by Addison Fox
Nick’s eyes crinkled at the corners at Peter’s inclusion, but he gave his future father-in-law the helm, simply holding up his glass. One more reason she loved Nick. He knew how to work a room, and he knew how to graciously accept when it was someone else’s turn. He was confidence and easy grace, charm and sexy attitude.
And she loved him.
“I didn’t realize how much this place was in my blood until it almost wasn’t. You’ve ensured that the future I worked so hard to build is now a possibility. I’m so happy and proud—and deeply grateful—you showed me the way.”
Emma pulled her father close for a hug, grateful every day she’d found the strength to come home. To come back to her roots. Somewhere deep inside she’d recognized what she’d needed, and every decision had come from that. Home. Direction. Even love.
All of it had been waiting for her.
At last.
Author’s Note
When Mama Lou and her boys first came into my mind, I immediately saw them in Brooklyn. The past decade has shown considerable progress in New York’s largest borough, with industry, art, real estate, and an increasingly youth-based community putting its stamp on various neighborhoods.
While there are many wonderful neighborhoods throughout Brooklyn, Park Heights is my own amalgam of various parts of the borough I love. I hope you’ll indulge me as I sought to keep the entrepreneurial spirit of these vibrant communities by taking some of the best parts of each of them to create my own.
Read on for an excerpt from Addison Fox’s next book
JUST ONCE
Coming Soon from SMP Swerve
Chapter One
Landon McGee knew three things about life. It was never boring. It was always kicking you in the ass. And, in the immortal words of Robert Frost, it went on. He also knew that the elements of life that made it endlessly fascinating or shockingly hard—sometimes both—usually came up and blindsided you on a random Tuesday.
Or a Wednesday morning, to be exact.
He’d walked into the loft space he rented in DUMBO ten minutes ago to find it in disarray. He and his suitemates were sort of digital sharecroppers, sharing the cost of the rent, the overhead, and the extremely necessary T-1 line that kept their small businesses afloat. Each of them was a computer geek to the core, ensuring paperwork was in short supply, but the latest in equipment and digital design tools were plentiful.
So it was odd to discover it was the filing cabinets that were one of the few items hit.
They might have kept little paperwork, but Landon and his combined associates still had some stuff. Not everything could be fully baked into a hard drive or filed away in the cloud.
Rent paperwork. About fifty boxes of coffee pods. And an odd array of love letters their secretary-slash-office manager had been squirreling away in the front reception area now littered the floor.
He’d already done a quick check of the equipment, pissed off to find the new server he’d had delivered on Monday was nowhere to be found, along with its twin that had occupied an oversized technical closet equipped with the latest in security and fire protection.
“Fuck it all.”
He dragged out his phone and dialed the police, the game design that had accompanied him throughout his walk to work fading in the reality of his morning.
Landon walked the 9-1-1 operator through his discovery, well aware he wasn’t going to be anyone’s first priority that morning, especially once he confirmed the office was empty. On a resigned sigh, he settled into the small couch in their front reception area and opened his laptop. The game level that had haunted him all evening and on his walk to work still roiled in the back of his mind. He figured giving the creative images free rein might help soothe the wash of frustration each time he looked at the mess.
Daphne Rossi, detective third grade, found the owner of BKNY Games huddled over his computer, his concentration so intense she briefly flirted with firing off a warning shot just to get his attention. Based on the address given out by dispatch, she’d anticipated a skinny-legged, glasses-clad official Brooklyn hipster. She was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of running shoes at the bottom of faded, cuffless jeans instead.
Really long, jean-clad legs.
“Excuse me?” When he didn’t respond, she tapped her foot against his, the move jarring enough to have him scrambling to attention. That impression of height wasn’t false as he stood up, about six feet two inches of rather solid male. Nicely toned biceps edged beneath a black T-shirt with the BKNY logo emblazoned on it.
He blinked, a soft haze fading from his eyes as he focused on her. Thick dark lashes framed equally dark eyes and Daphne took an extra beat to collect herself. “Mr. McGee? I’m Detective Rossi.”
He smoothly slid his slender, worn laptop closed and extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Daphne took his hand, the grip firm, and once again she had to admit he wasn’t quite what she’d imagined on the drive over. For all that his surroundings screamed creative genius, there was something interesting about the arc of Landon McGee’s cheekbones and the lines of his stubbled jaw. When she reluctantly dropped his hand, she allowed her initial impressions to round out.
He was lean, no question, but solid. His shoulders had some breadth to them and there was muscle in the cords of his forearms. Perhaps the desk jockey had outside interests?
“Dispatch told me you had a break-in. Why don’t you show me what’s missing?”
“Not much, which is the strange part. But enough.”
He pointed out the filing cabinets in the lobby before leading her into the office. Daphne followed, the small reception area opening into a large loft space. She hadn’t spent much time in DUMBO but had met a friend at her office a few times off Water Street and had attended a gallery opening on Plymouth. Landon McGee’s office was a bit farther down the block, where Water intersected Washington, and boasted the money shot view of the Manhattan Bridge the neighborhood had become known for.
