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For Louisa Edwards and Kristen Painter…
My besties who hand me the umbrella (drink) every time it rains.
Acknowledgments
My team is awesome! I can’t thank every one of the many folks who help breathe life into my books, but a few individuals and groups must get their heartfelt shout-out:
I’m out of superlatives for my team at Grand Central/Forever publishing! Led by a brilliant and keen-eyed editor, Amy Pierpont, and corralled by her indispensible assistant, Lauren Plude, these professionals are tops in the business, and I’m so fortunate to give them my characters and watch the magic happen.
Wonderful, delightful, and tireless agent Robin Rue and her right hand, Beth Miller, are with me at every turn in the professional road. Because of them, I never get lost.
My many romance writer friends, especially my fellow blog sisters, who love and support me even though I took the murder out of Murder She Writes. This is the A-Team, and I am proud to have been part of it for so long.
Beta reader Barbie Furtado, who never complains about reading revised versions of many scenes multiple times. It’s quite possible she knows my characters better than I do, and has encouraged me every single day of this book’s creation.
Multiple individuals, doctors, and specialists with the Alzheimer’s Association, who took the time to provide me with information about the care, support, and research of all types of dementia. These people are heroes in every sense of the word.
Finally, my breathtaking, patient, loving, and completely wonderful family. I just couldn’t treasure you guys more. And, of course, all my gratitude goes to the One who made everything and blessed me with the ability to tell stories.
Prologue
August 1997
“I know why they call this a comforter.” Jocelyn pulled the tattered cotton all the way up to her nose, taking a sniff right over the Los Angeles Dodgers logo.
Will didn’t look up from stuffing socks into the corners of his suitcase. “Why’s that, Joss?”
“Because…” She took a noisy, deep inhale. “It smells like Will Palmer.”
Slowly, he lifted his head, a sweet smile pulling at his face, a lock of dark hair falling to his brow. Lucky hair. Jocelyn’s fingers itched to brush it back and linger in the silky strands.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “It stinks of sweat, grass, and a hint of reliability?”
“No.” She sniffed again. “It smells like comfort.”
He straightened, rounding the suitcase to take a few steps closer to the bed, leveling her with eyes the same color as the Dodger-blue blanket. “You’re welcome to take it to Gainesville. My mom bought me a whole new set of that stuff for the apartment.”
“I’m sure it would be the envy of my roommates.” Girls she didn’t even know, except as names on a piece of paper sent to her by a resident adviser named Lacey Armstrong. Would Zoe Tamarin and Tessa Galloway be her friends? Would they make fun of her for bringing the next-door neighbor’s comforter to her dorm room next week?
“Do you want it?” he asked, the question touchingly sincere.
“No, I don’t need it,” she replied. “I need…” The word stuck. Why couldn’t she just say it, tell him, be honest with her best friend in the whole world who was leaving for college—a different college—tomorrow morning? “You.”
He did a double take like he wasn’t sure he’d caught that one-syllable whisper. “That’s a very un-Jocelyn-Bloom-like admission.”
“I’m practicing to be the new me.”
“I hope you don’t change too much up there at UF. I like you just the way you are.”
I like you. I like you.
Lately, those three words were being tossed around like his baseballs during practice. It was almost as if she and Will wanted to say more. But they couldn’t. That would change everything in the delicate tightrope of friendship and attraction they’d walked for all these years.
“Anyway,” she said quickly, “you’re the one who’s going to change. Living off campus, traveling with the University of Miami baseball team, fending off those pro offers.”
“Please, you sound like my dad now.”
“I’m serious. No one will recognize the golden boy of Mimosa Key when he comes home at Thanksgiving.”
“You’re the one with a full academic ride and so many scholarships you’re making money going to school, Miss Four-Point-Six Smartypants.”
“You’re the one who’s going to be on a box of Wheaties someday, Mr. MVP of State Championships.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shit, now you really sound like my dad.” Shaking his hair back, he came a little closer and propped on the side of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. “So what about Thanksgiving?”
“What about it?”
“You coming back home, Bloomerang?”
Her heart did a little roll and dive at the nickname he’d given her years ago.
Jocelyn Bloom-erang, he called her. Because you always come back to me, he’d say after she’d been MIA for a few days. But the truth was, she had no real reason to come back to this barrier island hugging the coast of Florida. Except him, and he was headed for bigger and better things.
In answer to his question she just shrugged, not wanting to lie and really not wanting to ask a question of her own: Would he ever consider taking her with him on his journey to fame and fortune?
“You’re not coming back, are you?” he asked.
“I… might.” She locked her elbow and let her head fall on her shoulder, hiding behind the hair falling over her face. “You know how things are.”
He stroked her cheek and smoothed that fallen hair over her shoulder. “I know how things are.”
