by Karen Cimms
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgments
Sneak Peek
Mrs. February
About the Author
Also by Karen Cimms
© 2018 by Karen Cimms
Cover Designer: Garrett Cimms
Interior Designer: The Write Assistants
Line Editing: Lisa Poisso
Proofreading: Lori Ryser
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-0-9974867-1-1
Diane Lane Stone, my forever friend.
Thank you.
Pained eyes. Pink lips.
Silly boys only look at hips.
Subtle lies. Midnight cries.
Men drink her words in greedy sips.
—n.a. denmon
Chapter One
The bell chimed over the door, just loud enough for me to hear over the pulse of running water as I scrubbed scorched clam chowder from an aluminum stock pot.
“Can you get that?” my mother called from the office where she’d disappeared after the lunch rush to work on payroll for the week. “If I have to add these numbers one more time—”
I flicked off the faucet and dried my hands on the apron I wore over my cutoffs.
“Got it.”
I didn’t normally work Saturdays, but when my mother called at seven a.m., desperate for an extra pair of hands, I’d rolled out of bed and brushed my teeth. I hurriedly twisted my hair into a long messy braid and snatched up my five-year-old, who was still wearing her favorite pink and purple dinosaur pajamas. At least I didn’t have a long commute, given I lived above the luncheonette. I hadn’t even washed my face, let alone put on makeup. A cardinal sin in my book, but at our luncheonette, I was chief cook, baker, and pot scrubber. My presence wasn’t usually required behind the counter—which meant no makeup, no big deal. Unlike my night job, bartending, where I’d learned that playing up my assets meant more tips in my jar at the end of the night, even if they were often accompanied by a slap on the ass or a lewd remark.
Hey, it paid the bills, and I had a kid to raise.
I stepped out of the kitchen to see two large hands resting on top of the glass bakery case. Their owner was bent over, studying the last of the week’s cookies and cupcakes.
“Can I help you?”
He straightened, and the first thing I noticed was his Pearl Jam Vitalogy T-shirt. And that he was tall—like six foot three at least. He had a great pair of arms. Strong, well-defined. Like he worked hard rather than worked out. Dark-blond hair brushed the tops of his shoulders.
He pointed to the bottom shelf of the display case. “Those cupcakes look amazing.”
Of course they did. I made them. “They are amazing.” One should never be modest about baked goods.
He pushed his mirrored sunglasses atop his head, revealing a pair of blue-green eyes that rivaled pictures I’d seen of the waters in the Caribbean. They were framed by long, thick lashes beneath full, dark eyebrows, giving him a serious look, even when he smiled. His chiseled nose, mouth and jaw could probably cut glass. Despite a face that could’ve graced the cover of GQ, he looked like he’d be far more comfortable posing for Field & Stream or Popular Mechanics.
“The sign on the door said you’re closing soon. Is it too late to order something to go?”
I blinked to break the spell he’d somehow cast. “No problem. What can I get you?”
He scanned the menu board over my head. “I’m starving. What’s good?”
“Everything, but if you’re hungry, how about a Rainmaker?”
His smile widened and he gave me a flirty look. “I don’t know. It’s too nice out today to chance rain. But just in case I want to risk it, what’s a Rainmaker?”
“It’s a twelve-inch sub with roast beef, provolone, and a sliced-up hard-boiled egg, topped with lettuce, tomato, onion, and Russian dressing.”
“I hope that comes with a side of napkins.”
<
br /> “Absolutely.”
“Sounds unusual, but I’m game.”
I pulled a roll from the bread bin, sliced it lengthwise, and opened it on the stainless steel work counter, then began layering on thin slices of roast beef.
He continued to read the menu board. “Do you have any salads?”
“We’re out of macaroni salad, but we have coleslaw and potato salad. I think we might have a little pasta salad left.”
“Nah. Just greens and veggies—plain—if you have it.”
This was a big guy. Lean, but well built. I didn’t picture him as the side salad type.
“Is that for you, or do you have a pet rabbit?”
He had a nice laugh. It kind of rose up out of his chest in a low rumble. He hooked a thumb toward the parking lot. “No. My fiancée.”
I felt a blip of disappointment. Why, I had no idea. I’d never seen this guy before. Besides, I had a boyfriend—sort of.
“She barely eats since we got engaged. She wants to make sure she’ll fit into her dress. I’m afraid she might disappear if she doesn’t eat a few carbs now and then.”
I gave him an extra squirt of dressing before folding his sandwich and cutting it in half. “We have some spring mix. I can toss in some peppers and onions.”
“That would be great. But no onions. She won’t eat them.” The way he was grinning, I guessed he was happy that his fiancée wouldn’t be eating onions. I was about to point out that he hadn’t asked me to leave the onions off his sandwich, but I wasn’t the one who’d be kissing him. Which was a shame. His lips looked very kissable.
I finished wrapping the sandwich and set it next to the register. Then I filled a to-go container with lettuce and slices of green pepper.
“Do you think she might like a hard-boiled egg with this? Or any meat or cheese? You know, a chef salad?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just the lettuce and peppers.”
“Dressing?”
“Nope.” He shrugged and laughed. “What can I tell you? She is a rabbit.”
He pulled a bottle of root beer and a bottle of water from the cooler and set them on the counter. I began ringing him up.
“Wait! I want some of those cupcakes.” He scanned the case again. “Give me three of the chocolate ones. And what are those there? The ones with the tan icing and the toasted marshmallows?”
“S’mores. Chocolate cake with marshmallow cream inside and graham cracker buttercream on top.”
He tilted his head back. “I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven. Three of those too, please.”
I carefully placed the cupcakes into a box, sealed it, and tied it with red and white string. We weren’t a bakery, but I treated my baked goods as if we were.
