by Naima Simone
Praise for the
Novels of Naima Simone
“Passion, heat and deep emotion—Naima Simone is a gem!”
—New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
“Naima Simone balances crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters caught in emotional turmoil.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Simone is always a good bet.
—All About Romance
“I am a huge Naima Simone fan. With her stories, she has the ability to transport you to places you can only dream of, with characters who have a realness to them.”
—Read Your Writes
“[Naima Simone] excels at creating drama and emotional scenes as well as strong heroines who are resilient survivors.”
—Harlequin Junkie
Slow Dance at Rose Bend
Naima Simone
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
GOD LOVED HER.
Oh yes, He did.
Why else would He create such a brutally beautiful man as the one serving drinks behind the bar?
Cherrie Moore peered down into her glass. Only a really good muscat could have her philosophizing about agape love and sinful lust in the same thought.
Seriously though, she mused, sipping more wine and studying the graceful Adonis who turned drawing beers and mixing drinks into a ballet. No, not Adonis. There was nothing pretty or classical about him. Not with those scalpel-sharp cheekbones or the stubbornness in that rock-solid jaw that even the thick, half-past-five-o’clock shadow couldn’t hide. Or that mouth, with its almost-too-full, firm lips.
And don’t get her started on that body.
Atlas. She mentally snapped her fingers even as she downed the last of her drink. He wasn’t Adonis, he was Atlas. A tattooed Titan with inked biceps, thick thighs in faded jeans and shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world—or the weight of a bar called Road’s End. Wide enough that they, and a powerful chest, had his black T-shirt screaming for mercy.
Oh yes. This man was definitely God’s handiwork. And sex with him was probably a divine revelation.
“Either you have X-ray vision and are checking to make sure his lungs are clear, or you really, really like how his chest is stretching that shirt.” Belinda Barnes smirked, commandeering the barstool on the other side of Cherrie.
She snorted, arching an eyebrow at her friend. “Careful there, woman. Daryl would be quite interested in why you’re noticing said chest at all.”
“Please.” The lovely older woman flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “I’m married, not dead. And besides, Daryl doesn’t mind at all if I look. Especially when he reaps the benefits.”
“Oh, Jesus. I can’t unhear that.” Cherrie groaned, clapping her hands to her ears. Unfortunately, the action didn’t drown out Belinda’s lascivious cackle.
As if sensing their attention on him, Daryl glanced from his and Belinda’s daughter to zero in on them. He arched a dark eyebrow, and even with the small dance floor separating them, Cherrie caught the quirk of his mouth despite the thick gray-and-black beard surrounding it.
Beside her, Belinda sighed. “Nearly twenty-five years, and that man still does it for me.”
Cherrie nodded. Daryl, with his big build, long dark hair and handsome features, was a cinnamon roll. Crusty on the outside, but sweet and soft on the inside for his beautiful wife and daughter. Cherrie didn’t need to glimpse his eyes to witness the deep love that shone there. Daryl and Belinda weren’t just true partners in business, as they owned Ride, a motorcycle apparel shop in town, but also in life.
What must it be like to be loved so completely?
To know that a person’s affection, commitment and approval weren’t based on your actions or inactions? To be accepted and cherished simply because you were...you?
Cherrie had once believed she knew the answer to those questions. Believed she’d had a great shot at obtaining what Daryl and Belinda had. But time and an unexpected health scare had ripped off the blinders she’d been desperately clinging to.
God, it’d been one helluva year.
And it was only July.
“Rachel and Jared will have that kind of marriage. How can they not, with you and Daryl as an example?” Cherrie murmured, circling a fingertip around the base of her empty glass. “And thank you for inviting me to their engagement party. You guys are like my family here in Rose Bend, and I’m honored to celebrate with you.”
“Like family?” Belinda slid an arm around Cherrie’s shoulders and squeezed hard. “Cherrie, there’s no ‘like’ about it. You’re family, plain and simple.” Belinda smacked a kiss on Cherrie’s cheek. “I love this time of year. Not just because of the motorcycle rally, but because every July brings you back to Rose Bend. Brings you back to us. And just let me know when you and that boyfriend of yours are ready to take the next step. We’ll throw you the hugest party right here, too.”
Well, that would be a problem. She inwardly winced, brushing her dark, red-tipped curls out of her face. One, she’d been with Kenneth for three years and he’d never made the trip to Rose Bend, Massachusetts, with her, claiming it wasn’t “his type of thing.” And two...
Two, Kenneth was no longer her boyfriend. Which kind of made it hard to have an engagement party with him.
“Actually, Belinda—”
“Hey, ladies. Can I refill your drinks?”
Whoa. That deep, low rumble rippled through her like a tranquil stream meeting the wildest river. She didn’t need to turn around to confirm who it belonged to. Her every instinct, every taut muscle, every pulse beat identified its owner.
Belinda whipped around on the barstool, and Cherrie turned much slower. As if the extra few seconds could prepare her for coming face-to-face with the man who’d captured her attention since she’d stepped foot into the bar an hour earlier.