They didn’t have to say more than that. Ever since the Palmers had built this addition to their house so their star-athlete son could have a gym attached to his bedroom, he’d also had a front-row, second-story seat to the drama unfolding at the Bloom house next door. The windows behind his power-lifting station let in light—and noise.
He’d heard enough to know what happened next door. That was why he left the door at the bottom of the steps open, so Jocelyn could slip up to the safety and comfort of her best friend’s loft.
And she had, so many, many times.
“Your mom will miss you,” he said, his voice surprisingly tight.
“My mom…” She wanted to say mom would be fine, but they both knew better. “Was born without a spine.”
“Which means she’ll miss you even more.”
“I’m not the parent-pleaser you are, Will. Well, I can’t please him, obviously, and I don’t need to please her. She refuses to leave him and, you know, half the time I think she feels like she deserves what she gets.”
He didn’t respond; what could he possibly say? Jocelyn’s dad was a ticking time bomb and no one ever knew when the fuse would blow. All they knew was that her mother would end up bruised. Or worse. And, honestly, it was only a matter of time until that fist made contact with Jocelyn.
“But I do have a spine,” Jocelyn said, lifting her chin. “And next week can’t come fast enough for
me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Sadness? Pity? Longing? “I wish Miami didn’t start a week earlier than Florida.”
“You’re ready,” she said. “You’ve outgrown the shrine.”
He laughed at her favorite name for his loft. Did he know that when she said that, she meant a different kind of shrine—a sanctuary? That was what it was for her. This second-story suite might be his workout room and bedroom, but it was her safe harbor; the sight of his gazillion trophies and framed newspaper articles always made her feel safe and secure from the mess next door that was her home.
Or maybe it was just the broad, strong shoulders of a boy who always let her lean on him that made her feel so safe and secure here.
She realized he was looking directly at her, his expression serious, his hand still resting against her neck.
“What?” she asked.
Without answering, he tunneled his fingers into her hair, inching her closer. “It’s our last night, Jossie,” he whispered. “And I’m going to miss the hell out of you.”
Warmth curled through her, unholy and unfamiliar—no, it was familiar enough, especially in the last few months They’d been dancing around this all summer, both too scared to tear the safety net of their friendship and do what they were thinking about constantly.
They’d almost talked about it. Almost kissed. Frequently touched. And every time they parted, Jocelyn felt twisted and tortured and achy in places that had never ached.
His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he tried to swallow. Unable to resist, she touched that masculine lump on his throat.
“When I met you, Will, you didn’t have one of these.”
A smile threatened. “I didn’t have a lot of things I have now.”
“Like this manly stubble.” She brushed her hand along the line of his jaw, his soft teenage whiskers ticking her knuckles.
“Or these massive guns.” He grinned and lifted his arm, flexing to show off a very impressive catcher’s bicep.
Then his eyes dropped from her face to her chest. “Speaking of things someone didn’t have.”
She felt her color rise and, oh, Lord, her nipples puckered. There was the ache again.
“Will…” She looked down, directly at the sight of a shockingly big tent in his jeans. He hadn’t had that when he’d moved in seven years ago.
She stared at the bulge, her throat dry, her chest tight, her hands itchy. Dear God, she wanted to touch him.
“Jossie,” he whispered, trailing a finger up her throat and across her bottom lip, sending fireworks from her scalp to her toes and a whole lot of precious places in between. “I don’t want to leave without…”
She looked up at him, his face so near now she could count his sinfully long black lashes. “You think it’s time…” She took a slow breath. “That we…”
“It’s not about time,” he said, a hitch in his voice nearly undoing her. “You have to know how I feel about you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m your best friend,” she said quickly. “The girl next door. The only person in town who doesn’t swoon at the sight of your number thirty-one on the cover of the Mimosa Gazette.”
She thought he’d smile, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes. “You’re so much more than that.”
Was she? God, she wanted to be. She really, really wanted to be. But if this friendship was ruined, then what?
They’d hugged a million times. They’d kissed on the cheek. They even made out a few times when they were fifteen, but then he started dating some dimwit cheerleader. Everything physical had stopped, but their friendship and his unspoken offer of an escape from the hell of her home kept on going.
But this summer, with college looming and the clock ticking and hormones raging and—
He kissed her. One soft, sweet, gentle kiss and everything in her body just melted.
“Joss,” he murmured into her mouth. “I have to ask you something.”
She backed away, the seriousness of the question scaring her. “What?”
“I need to know how you feel about me.”
She almost laughed. “How I feel about you?” Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he tell? He was everything to her—her rock, her crutch, her soft place to fall. Her hero, her fantasy, her one and only. “Will, I… I…”
“I love you, Joss.” His eyes welled up with the words, making them twenty times more sweet and perfect.