“Are you going to eat all six of these?”
The grin he flashed made my toes curl. Lucky rabbit. “Damn straight.”
“That’ll be $21.75.”
He reached for his wallet and his T-shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of tan skin. I had to drag my eyes up where they belonged.
He handed me two bills. I counted out his change and dropped it into his hand. “Thanks,” I said, closing the drawer. “I hope you enjoy your sandwich and your cupcakes.” I stepped out from behind the counter so that I could lock up behind him. “And that your girlfriend enjoys her . . . lettuce.”
He smiled again. “I’m sure we will.”
I’d barely closed and locked the door when my mother popped her head out of the office. “Oh my god! He’s adorable. Who was that?”
“I dunno. I never saw him before.”
“I hope he’ll be back.”
“Why? You interested in younger men now?”
“If they look like that, hell yeah.”
I faked a shiver. I adored my mother. But once she got over my father’s death, she’d lost her filters. Or maybe she never had any, and I’d just never noticed.
She pointed her chin toward the door. “He’s back,” she said and disappeared into her office.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, opening the door.
“Yeah, actually. You gave me change for forty. I only gave you thirty.”
“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn you gave me two twenties.”
“Positive. I only had one twenty and the rest are tens.”
If I hadn’t been staring at that strip of skin above his waist, I might have been paying closer attention.
He held out his hand to give me the extra money, and when our hands touched, a spark shot through me. Like static electricity, only stronger. Startled, I pulled away. The bill floated to the ground. I shook the sting out of my hand. “That was weird.”
He bent and scooped up the money. “What was?”
“Didn’t you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
From this close, his eyes were mesmerizing. I glanced down, breaking the gaze, expecting to find the answer sitting in the palm of my hand. “That shock. You didn’t feel it?”
He shook his head. “No. Not really.”
It was the strangest thing. I didn’t know much about science, but I thought the only time you could get a shock from touching someone was in the winter.
“Just me, I guess.” I held up the ten. “Thanks for being honest. Not everyone would do that.”
He smiled again, and it seemed as if the air temperature around us climbed at least ten degrees.
“Well, I’m one of the good guys.” He touched two fingers to his head and tipped an imaginary hat. “Ma’am.”
I bit back a laugh. He was cute and corny. “Thank you kindly, stranger.”
I stepped inside as he crossed the parking lot toward a black pickup with Pennsylvania plates. A dark-haired girl sat in the front seat, her head down, and I assumed she was busy with her phone. She didn’t look up when he opened the door to the truck.
He hesitated, looked down at his hand, then back toward me. Had he felt something after all? It looked as if he might come back, but he didn’t. He settled his glasses on his nose, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled away.
The surface of my palm was warm and it tingled. I expected to see a mark, but there was nothing. Nothing but my empty hand.
Chapter Two
“Now do mine, Mama.”
Izzy sat on the edge of the bathroom counter and waved my mascara wand in her chubby little hand, eyes closed, face tipped up, waiting. I placed a kiss on the tip of her perfect little nose instead.
“You’re so pretty you don’t need mascara.”
Her eyes popped open. “But you’re beautiful, Mama, and you need it.”
I looked at my image in the mirror. Smudged, smoky black eyeliner around ice-blue eyes; several thick coats of mascara; penciled eyebrows; lined lips. Blond hair bleached even lighter, curled into soft waves falling to the middle of my back.
I had my mother to thank for my body. Although I was a bit taller, we had the same long legs and narrow waists. And my friend Diane insisted Mom and I must’ve been standing in line with both hands out when the good Lord was passing out boobs—and then greedily come back for more.
Beautiful? It was an illusion. A disguise. It was the armor I wore to protect the fifteen-year-old hiding inside, the girl I was before my daddy died and I let my life spiral out of control.
I leaned in and applied a layer of lip gloss over my pale nude lipstick.
“Pucker up,” I said to Izzy, making a kissy face. “I think all you need tonight is a touch of lip gloss. What do you say?”
Her little head bobbed, curls the color of corn silk bouncing. I lightly touched the wand to her lips. Two small dots, top and bottom. “Now what do we do?”
She pressed her lips together and moved them side to side.
“Perfect!”
I plucked her off the counter and set her on the floor. “Your suitcase packed?”
I probably had the only five-year-old in New Jersey who could pack her own suitcase, but between staying with my mom a couple nights a week and weeke
nds with Jeff’s parents, or with Jeff when he wasn’t away at school, Izzy knew what she needed to bring. And since she’d begun packing it herself, Mom no longer had to make extra trips back to my apartment to grab whatever I’d forgotten to throw in the suitcase.
She zipped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, returning with the daisy-covered suitcase on wheels Jeff’s parents had given her last Christmas.
“Do you remember the plan?”
The way she huffed and rolled her eyes, you would’ve thought she was fifteen instead of five. “Jeff is picking me up and taking me to his new house and tomorrow he’s bringing me to Gramma and Grampa’s for dinner and that’s where you’ll pick me up.”
“Iz, what did I tell you?”
Her lower lip popped out and her little brow furrowed. “But I don’t like calling him Daddy. His friends laugh at me.”
I dropped to my knees and brought my face closer to hers. “They’re not laughing at you, pumpkin. They’re laughing because they don’t understand how great it is to be a daddy. Honestly? I bet they’re jealous.”
The look she gave me said she saw right through me. Jeff was an ass, but he had been the most popular ass in high school, and I hadn’t exactly been thinking straight back then. He’d broken up with me about a minute after I told him I was pregnant. He left for college before Izzy was born. Over the past few years, he hadn’t really spent much time with her other than an occasional weekend when he visited his parents, and I imagined it was only because they insisted.
