Crazy for You: Life and Love on the Lam (A Loveswept Contemporary Romance)

by Juliet Rosetti

  Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.

  If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-office happy hour.

  “Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”

  Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge. Kelli with a freaking i. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.

  Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.

  Although Julie and Kelli’s sordid history belonged in the tabloids, for the most part they tried to keep it out of the office and ignore each other at all costs. But every now and then Kelli’s size negative-two body seemed incapable of containing all of its venom, and some spewed out—usually in Julie’s direction.

  “What’s up, Kelli?”

  “First of all,” Kelli said, holding up a skinny finger, “is that company wine? I was always under the impression that consumption had to be authorized by Camille.”

  Julie glanced down at the bottle in sham regret. “A valid point, Kelli. How about this: you go tell Camille my secrets, and I’ll tell her yours. Sound good?”

  Kelli’s lips pressed together in disdain, and Julie resisted the urge to gloat. Kelli wouldn’t breathe a peep about the champagne. Not that Camille would care, anyway. All she wanted from her employees was that they meet deadlines and keep their columns sassy and snappy, all while fitting the stylish Stiletto mold. Camille didn’t care if they needed a little wine to get there.

  “Was there something else?” Julie asked. “Other than your concern over my liver and company funds?”

  “Actually, yes,” Kelli said, flicking her long blond ponytail over one bony shoulder. “I’ve been asked to clean out the fridge—”

  “You know that you’d be a lot less on edge if you actually ate the food, right?”

  “—and as I was cleaning I noticed this funny-looking sandwich. It has your name on it.”

  Julie glanced down at the plastic-wrapped sandwich in Kelli’s hand. “Yup, mine from last week. I ate half and forgot about it.”

  Kelli shook her head in condescension. “It’s wasteful, Julie. And I think I speak for the entire office when I say we’re tired of you abusing your power.”

  “My power? What is it that I’m out to destroy with a half-eaten turkey sandwich? Thanksgiving?”

  Kelli sighed. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  My ass, you’re not.

  “I’m just saying we all have to share a kitchen space, and it would be nice if even the senior columnists could clean up after themselves,” Kelli said.

  “Okay,” Julie said, shoving the champagne bottle under her arm and snatching the sandwich from Kelli. She took a half step to the side and dropped it in the garbage. “We good? Is there a coffee mug I didn’t position just right, or a pen I left somewhere?” Maybe up your ass?

  Kelli snapped her fingers. “You know, I just thought of something else. I was wondering if maybe you could keep me updated on your notes for August’s article.”

  Julie snorted. “And why would I do that?” And why bother asking? We both know you just steal my notes when it suits you.

  Kelli’s eyes went wide. “Camille didn’t tell you?”

  Julie stilled. “Tell me what?”

  “Your assignment for August? The relationship story? Camille’s worried you might not be up for it.”

  “And this is your business because …?”

  Kelli gave a sweet smile. “I’m your alternate. If your story doesn’t cut it, Camille will print mine instead.”

  Oh, hell no.

  With a violent twist of her hands, Julie uncorked the champagne and took a long swig as she marched out of the kitchen, her head reeling from Kelli’s bomb.

  There was only one thing worse than having to write this story.

  And that was having Kelli-with-an-i write it for her.

  Movie night, here I come.

  Read on for an excerpt from Serena Bell’s

  Yours to Keep

  Ana Travares had let down her guard. She’d stopped hearing her brother’s voice in her head, warning her not to say too much. Telling her not to make friends too easily. Reminding her that she—that they—didn’t have the luxury of trusting other people. Ever.

  At some point, she’d let her shoulders drop from their usual spot around her ears and started to believe that maybe, just maybe, nothing too terrible would happen, as long as she kept her nose clean and didn’t break any rules.

  She’d enjoyed living like a normal person. She’d lost that sense of peering around the next corner, anticipating the next challenge. And it had been a relief, like taking full breaths for the first time after wearing a too-tight dress.

  Only now she thought it might not have been worth it, because the adrenaline of sudden danger packed such a vicious punch: nausea, trembling hands, tight throat. She spoke nearly flawless English, but authority figures could make her forget every word.

  All Ed Branch, the high school’s new academic-support specialist, had said was “We have a new lawyer,” but that had been enough to make her sick.

  “The new lawyer’s a dot-the-i’s and cross-the-t’s type,” Ed said. He sat behind his tidy desk, tipping his chair back. “Wants a CORI from everyone who breathes near the high school. You know what a CORI is, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “Criminal Offender Record Information. It’s a criminal-background check.”

  She nodded, shifting in the hard seat he’d offered her. Her anxiety felt visible.

  “Next thing, he’ll be asking people who drive through the school zone to do background checks, too. Can you see it? Stopping drivers at the crosswalk, handing pens and CORIs through the window?” He laughed. “The point is we’re not singling you out. Everyone who has anything to do with kids has to complete one. You have to, if you want to stay on the Recommended Tutors list.”

