The Trouble With Love

by Beth Ciotta

  Tasha wouldn’t be coming.

  Rocky couldn’t, wouldn’t, call Dev. He’d anticipated trouble. He’d even freaking predicted the purse snatching! If she called, he’d panic and demand she return home. Now. As the acting president of Cupcake Lovers, as someone with a personal, heartfelt interest in the members, Rocky needed to be at that publisher’s meeting. So she’d called Jayce and now he was on his way. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was relieved.

  Rocky had been living on her own, in a remote area no less, for years. She was an avid sports enthusiast—snow skiing, snowmobiling, hiking, biking, and boating. One of the reasons she’d gotten along so well with Adam. There wasn’t much that intimidated or scared Rocky, but having her purse snatched and being hit by a car in the space of two minutes was rough. The scene after had been almost worse. Everyone hovering, telling her not to move, curiosity seekers, well-meaning passersby, the poor guilt-ridden driver whose hood she’d rolled over, the paramedics, the police. Tasha would’ve loved being the center of attention. Rocky had not.

  Her shoulders sagged with relief when the doctor gave his last instructions, then left. She was changing out of the hospital gown and back into her clothes when someone knocked on the door. “Just a sec.” Frowning at her ruined long-sleeved T-shirt, she pulled it on anyway, careful not to touch the wound on her forehead, then called out, “Okay!”

  She turned just as Jayce moved into the small room, filling the space with a palatable intensity. As always, her heart fluttered and pounded at the sight of him. Tall, lean, and mean. Physically perfect in her book. He wore his dark-golden hair longer these days and had grown a devilishly sexy goatee. Bad boy to the bone, he was dressed in neck-to-toe black. Baggy pullover shirt, cargo pants, a wool peacoat hanging open, and a pair of rubber-soled boots. He looked to-die-for handsome. He looked … angry.

  “You said it was nothing.”

  She realized his gaze was fixed on her shirt—stained with copious amounts of mostly dried blood. “It looks worse than it is.” She gestured to her forehead, feigned nonchalance. “Just a tiny cut, but it bled like a mother. It’s not that bad. Didn’t even need real stitches. Just this butterfly strip.”

  Jayce dragged a hand down his face. “What else?”

  Her body trembled when he moved in for a keener inspection. Her temperature spiked. Her brain glitched. Everything—her senses, her emotions—was magnified. She blamed her shaky state on the mugging, the accident, the meds, but no amount of rationalizing curbed her intense reaction to the reassuring presence of this man. “Just some bruises,” she croaked, swallowing hard when he smoothed messy curls from her face. She’d had a crush on Jayce since she was a kid. She’d finally seduced him on the night of her seventeenth birthday. It had been perfect … until the next morning, when he’d broken her heart. Every time she saw him, which was hardly ever, a lifetime of memories and emotions battered her soul. Every time she saw him, she fell a little harder instead of digging her way out. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  His gaze flicked from her head wound to her wounded eyes. “Don’t shut down on me, Dash.”

  Her cheeks warmed at the nickname, his nickname for her. Self-conscious, she backed away and sat on a chair to pull on her socks and sneakers. “It’s just that creep stole my purse and now—”

  “Someone stole your purse?”

  Focusing on the thieving rat instead of the rogue who’d stolen her heart was a welcome distraction. Rocky vibrated with indignant rage. “Snatched my bag right off of my arm in broad daylight! Took it and ran. The creep. I chased after him and—”

  “Hold on. You chased a criminal?”

  “That’s how I got hit by the car. Only to be fair, it was technically me who hit the car. The driver was turning the corner and I didn’t see. I had my eyes on that good-for-nothing thief.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Rocky, what were you thinking?”

  “That that bastard had my bag!”

  “He also could’ve had a gun or a knife!”

  “Don’t yell at me!”

  “I’m not … It’s just…”

  “He screwed me over big-time, Jayce.” Laces tied, Rocky bolted to her feet and paced. “He got my credit cards, my cash, driver’s license, insurance cards. Everything! The police offered little hope of getting my stuff back. I didn’t see his face, couldn’t offer much of a description. How am I supposed to function the next few days without any money or ID? I can’t just go home. I have to be at an important meeting. I have to—”

  Jayce smothered her rambling with his mouth. One moment she was pacing and venting. The next she was in his arms, under his spell. He kissed her softly, sweetly, but the kiss lingered and … she melted. At once she was seventeen and aching with all the fierce desires of a lovelorn teen. Her brain shut down. Her girly parts revved. When Mr. Supercharged-Testosterone Man eased back, Rocky grappled for her wits. After what seemed like a sappy-ass eternity, she licked her tingling lips and willed her voice not to crack. “Why did you do that?”

