by Abby Brooks
Come Home to Me
A Brookside Romance
Abby Brooks
Copyright © 2018 by Abby Brooks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Afterword
Also by Abby Brooks
Connect With Abby Brooks
Acknowledgments
For my loving husband. I love you to pieces, Mr. Wonderful.
Frank
A blast of heat hits me in the face as heavy double doors swing shut behind me. I recoil from the fireball radiating off the pavement and loosen my tie. “Shit, man.” I double check the mic on my earbuds, minimize my calling app, and drop my hand to my side. “It’s hot as Hades out here.”
Jason’s laugh sounds tinny and faraway. “It’s the end of June in downtown Denver. What did you expect?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say as I fiddle with my earbuds. “Maybe an actual spring?” Cars creep by on the street in front McDougan & Kent—the architectural design firm where I work—a mixture of taxis, buses, and your regular Joe Blow on his way to wherever.
“Hey, listen,” Jason says, finally loud enough for me to hear over the hubbub of cars and pedestrians. “Since you’re already out there sweating your balls off, think you could grab me a coffee from The Coffee Spot? It’s air conditioned and wonderful up here on the thirty-first floor. I’d hate to go to all the effort of getting up from my desk, waiting for the elevator, then suffering in the heat just for a caffeine hit, especially since you’re gonna walk right past the place. Kind of. It’s only a block or two away from your gym, right?”
The Coffee Spot is actually four blocks away, and Jason knows that as well as I do, but he also knows—all too well, apparently—that I don’t mind going out of my way for my friends. I slide my phone into my pocket and hike my gym bag over my shoulder before I blend into the river of people flowing down the sidewalk.
“Sure,” I say, sarcasm engaged. “We all know that’s why McDougan & Kent hired me. It was nothing to do with my skills as an electrical engineer and everything to do with my true calling as your personal assistant, at your beck and call whenever you even think about needing something. I’ll even go so far as to run that coffee right up to you before I hit the gym. How’d that be?”
“Great man. I really appreciate it.” Jason’s laugh tells me he knows I won’t be bringing him that coffee, although who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise him. “You gonna be at Derby’s tonight?” he asks.
“You know I’ll be there. Can’t wait. Been counting down the hours all week. You can still hear the sarcasm in my voice, right?”
I glance at the bar in question as I approach the crosswalk. Every week, the engineers, architects, admins, and draftsmen meet at the bar across from our firm and pretend we’re friends for a couple hours. Brian McDougal and Mike Kent, the men whose egos demanded they name their firm after themselves, basically require we go, though I’ve never once seen either of them there, hobnobbing with the likes of us.
The weekly get together is supposed to be good for morale, and I suppose it is, especially when someone gets a little drunk or a lot inappropriate. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a coworker make a fool of themselves and then getting to laugh about it for the next week or so of workdays.
Jason scoffs. “You can stop pretending you hate it. You and I both know you love having a chance to impress people. Besides, Bree will be there,” Jason says, knowing full well how much I can’t stand to be in the same room as that woman.
“Even better.” I roll my eyes.
“Addiction is a harsh mistress and you, my friend, are Bree Marshall’s drug of choice.”
I sigh and step into the crosswalk. “Color me thrilled.”
“And just think how she’ll swoon when you flash that fat wad of cash and buy the first round for everyone.”
“Right. Because that’s why I do it. To impress crazy-ass Bree Marshall. It has nothing to do with the fact that I like doing nice things for the people I work with.”
“Whatever man. We’ll still love you, even if you stop buying us drinks.” Jason chuckles as he shuffles papers in the background. “Okay. Fine. Maybe we won’t love you, but we’ll definitely still like you.” He pauses and I know exactly what he’ll say next. “Maybe.” I mouth the word as he speaks.
The shriek of squealing tires devours my response.
Beside me, someone screams.
A horn blares.
The sickening thump of metal against metal fills the space, bringing the hubbub of activity around me to a grinding halt. People stop and stare, jaws hanging open. Cars dart around the crumpled mess in the intersection without bothering to stop and check on the occupants of the mangled vehicles.
“What the fuck was that?” Jason’s voice is too loud in my ears. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Look, I gotta go, man.” I pull the earbuds out of my ears and shove them in my pocket before running toward the accident. I pause and appraise the scene as a portly man climbs out of what used to be a pristine Mercedes, rage in his eyes and hate in his voice.
“Stupid cunt came out of nowhere! Just flew through a red light and motherfucker! Would you look at my car!” He pauses in front of his hood—now firmly buried in the passenger door of someone else’s car—and threads his fingers into his thinning hair.