“Yes, please,” Belinda chirped. “I’ll take another Sam Adams. Thanks, Maddox. Hey, I know you’ve been busy—and thank you again for letting us have Rachel’s engagement party here,” she said, reaching across the bar and squeezing his hand. “You probably haven’t had the chance to meet a friend of mine and Daryl’s. Maddox, this is Cherrie Moore. Cherrie, I’d like you to meet the owner of Road’s End, Maddox Holt.”
A big hand with short, clean nails entered her line of sight, and Cherrie traced the surprisingly elegant fingers up to a thick wrist, past a heavily tattooed arm, onto a broad shoulder, and finally, to the face of angles and slants that edged too-harsh and slammed right up against beautiful.
A ginger.
In the dimmer lighting of the bar, she’d assumed his hair was a dark brown. But this close, the light directly above them revealed the rich auburn strands that gleamed like fire and the longer strands that tickled his sharp cheekbones and the deep red scruff that covered his jaw and emphasized that carnal mouth.
Aw, hell. She had a weakness for gingers. She had ever since Corey Rowe stole her language workbook in the eighth grade and drew anatomically correct dicks all over the inside cover. Yes, today that would be considered sexual harassment. But back then? She’d crushed on him harder because he’d cared enough to draw his very best.
With a silent, almost defeated sigh, Cherrie pressed her palm to his and wasn’t surprised at the electrical current that tingled from their clasped hands up her arm and zipped to her breasts. And lower.
Oh God.
This
wasn’t good.
“Nice to meet you,” she murmured, then snatched her hand back and unobtrusively rubbed it along her denim-clad thigh.
His crystal blue eyes narrowed on her. Huh. Maybe not as unobtrusive as she thought.
This sooo wasn’t good.
“Same here,” he said, then nodded at Belinda. “Be right back with your beer.” And true to his word, moments later, he returned with a brown bottle with the blue label. “Here you go, Belinda. What about you, Cherrie?” he asked, and she fought not to let him or Belinda see the shiver that rocked through her at the sound of her name on his lips. In that voice.
“No, thank you.” She shook her head and reached for a smile. But came up short. “I’m good.”
“One glass of wine?” Belinda tilted her head, studying her. “This is a celebration. You know Daryl and I will make sure you get back to the campground safely.”
“No, really, I’m good. I plan on leaving on the early ride tomorrow, so I’m limiting myself tonight,” she lied. Even though it was a small fib, she still hated deceiving Belinda, who was like the aunt she’d never had. But Cherrie hated bringing up how her whole life had changed by one random visit to the doctor. Especially not here, at Rachel’s engagement party. And definitely not with Maddox within hearing distance. “I’m not going to risk not hitting the road for anything.”
“One more glass...” Belinda trailed off, squinting across the room. “Excuse me for a minute. My husband is demanding my presence.”
From the smile flirting with the other woman’s mouth, Cherrie didn’t think she minded being summoned. Snickering, Cherrie shook her head. And ignored the pang of loneliness, and perhaps envy, that vibrated in her chest.
“Here.” A refilled glass appeared at her elbow. Cherrie glanced up with a frown and met Maddox’s steady gaze. “It’s nonalcoholic wine.” Seriously? Her eyebrow winged high. Why would a dive bar serve nonalcoholic anything? A corner of his full mouth quirked up, but didn’t form a smile. And she should not be sitting here wondering what an uninhibited, full smile would look like on him. “Sometimes it’s easier to serve a different...option than convince somebody they need to be cut off. It’s the reason we have nonalcoholic beer, too,” he explained, answering her unspoken question.
“Well, thanks,” she said, picking up the drink and sipping. She hummed in pleasure at the sweet, fruity flavor. “Wow, this is good. You can’t even tell the difference.”
“That’s the point.” He tipped his head, and before she caught herself, she leaned backward on the stool, attempting to avoid the piercing intensity of that scrutiny. “Now you don’t have to make up any more excuses about why you’re not drinking. Because it is an excuse, isn’t it? A lie.”
Cherrie choked on the wine she’d been in the process of swallowing. “What?” she coughed.
He passed her a napkin, which she took and used to pat her mouth. “You lied to Belinda about why you didn’t want another drink.”
Irritation flashed inside her, and she glared at him. “I get you’re a bartender, and you probably take the whole customer’s therapist thing seriously, but you don’t know me.”
His mouth twitched again. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“You know what?” Cherrie fumed, propping her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. He might be beautiful, but he was also intrusive and annoying as hell. And she had zero problems telling him so. “I don’t give a—”
Maddox reached out and traced a long, blunt-tipped finger over the edges of the silver lotus atop her black leather cuff. “This is beautiful,” he murmured, interrupting her imminent tirade. And not just because he’d complimented the piece that she’d designed and created herself. But also because as crazy as it seemed, that light caress stroked over the bared skin of her arms and shoulders, between her breasts. A pulsing ache took up residence low in her stomach, and she battled the urge to squirm on the stool.
“Handmade?” he asked.
