commandeer the wheel because, damn, the chauffeur Tasha had enlisted to drive them from the airport to Manhattan was insane. To be fair, he wasn’t in the minority. So many cars, so much congested traffic. So many morons who ignored the speed limit and didn’t signal when changing lanes. Which might have been endurable if Rocky was in control. But she wasn’t.
She’d been so distracted by the white-knuckled ride she’d been unable to enjoy the thrill of seeing the Manhattan skyline for the first time. Tasha seemed oblivious to their perilous journey. Then again she was, yet again, sipping champagne. Rocky might’ve joined her if she wasn’t allergic to sulfites.
Then they were
in
Manhattan and surrounded by blocks and blocks of skyscrapers, endless jaywalking pedestrians, mind-boggling traffic, and taxi drivers with a death wish. By the time the chauffeur dropped her at her hotel, Rocky was so overwhelmed, she couldn’t think straight. She numbly thanked the driver and told Tasha she’d meet her at the publisher’s address at the appointed time of 2:00 p.m. and, yes, she’d be wearing a flipping dress. If she weren’t so in awe of the Big Apple chaos she might’ve curled into an overly tired ball of stress until one thirty. Instead, she checked into her room, a small but really nice room, then, after calling Dev for the third time this morning, set off to do some shopping.
Even though it was probably a really touristy thing to do, Rocky had her heart set on buying something at Macy’s. When she was growing up, one of her favorite movies had been the old black-and-white version of
Miracle on 34
th
Street. Yes, it resonated simply because it was a Christmas movie and Rocky loved Christmas, but it also represented the power of childhood dreams. Of wishing for and wanting something so badly that, via magic or faith or whatever, that dream came true.
Rocky had set her sights on the Red Clover when she was ten. Her daddy had encouraged that dream by co-signing on the initial loan, and Dev was helping to keep that dream alive.
Another reason Rocky was so intent on seeing Macy’s was because of her own ties with a department store. J. T. Monroe’s Department Store—family owned and operated for six generations. In her lifetime, her Grandpa Jessup had run the store and, after him, her dad, Jerome (Jerry to a select few) Monroe. Her dad had surprised everyone by retiring to Florida this past year, and now Dev ran the place, although their dad still had a voice, a big, freaking, insistent voice, in the overall operations, which drove Dev, a mega control freak, nuts. J.T.’s was small potatoes compared to bigger chain stores, but it had heart. Rocky wanted to know if Macy’s had heart.
After acquiring walking directions from the concierge, Rocky made it from the Hotel Chandler to the famous department store—hassle free. After losing herself on multiple floors and trying on several dresses, she left Macy’s after two hours with her booty—hassle free. Shopping bags looped over one arm, she dipped into the pocket of her over-the-shoulder messenger bag and snagged her Android. She wanted to take a picture of the storefront to text to Dev. He was planning to renovate J.T.’s, and she thought he might be inspired by some of the imaginative window displays. As someone with an intense love of decorating,
she
was duly impressed.
Phone camera in hand, Rocky pushed through the revolving door and was assaulted by a barrage of chaotic noise, pungent scents and odors, and crowds of hustling, bustling people. Disorienting and exciting at the same time. Shaking her head, she jockeyed for a prime position, aimed her camera, and—
BAM!
“Sorry,” a man mumbled.
Unlike at JFK, at least this person had apologized for knocking into her, but then Rocky looked down and noticed her messenger bag was gone.
What the …
She looked up and saw a man rushing away through the crowd, caught a glimpse of her bag peeking out from under his flapping coat. “Stop!
Thief!
” Outraged, she took chase. The gall! The nerve! The freaking
horror!
Her financial life was in that bag. Wallet, cash, credit cards, ID. She spotted the mugger’s sorry ass darting across the street.
Incensed, Rocky darted, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t look both ways first.
* * *
Jayce was nearing the Flatiron District when he got the call. He recognized the number and swore. Rocky wouldn’t call to shoot the shit. Something was wrong.
“Jayce?”
“What’s up, Dash?”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“Not always.”
“Just since.”
She sounded shaky.
Christ.
“What’s up?”
Silence, then an aggrieved sigh. “I need your help.”