I rush to the driver’s side of the other vehicle and find a woman with dark hair slumped over the steering wheel. She stirs, lifting her head as I approach, a trickle of blood working its way down her forehead.
“Call an ambulance!” I yell as I drop my gym bag to the pavement, yank open her door, and crouch. “Hey. Are you hurt? Can you move?”
The woman blinks, her gaze unfocused. “Huh?” She wipes at the blood on her forehead and stares at the vermillion smear for a long second before wiping her hand on her jeans.
I straighten. “Did anyone call 911?” I yell as the man from the other vehicle comes into view.
“Believe me.” He waves his phone with a smirk. “The cops are on their way.”
And sure enough, the wail of sirens sounds from somewhere down the street.
“She okay?” asks the man, gesturing toward the bleeding woman.
“I don’t know, man. She hasn’t said much. How about you? You good?”
The man nods, then grimaces and runs his hand along the back of his neck. “I hurt, but I’ll live. She better have fantastic insurance. I’m going to sue her straight to oblivion.”
I crouch in front of the woman again. “Hey.”
I put my hand on her thigh. “You okay?”
She drops her head back on the headrest and takes a long breath in through her nose. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.” She wipes at her forehead again and then fumbles with the latch on her seatbelt.
I reach into the vehicle and shut off her ignition, overly aware of our proximity as my body stretches across hers.
“Good idea,” she says and then groans, resting her head in her hands. “This is so not good,” she murmurs before bending down to rescue her phone from its place on the floor next to an empty Rockstar energy drink.
“What’s your name?” I ask, intent on getting her focused on anything other than the accident. I don’t think she’s hurt, but the last thing she needs is to panic. Focusing on familiar things like her name and the casual introduction of a stranger will keep her calm. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. The human psyche is an interesting thing, picking up bits and pieces of information along the way. Storing them in the subconscious mind until they’re needed.
“I’m Sarah.” Her voice is low and sultry, like sunlight filtering through amber. Her raven-colored hair hangs in long waves in front of her face. She tucks a strand behind her ear and peeks at me, her light blue eyes glazed and unfocused.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sarah.” I reply with the most pleasant voice I can muster, as if I’m not crouching in the middle of an intersection, sweat trailing down my spine as heat radiates from the asphalt, the passenger door of Sarah’s car sitting firmly in the passenger seat. “I’m Frank.” I consider shaking her hand but touch her shoulder instead, hoping the more intimate contact will soothe her. She sighs with shaky breath. Closes her eyes and inclines her cheek toward my hand. Her features soften and for a moment, it’s as if I’ve known her forever but I blink and the moment’s gone.
An ambulance inches around the corner, fighting the throng of bystanders and vehicles with drivers too concerned about making it to wherever they’re going to offer assistance. The emergency vehicle pulls to a stop. EMTs hop out and swarm the scene. I step back, allowing them space to work as they check out the woman and the driver of the other car.
Police turn the intersection into a beacon of flashing lights and men in uniform standing around with clipboards. I offer my assistance, providing as much information as I can, and then step away and let the professionals do their work. Sarah stands, obviously shaken, but looking stronger and more aware of herself by the minute. The EMTs check the injury on her forehead and gesture toward the ambulance, but she shakes her head, squaring her shoulders as she declines care.
I stay longer than I should, eager to help.
Maybe I can get Sarah’s last name.
Her phone number.
Offer her…what? What could I possibly offer her?
She’s beautiful. Even injured and shaken, she holds herself with a level of confidence that intrigues me. She gathers her hair over her shoulders and glances my way, lifting a hand in gratitude before turning her attention back to the police officer. The man places a hand on her arm as if he has the right to touch her.
Jealousy flares in my stomach.
Clenched jaw.
Tight fists.
One step off the sidewalk and into the street.
Before I make a fool of myself, I take a breath. Surely, the officer is using the same techniques I did, a calming touch to soothe frayed nerves. Besides, I have no claim to Sarah. No reason to be jealous.
I’ve never seen this woman before and I’ll never see her again.
As the throng of people dissipates and I continue to linger, I feel more and more out of place. I catch Sarah’s gaze, nod once, and then head back to work.
Sarah
Gerty—my car—is a disaster. Try as I might to start her up so I can get the hell out of Denver and never look back, it’s just not going to happen. Even if it did, there’s no way she’ll drive with the giant-ass dent in the door. Thank goodness the entitled asshole in the Mercedes hit me in the passenger side and not the driver side, otherwise, I’d be in far worse shape than I am now. Which is saying a lot because, while my body is going to be okay, my life has pretty much fallen apart.
And just when I started to think things couldn’t get any worse than they already are, (although part of me thinks I’m finally taking the right steps to make life better) I go and do something stupid like wreck my car. Sure, I was lost, but I know better than to look at my GPS while I’m driving.