“Wow. How’d you snag this office?”
“I know the owner. Got in on a long-term lease.”
She fought the twin urges to whistle and gawk and simply allowed the view to wash over her. Summer sun streamed in the large windows and it was only when she pulled her view from the bridge that she took in the rest of the space. More couches took up a far corner, arranged for conversation and collaboration. Maybe even sleep after a late night.
She continued her assessment, snapping impressions of the large, open space like photographs. The office’s desks were more long tables than single pieces with drawers, all arrayed with computer monitors, wireless keyboards and scattered laptops. Certainly different from a cop shop, where you took pride in the number of scars carved into your desk and files spilled out of drawers that didn’t fully close.
“What’s the smile for?”
His low voice and quiet speculation pulled her from her musings and she turned to him fully. “Cliché. We humans are full of it.”
“In spades, I’m afraid. Although I don’t quite get the context.”
“I can see you and your coworkers here. Brooklyn technology mavens, hunched over screens and napping on those couches back there after a late night.”
“Maven? That’s a new one.”
She ignored the subtle amusement and pressed on. “Cops nap, too. And scream and shout from behind ratty old desks that have seen more partners than a Hollywood starlet. Somehow we all manage to get things done.”
“Is there a philosopher lurking beneath the dress blues?”
“Only on the formal occasions where my dress blues are required.”
“Fair enough.”
The moment was small—silly—yet she couldn’t shake the subtle sweetness that pervaded the conversation. He wasn’t what she expected and she’d expected a lot. Tech geek. Neighborhood hipster. And victim.
Yet he seemed more resigned than upset.
“Any idea who paid you a visit last night?”
&nb
sp; “None. I’m usually here late but I left early last night for my brother’s engagement party. None of us keep formal hours but there’s usually someone here until at least ten. Often much later.”
“And yet you show up here at six?” She consulted her notebook. “According to dispatch.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
Something small jingled at his words but Daphne kept her features still. “No?”
“Not since I was a kid. Add on a game idea that’s taking shape and I’m sort of obsessed.”
“What sort of game?”
“Zombies. Adventure. Multiple players. It’s awesome.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
His lips curved up, the expression boyish except for the day-old stubble that lined his jaw. That was not boyish. Or easy to ignore.
“You pointed out the mess in the front. Anything else missing? The desks don’t look nearly as cleaned out as I’d have expected.”
“Most of my colleagues take their laptops home so they’ll need to confirm if anything’s missing, but the desks don’t look like they were hit at all.” He glanced toward the back of the office. A long galley kitchen took up half the space, positioned next to an extended wall with a thick black door. “Two servers are missing in our back room. Our locked back room.”
“Locked?”
“Yep. Found it when I checked everything this morning.”
“You were here alone.”
Nonplussed, he shrugged. “The office was empty but something felt off.”
“Another reason you should have called us.”
“I did call you.”
“You should have left the moment you saw anything out of place.”
“No one was here. And seeing as how they were my servers, full of my work, I didn’t want to wait.”
Once again, that sense of something out of place—out of time—struck her. He wasn’t exactly what he seemed, even as she couldn’t identify anything that felt threatening or off.
No, it was something else. Something more. Something that said this man had seen things. Knew things. Which had her looking at her notebook again. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. McGee?”
“Landon is fine. And none that I’m aware of.”
She glanced up sharply, her pen going still. “None at all?”
“That surprise you?”
“Frankly, yes.”
It was Landon’s turn to go still, his dark eyes wary. “Why would you think I have enemies, Detective?”
“I ran your name on the way over here. You have a well-respected, adopted mother. A brother who played professional football. There are more than a few local stories that pop online.”
“Since when did adoption become a big story?”
“When you raise three of the most upstanding citizens in the borough, people notice.” Daphne pointed toward the windows and the bridge that rose up in the distance beyond. “Citizens who’ve done quite well for themselves in their own right. Which takes me back to my first question. Are you sure there’s no one from your past who wishes you ill?”
About the Author
© Lifetouch Portrait Studios Inc. Used with permission.
Addison Fox can’t remember a time when words weren’t a part of her life. In addition to being an avid reader, she loves writing novels about strong-willed and exciting heroes and heroines—individuals who are meant for each other and who deserve their happily-ever-after. After she makes them work for it, of course!
First published in 2010, Addison has written across romance genres, including paranormal, contemporary, and romantic suspense. A romantic at heart, she’ll take her heroes any way she can get them—from ancient warriors to computer geeks to sexy cowboys. She’s not picky, but she is deeply grateful her readers are willing to come along for the ride.
Addison lives in New York. You can find her at her home on the Web at www.addisonfox.com or on Facebook (facebook.com/addisonfoxauthor) and Twitter (@addisonfox).
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt: Just Once
Chapter One
About the Author
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
AT LAST. Copyright © 2016 by Frances Karkosak. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Crystal Ben
Cover photographs: couple © conrado/Shutterstock; bridge © Songquan Deng/Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-250-11421-1 (e-book)
First Edition: November 2016
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