  That list was her lifeline to work in Beacon. She got half her income from tutoring, and nearly all her tutoring clients through the school. Beacon wasn’t the only town with students who needed tutoring, but it was one of the few towns left in Massachusetts that still had a vibrant foreign-language program, one of the few towns where most parents had enough money and time to hire tutors, and the only town of that sort she could get to without a car. She needed Ed’s referrals.

  “You have to do a criminal-background check just to keep my name on that list?”

  “Yep. Crazy, if you ask me. We’re going to spend more time chasing people down to get these things—”

  Ed bent his head, and she watched him ransack a file drawer. He slid a sheet of paper over the walnut desk. “I’ll need to see some form of government-issued ID, too.”

  It didn’t look like much, that piece of paper. It had the high school’s letterhead on it and a series of blank lines, but those lines demanded information that she couldn’t provide. Name—she could do that. Address—yes, she had one of those. Last three addresses—she could dredge those up, with some difficulty, because although they’d moved frequently, they’d stayed in Hawthorne, a small city just outside Boston’s magnetic field. But Social Security number?

  This would be so easy for most people. Whip out a driver’s license. Jot down an SSN. Smile, move on.

  Not easy for her. Not at all.

  Sometimes she wished like hell that her brother hadn’t been so careful with her, that he’d let her fake her way, as many undocumented immigrants did. Then she could calmly reach for that piece of paper and write someone else’s Social Security number on it.

  “Is there a problem, sweetheart?”

  Her mind raced. If she could stall the process, maybe Ed would forget. Or the forms would get lost. “Do you need it now?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? It�
�ll just take a minute.”

  None of this would be happening if Ed’s predecessor were still in charge of coordinating the school’s tutoring programs. Louisa Grieg had been an easy-to-please, befuddled old biddy. Ana desperately missed her now.

  Leave, a voice in Ana’s head shouted. Just get up and leave.

  She made herself think of her niece and nephews. Her tutoring money paid for vital groceries like milk and cereal, and school supplies, clothes. There was no margin of error in her household, no room for screwups.

  Idiota, she scolded herself.

  Her brother had been right. No matter how careful you were, no matter how cautious, there were surprises. Traps.

  A string of traps led from their arrival in the United States twenty years ago, when Ana was seven, to this moment. Ana’s mother had never been a meticulous woman, and her exodus to the United States had broken her. She’d left behind home and a beloved sister in the Dominican Republic, only to discover that her husband, who’d promised to follow her to the States, had reneged on his word.

  Then Ana’s mother had gotten stomach cancer. Bedridden, she’d forgotten about, or ignored, her children’s visas. After her death, her kids had discovered the truth and, terrified, had hidden until hiding became a necessity.

  Now there were no more choices. There was only Ana’s reality: live here, in the shadows, or be deported to a country that was as foreign to her, as devoid of the things she loved, as rural China.

  She was hyperconscious of the sealed door to Ed Branch’s tiny, airless office. Of the narrowness of her own breathing passages, the tightness of her chest.

  “Do you need a pen?” He fished one from the can on the desk and handed it to her.

  She drew the deepest breath she could. “If I’m not on the Recommended Tutors list, can you still refer people to me?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He gave her a sorrowful smile that had more in common with a smirk. “We can’t put our stamp of approval on anyone who hasn’t met our requirements.”

  Was he suggesting that he’d cut her off from her current clients as well?

  “Ana, honey—”

  That was worse, somehow, than “sweetheart.”

  “—all I’m asking you to do is give me your previous addresses and Social Security number, and show me some ID.” There was a sour note in his voice now, an emphasis on the phrase “Social Security number.”

  He had somehow guessed the truth about her. Of course he knew she was Latina—her name proclaimed it, and she’d been told until she was sick of hearing it that she looked like this or that Latina actress, only “skinnier” or “with lighter skin” or “with straighter hair”—but she didn’t fit most people’s stereotypes of an undocumented immigrant. Because she’d moved here so young and started school in kindergarten, she’d learned English in a matter of weeks and was as culturally American as any of her classmates. But his manner—unctuous and sneering—told her she hadn’t fooled him. He knew.

  She closed her eyes, shutting out his disdain and the bare cinder-block walls. The office smelled like ozone and indoor-outdoor carpeting. “I’m sorry.” She put down the pen and stood up. “I don’t have ID with me today.”

  “Ana. I can help.”

  His tone had become low and deliberate, oozy and sexual.

  And here they were. Where Ed had been leading her all along.

  He got up and came around to her side of the desk. She stepped back, involuntarily. She could see the gray whiskers he’d missed when shaving, the flecks of chapped skin on his lower lip. He smelled like fabric softener, his breath like maple syrup.

  “Let me help,” he murmured. He reached out and, before she could move, stroked her long, jet-black hair back from her face.

  She shuddered. “No.” Men like Ed Branch were the reason she tied her hair in a ponytail, avoided makeup, and dressed in baggy clothes most of the time. Because the only thing worse than living in the shadows was when something low and dirty crept in there with you and made itself at home.

  “We can work out this CORI problem. I’m on your side.”

  She tried to draw away, but he’d woven his fingers into her ponytail. Behind his John Lennon glasses, his eyes were gray, too. The urge to yank her head away was overwhelming. “There’s no problem,” she said.