“Yes,” she rasped. Then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. It’s one of mine.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “You’re the jewelry artist that Daryl mentioned. He said you come for the motorcycle rally every year and sell your jewelry from their shop.”
She nodded. “Guilty.”
For the last thirteen years she’d been coming to this quaint and gorgeous Massachusetts town famous for its annual ride and rally. The first eight years had been with her parents, and when they’d retired to Arizona to escape Chicago winters, Cherrie had continued coming to this oasis in the southern Berkshires on her own. She loved it here.
Not just because of the towering trees, whose lush, green leaves provided beauty and shade. Not just because of the glorious mountains that rose above the town, beckoning her to jump on her Busa and ride those trails. Not just because she was surrounded by good people and better friends.
All of those were certainly true, but they weren’t the main reasons joy filled her at the beginning of every July.
Home.
She traveled extensively for a living, attending conferences, shows and industry competitions, and yet she never felt as at home as she did when in Rose Bend.
Especially now.
Not gonna go there.
“I’ve seen your work in their shop.” He smoothed a fingertip over the silver petals again, and she swallowed a whimper. His gaze lifted from the cuff to her eyes. All that intensity crashed into her, leaving her slightly weaving on the chair. “You’re gifted.”
Professors at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, where she’d attended the jewelry design program, had praised her technique and creativity. Artisans with some of the leading jewelry companies in the industry had complimented her craftsmanship and design. Countless clients had gushed over the beauty of her pieces.
And yet none of that acclaim had caused her throat to tighten around a dense ball of emotion. None had rendered her speechless. Or set her heart racing like an engine souped-up on nitrous oxide. In other words...fast.
“A lotus. A gorgeous flower that will only grow in mud.” He cocked his head. “Have you bloomed in the dirt, Cherrie?”
Shock and pain thrust a hard gust of breath from her lungs.
“Does this Yoda shit usually work?” she sneered, hiding her trembling hands under the lip of the bar. “I hate to break it to you, but the zen bartender schtick is an epic fail for me.”
“And yet you can’t decide whether you want to junk-punch me or put your mouth on me.”
What the fuck?
Who the hell was this guy? And who said that to a woman he’d met five minutes ago? Jesus, she’d gone from lust, to curiosity, to gratefulness to seething mad in the space of as many minutes.
Yes, he was hot sex on a platter. A ginger platter. But he was still infuriating.
“I. Don’t. Like. You,” she ground out.
His lips didn’t quirk. No, they curled upward. And didn’t stop until a blinding, breath-stealing smile curved his mouth. Now she knew what it looked like.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Cherrie Moore. We’re not finished with each other.”
Don’t go anywhere? Was that an order? Who was he to dictate her movements? And why did every word that escaped him sound so damn provocative?
She glared after his big, retreating body as he strode to the end of the bar toward a trio of women who grinned so wide, Cherrie could count all their teeth. Oh, great. She sighed. So starts the bitchy portion of the evening, and it was not a good look on her.
Picking up her glass, she sipped wine and spun around to scan the crowded bar. She should stroll away to investigate the outcome of the fast and furious pool game. Or go on over and tease Daryl. Or maybe even flirt with a couple of the guys who’d hit on her when she’d first arrived at the party.
If she had sense, she’d get up and do any one of those options. Instead, she remained planted on the barstool where she could catch the low rumble of Maddox’s voice behind her. The low rumble that had yearning and a bright, throbbing lust pulsing through her veins like a molten heartbeat.
He might be the most irritating male she’d come in contact with in a long time, but no other man had incited an...excitement that reminded her she was more than a medication regimen or a diet or a flawed mirage of who someone wanted her to be.
For the first time in so long she felt...seen. Whole.
Normal.
And that feeling was as intoxicating as the top-shelf alcohol behind the bar.
The next hour flew by with toasts to the engaged couple, more laughter and even more music from the really great rock band playing cover songs from an elevated platform. She chuckled as Daryl dipped Belinda, bending over her and smacking a kiss to her grinning mouth.
Just then, a large hand appeared in front of Cherrie.
She didn’t even need to study the sprawl of tattoos that climbed the wrist to identify who that palm and those long, nicked but elegant fingers belonged to.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” she muttered. But ruined the disgruntled display by sliding her hand over his. Damn rebellious limbs. Just seemed to have minds of their own.
His fingers closed over hers, and with a gentle tug, he drew her to her feet. She should resist. Tell him she wasn’t much of a dancer—which was true. Inform him that this whole mysterious, gorgeous stranger act wasn’t doing it for her—which was untrue.
But as he guided her among the other people swaying to an ’80s rock ballad that assured her all roses have thorns, she quietly entered his embrace, her arms loosely looping around his neck. His hands cupped her hips, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trapping the moan before it could escape. Her hips had never been small, even after the twenty pounds she’d recently dropped. Her ex had lamented—loudly—that she didn’t try hard enough to be slimmer, and it hadn’t been until she’d started taking better care of herself that she’d begun to appreciate and even love her size sixteen body. But it’d been years—three to be exact—since a man had cradled those abundant curves as if he appreciated them, too.