In an unfamiliar city.
During traffic.
While medicated.
I grab my bags out of the trunk and watch as they load Gerty up on a truck and take her off to some dealer who’s sure to charge more than I can afford for repairs.
The EMTs try to talk me into going to the hospital, but, as of two weeks ago, I don’t have a job. Hence, I also don’t have health insurance. So, a trip to the ER is a great big no-thank-you wrapped up in a fuck-you-very-much. I do, however, have car insurance, and the asshole who T-boned me is all too happy to take down that information. And by happy, I mean he’s downright gleeful, as if he takes a special kind of pleasure in knowing he’s going to make my life exponentially more difficult in the coming weeks. The afternoon passes in a blur of questions, clipboards, and the fear of dollar signs floating through my head until finally, the show is over and I find myself alone.
So now what?
I’m standing on a sidewalk in a strange city without a car or a place to stay, my entire world stuffed into a couple bags and a suitcase. I have a savings account, but I’ve been hemorrhaging money since I left Ohio two weeks ago. What’s left in there won’t last me very long. Especially now that I have to pay for a hotel in downtown Denver on top of whatever it’ll cost to fix my car.
So, I ask again.
Now what?
I push away a surge of panic strong enough to drop me to my knees by dry swallowing half a pill my doctor prescribed me for anxiety. Shake out my hair. Take a deep breath. Square my shoulders. The way I see it, my choices are limited to feeling sorry for myself or shrugging it off and rolling with the punches.
With the help of the anxiety medication, I choose option B. All the way. No doubt. Why bother wallowing in my misery when I can turn this unscheduled pit stop into something fun? I’ve been looking for adventure and damn if it didn’t drop straight into my lap and make itself at home. I spin in a slow circle, looking for a restaurant or coffee shop or something, and find a bar across the street. The sign overhead reads Derby’s.
“Welcome to Denver,” I mutter to myself as I hitch up the two bags draped over my shoulder and step into the crosswalk, trundling a giant suitcase along behind me, then heave open the door and take a seat at the bar. When the bartender stops in front of me, I order the cheapest beer I can think of while I pull out my phone, dial my brother’s number, and put my head in my hands while it rings.
“No shit.” Colton’s voice is at once soothing in its familiarity and frightening in the distinct lack of warmth. “We thought you were gone for good this time.”
“Yeah…about that…”
“You missed my wedding.”
I grimace. “I know.”
“That was a dick move.”
“I know that, too.” And I do. I really, truly do. I have my reasons, and they’re good reasons, though I doubt Colton is ready to hear them and I know I’m not ready to speak them.
There’s a pause, and then, “Well, now that we have that covered…”
Maybe calling Colton wasn’t the best idea. I’m not ready to tackle the giant fuckup that is me pulling a no-show when my brother married my friend. Not now, sitting in a strange bar, surrounded by strange people. “I’m in Denver.” I grab a pen from my purse and start doodling on a napkin. Long lines and arching curves become the buildings on the other side of the windows.
“You don’t say.” Colton sounds less than thrilled. “The wedding was great, by the way. Thanks for asking.”
“I’m sure it was amazing. You and
Tessa are great together.” I want to beg him to be nice to me, but I don’t deserve it. I stood him up on the most important day of his life to date. He has every right to be mad at me. Even as broken as I am, I’m capable of recognizing that.
“So, you’re in Denver…”
“Yeah.”
“Any reason why?”
When I packed my things into the back of my car, I thought I was heading to his wedding. I really did. But the more I thought about what might happen when I got there, about what might happen when I saw my dad, the tighter my chest got. Before I knew what I was doing, I was in Indiana. Then Missouri. Then I veered south and hit Texas because, why not? And now here I am in Colorado.
But I can’t say that to Colton. Instead, I gloss over it all and offer him a bullshit excuse. “I’ve never been west before,” I say. “Thought it was time. I kind of want to sit on a beach in California. You always hear good things about the beaches.” I widen my eyes and take a breath. “In California.” I suck in my lips to stop myself from talking. This is officially the most painful conversation of all time.
“I see.”
I imagine how I must sound to my brother. Sketchy. Flighty. Selfish. “Anyway, I was in an accident today. Car’s a mess. And since I’m jobless…”
Colton makes a choking sound. “Are you really asking for money after disappearing the way you did?”
“I’m fine by the way,” I say with a sigh. “Thank you for asking.”
Without missing a beat, my brother hits me with a reply. “I thought that was just how we did things now. You know, avoided asking questions about things that matter to each other,” Colton says, the vaguest hint of humor lightening the edges of his voice.