  Fear had made her accent stronger, and distaste flickered across his face. “Ana,” he coaxed. The greasy sound of his voice, the too-sweet scent of him, made her dizzy. “You can tell me. Tell me the truth. What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to fill out the form?”

  Because I’ve never been a fan of signing my own death warrant. She reached up and removed her hair from his grasp. Took a deep breath. “I can fill out the form just fine. I just have to look up the old addresses. I’ll take it with me. When do you need it by?”

  His mouth formed a hard line. “I know you’re illegal.”

  Behind her burst of fear, she felt a sliver of satisfaction. She’d made him show his hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I’ll just take this home with me and fill it out. Just tell me when you need it by.”

  “Ana, honey.”

  She darted past him and snatched the CORI, but he grabbed her arm and backed her toward the desk, his bony hip bumping hers. “Ana, please, baby. I can make this go away.”

  Bile rose in her throat as he moved his other hand to her waist.

  * * *

  Head pounding from the din in the high-school gymnasium, Ethan Hansen warily watched his son, Theo, and reminded himself that there were excellent reasons he’d volunteered to do this.

  When the school nurse had asked if he’d create a helmet safety booth for Beacon High’s lunchtime health fair, he’d jumped at the opportunity. As a suburban pediatrician, he saw way too much head trauma. If he could remind even a few kids that helmets saved lives, he’d be doing some good. But the truth was he had an ulterior motive, too. He was here because he wanted to show Theo that he was an active, involved father. Even if Theo had no interest in the demonstration.

  Theo regarded the tagboard foldout critically. “If You’ve Got a Brain in Your Head, Wear a Helmet,” the slogan proclaimed.

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Theo wore a beat-up Pink Floyd T-shirt and sweatpants, which Ethan had told him more than once were too casual for school. His shaggy black hair shadowed one green eye. He and Ethan shared the eye color but, physically, nothing else—Theo’s fair skin and delicate features were elfin, almost ethereal, where Ethan’s features were rougher, his body brawnier, and his red-brown hair a less dramatic contrast to the green eyes.

  The rest of Theo was purely his mother, and even eight years after her death, nothing had the power to reduce Ethan to black grief like catching sight of Theo’s face at an angle that suggested Trish’s.

  A student darted close enough to snatch a miniature helmet key chain out of the jar on the table but retreated before Ethan could engage him in conversation.

  Theo watched him go, arms crossed. “If you’ve got a brain in your head, come up with a decent slogan.”

  Ethan’s blood pressure jerked upward. “Don’t talk to me that way.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you in any way. I was just making a joke about the slogan.”

  People sometimes said that teenagers were like toddlers, only bigger. Ethan thought they were dead wrong. Teenagers were much cleverer and more dangerous than toddlers. They knew how to weasel out of tight semantic spaces. “Just watch your tone.”

  “Why did you have to come here? It’s humiliating.”

  Ethan took a deep breath. He was trapped behind this table for another half hour, and getting into an all-out battle of wills would be disastrous. “It could have been worse. I could be giving out condoms, like those moms.” He gestured toward the three moms behind the table beside him.

  Not a glimmer of humor in Theo’s scowling face. “You’re the only dad here.” An a
ccusation.

  When Ethan attended school events, he was almost always the only dad, and it was lonely. Some moms were good about including him in conversation, but many avoided him. He didn’t exactly blame them. It was an awkward thing, being the only man in a roomful of women. Conversations stopped dead when he showed up, which was just as well when the moms were talking about hair-removal strategies, husbandly inattentiveness, or a gathering where they’d sold each other things such as jewelry or bras or sex toys in a modern-day version of the Tupperware party. Not only was he not plagued with sagging breasts or unwanted hair, but he didn’t have a spouse to complain about. It was a double whammy, being a widower in a town of two-parent families.

  “Yes. I’m the only dad here.” And I’m all you’ve got, thought Ethan, but he didn’t say it out loud. In the mood Theo was in now—a mood he seemed to be in more and more these days—he’d find some way to make it Ethan’s fault that Trish had died.

  Ethan wanted to say, “Theo, if it’s so humiliating that I’m here, why are you hanging around my booth?” But then Theo would accuse Ethan of making him feel unwelcome.

  There was no winning these days. And it was getting worse. Sometime in the past few weeks, Theo had crossed over from sullen to outright obnoxious, and Ethan was braced, waiting for genuine rebelliousness—rule-breaking, drug-taking, or crime.

  “Theo, is this your dad?” The voice belonged to a plump middle-aged woman whose silver hair was pulled back in a bun. “I have some business with him.”

  Generally speaking, there were two reasons women wanted to talk to Ethan: either they wanted to ask his advice, as a pediatrician, about a medical problem or they wanted to flirt. He was guessing, however, that this woman’s business fell into neither of those categories. She looked—angry, he’d have to say. Ferocious.

  “You didn’t think it might be worth at least trying to get him a tutor?” she asked.

  What?

  With a father’s sixth sense—so often absent lately but suddenly at his command—Ethan reached out and grabbed Theo’s scrawny wrist as he began to slink away.