Given the bad terms they’d been on for years, and especially since the additional falling-out last month, he’d never expected to hear those words. Oh yeah. This was bad. “Where are you?”
“NYU Medical Center.”
Christ.
“Narrow it down, Rocky.”
“I think the paramedics called it Tisch. Tisch Hospital?”
“Got it.” His pulse raced as he veered toward the East Side.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing in New York City?”
“More interested in why you’re at Tisch.”
“I was sort of hit by a car.”
“Sort of?”
Jayce muscled his Volvo through a gridlocked intersection.
“It was more of a tap. Rolled right over the hood. It’s nothing but—”
“I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.”
“You’re that close?”
“In the area on business.” Which wasn’t wholly a lie. Running a red light, Jayce swerved and dodged traffic, crossing over Third Avenue. “Are you in the emergency room?”
“Yeah. I have to say, it’s a little scary here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The guy on the other side of the partition? I think he was stabbed.”
“Are you with a nurse? A doctor?”
Tasha?
“Doctor just came in. I have to go.”
“Almost there, Dash.”
“Jayce?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Whatever you do, don’t call Dev.”
In spite of his dark mood, Jayce smiled.
* * *
Jayce was the last person Rocky wanted to call. But she’d first called, then texted Tasha, only to get the response:
Do u know what I paid to get an appt w/this hair designer?
Tasha wouldn’t be coming.
Rocky couldn’t, wouldn’t, call Dev. He’d anticipated trouble. He’d even freaking predicted the purse snatching! If she called, he’d panic and demand she return home.
Now.
As the acting president of Cupcake Lovers, as someone with a personal, heartfelt interest in the members, Rocky needed to be at that publisher’s meeting. So she’d called Jayce and now he was on his way. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was relieved.
Rocky had been living on her own, in a remote area no less, for years. She was an avid sports enthusiast—snow skiing, snowmobiling, hiking, biking, and boating. One of the reasons she’d gotten along so well with Adam. There wasn’t much that intimidated or scared Rocky, but having her purse snatched and being hit by a car in the space of two minutes was rough. The scene after had been almost worse. Everyone hovering, telling her not to move, curiosity seekers, well-meaning passersby, the poor guilt-ridden driver whose hood she’d rolled over, the paramedics, the police. Tasha would’ve loved being the center of attention. Rocky had not.
Her shoulders sagged with relief when the doctor gave his last instructions, then left. She was changing out of the hospital gown and back into her clothes when someone knocked on the door. “Just a sec.” Frowning at her ruined long-sleeved T-shirt, she pulled it on anyway, careful not to touch the wound on her forehead, then called out, “Okay!”
She turned just as Jayce moved into the small room, filling the space with a palatable intensity. As always, her heart fluttered and pounded at the sight of him. Tall, lean, and mean. Physically perfect in her book. He wore his dark-golden hair longer these days and had grown a devilishly sexy goatee. Bad boy to the bone, he was dressed in neck-to-toe black. Baggy pullover shirt, cargo pants, a wool peacoat hanging open, and a pair of rubber-soled boots. He looked to-die-for handsome. He looked … angry.
“You said it was nothing.”
She realized his gaze was fixed on her shirt—stained with copious amounts of mostly dried blood. “It looks worse than it is.” She gestured to her forehead, feigned nonchalance. “Just a tiny cut, but it bled like a mother. It’s not that bad. Didn’t even need real stitches. Just this butterfly strip.”
Jayce dragged a hand down his face. “What else?”
Her body trembled when he moved in for a keener inspection. Her temperature spiked. Her brain glitched. Everything—her senses, her emotions—was magnified. She blamed her shaky state on the mugging, the accident, the meds, but no amount of rationalizing curbed her intense reaction to the reassuring presence of this man. “Just some bruises,” she croaked, swallowing hard when he smoothed messy curls from her face. She’d had a crush on Jayce since she was a kid. She’d finally seduced him on the night of her seventeenth birthday. It had been perfect … until the next morning, when he’d broken her heart. Every time she saw him, which was hardly ever, a lifetime of memories and emotions battered her soul. Every time she saw him, she fell a little harder instead of digging her way out. “I shouldn’t have called.”