She cupped his jaw, searching eyes the color and depth of the Gulf of Mexico they’d spent so many hours swimming in over the last seven years. The words were on her lips, as warm and sweet as his kiss. But something stopped her. Something deep inside held on to those words and wouldn’t let them out.
“I love you,” he repeated, having no such problem.
Did he? Did he really love her? Love was so tenuous. Hadn’t she heard those very words spoken to her mother and, ten minutes later, the smack of a palm against flesh?
His hand slipped out of her hair, down the column of her neck, over her breastbone. “Jocelyn, I’m dying here.”
For love or…
He eased her back on the bed, covering her with his body.
Sex.
Was he dying for her to say I love you or…
He nuzzled into her neck, kissing her lightly, each touch of his lips like a little firebrand on her skin that made everything tight and hot and needy. The comforter balled up between them, lumpy but not thick enough to block out the pressure of his body.
He rocked his hips slowly first, then a little faster. Colors flashed behind her eyes at the intensity of the pleasure. Fiery ribbons of need and heat curled between her legs as she met each beat of his hips.
Grabbing the comforter, he yanked it away, throwing it to the side so he could get closer to her. All she could hear was the loud huffs of breath, both of them panting already as they found a rhythm. A rhythm of kissing, touching, rubbing, riding.
“Will…”
“Is it okay, Joss? Tell me it’s okay.” He nearly growled the words into her throat, kissing her as one hand—one shaking, large, masculine, beloved hand—slid over her cotton tank and settled on her breast.
She gasped at the shock of the sensation, making him lift his head. “You all right?”
“Yes. That feels good.” She barely mouthed the words, her eyes damn near rolling back into her head it felt so amazing. His hand was so big he covered her whole breast, palming her until her nipple felt like it would pop.
His other hand went under her top, over her stomach, into her bra, touching, touching, touching.
“Oh my God,” he moaned, pumping harder against her. “I can’t believe how amazing you feel.”
She couldn’t answer, too lost in the newness, the strangeness, the complete wonder of Will’s calloused, strong hand on her skin. His whole body quivered, and she knew he was as overcome as she was.
“Take it off,” he pleaded, struggling with the top. “Take it off.”
He pulled the T-shirt over her head, pushing up the bra without bothering to unsnap it, her breasts so small they popped right out.
He stared at her, searing her skin with the intensity of his focus. “Just like I imagined.”
“You imagined?”
“Jocelyn, seriously? Do you not think I—”
“Don’t.” She put her hand on his mouth. “Don’t tell me. Just… keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, driven by the need that burned low in her belly and deep in her chest.
This was inevitable, really.
All these hours in this room, together. She’d go home and kiss her pillow, touch herself, imagine Will’s fingers and mouth and his…
She slid her hand between them, closing over the hard shaft in his jeans, making him grunt with surprise and pleasure. He kissed her chest again, moving from one breast to the other, fumbling with her shorts.
“I have a condom,” he whispered betwe
en ragged breaths. “Want me to get it?”
“In a minute, yeah.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Are you a virgin, Will?”
Still for a second, he finally admitted, “Um, not exactly.”
“I am.”
She heard him swallow hard. “I figured that. I won’t hurt you, Jocelyn. I love you.”
He loved her.
“Tell me,” he urged, tugging at her zipper. “Tell me you love me.”
“I will.” When he was inside her. When they were one. Then she would tell him. “Just don’t stop.”
“Not a chance.” He slipped his hand into her panties and she almost screamed when his finger touched her. “I love you so much, Jossie.” Inside. “I love you.” Deeper. “I love you. You have no idea how much… oh, damn, you feel good.”
Heat coursed through her as she rolled into his palm, lost in his words, his hands, his beautiful, beautiful—
“You goddamn fucking bastard!”
The whole room vibrated with the shout as Jocelyn screamed and Will leaped off her, both turning to meet the blazing gray eyes of Guy Bloom.
“Get off her!” Guy’s barrel chest heaved with fury, stretching his sheriff’s uniform as he marched closer, already lifting his arm to a position she knew all too well.
“No, Dad, no!” Jocelyn screamed, jumping up, grabbing at her bra to pull it down.
But it was too late. Her father glowered at her, his face red, spittle at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“No!” She got the cups over her breasts just as Will stepped in front of her, arms outstretched.
“Deputy Bloom, please, I’m really sorry—”
Guy shoved him to the side to get to Jocelyn. “You whore! You cheap, trashy whore!”
“No, Dad, I’m not—” The crack of his palm snapped her head back.
“Stop it!” Will pushed him, hard enough to make the older man stumble.
He dropped his head, nostrils flaring like a bull as he stared at Will. “You touching an officer of the law, young man?”
“Don’t hit her.”
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