  “You were hysterical.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” She swallowed hard, clawing her way through the sensual fog. “Even if I was, a slap would’ve been the traditional response.”

  His expression said, Get real. Realistically Rocky knew Jayce would never raise his hand to a woman, hysterical or otherwise. “I’ll get you to your meeting on time,” he said, “and we’ll address the stolen-ID situation together. As for the money, I’ve got you covered.” He cut her off with a raised hand. “You can pay me back later. We’ll work it out, Dash.”

  “All right,” she said, feeling overwhelmed and out of sorts as he helped her into her bloodied coat. “Just don’t call me Dash. And don’t kiss me again.”

  His eyes sparked and his palm burned at the small of her back as he escorted her to the door. “Don’t count on it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  While Rocky showered, Jayce contacted the precinct that had handled her case. He tried not to think of her naked while his call got put on hold, then bounced from one officer to another. Tried not to envision steam swirling around that smoking-hot body or water streaming over those badass curves or soap bubbles sliding over those toned limbs.

  While the second officer, someone he knew, gave him the not-so-promising status and realistic projection regarding the mugging, Jayce tried not to think about how good Rocky had felt in his arms when he’d kissed her at the hospital or how she’d melted against him, or how amazing she’d tasted. He purposely pushed away the thought of her in that bloodied shirt. He wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but the thought of Rocky suffering harm turned him inside out. There’d been another close call a few weeks back when she’d rushed toward her damaged sports shed in a fierce thunderstorm. If he hadn’t tackled her, chances were she would’ve been crushed along with her recreational equipment when the roof collapsed.

  “Yo, Bello.”

  New York’s Finest. Jayce scrambled to focus. “What?”

  “Just asked you a question.”

  Only Jayce had been distracted by Sugar Creek’s hottest. He forced his gaze from Rocky’s duffel bag, the clothes strewn on the bed she’d be sleeping in. He leaned back in one of the two club chairs in the cramped though tastefully decorated hotel room. The Chandler was affordable by New York standards. Not so much by Rocky’s. Was Dev footing the bill? He would sure as hell want to know about the accident, but Jayce had promised Rocky he wouldn’t call her brother. Another secret. Christ.

  “Damn, Jayce. Are you there?”

  “Sorry, Arnie. Bad day. What was the question?”

  “I asked about your connection to this Monroe woman.”

  Jayce eyed the bathroom door, heard the water shut off, and tried not to think about Rocky toweling her beautiful body dry.

  “Carson said she’s a real looker with a mouthwatering set of—”

  “Tell Carson to keep his opinions to himself and his dick in his pants.”

  “Easy, man. Didn’t kno
w you two were an item.”

  “Now you know.” Jayce shifted and tempered his tone. “Do me a favor, Arnie, give me a heads-up if you guys get something on the mugger or Rocky’s belongings.”

  “You’ll owe me.”

  Jayce disconnected, still burning over Carson’s lewd observation. Not that it wasn’t true, but that wasn’t the point. Ever since Jayce had knocked heads, then locked lips with Rocky in Sugar Creek three weeks back, he’d developed a fierce need to finish what they’d started thirteen years ago. That entailed an exclusive relationship and, if he had his way, marriage.

  He dragged a hand over his face, wondering how long it would take to repair thirteen years of bad blood and where to begin, since he wasn’t even sure where he’d gone wrong. How could he know, when Rocky refused to talk about it? Thinking about the way he’d offered his heart, his hand, only to be told to piss off riled him as if it happened yesterday. Except a lot had happened between then and now. If Jayce had learned anything, he’d learned life was short and he’d wasted too much of it.

  “Still out there?” Rocky called from behind the closed door.

  “Not going anywhere.” Even if you tell me to piss off.

  Just then her cell phone blipped.

  Jayce glanced at the Android lying on her bed amidst a pile of colorful T-shirts. Message from her ex-boyfriend? New boyfriend? Grow up, Bello. Jesus. “You’ve got a new text.”

  “Who’s it from?” she called back. “What does it say?”

  No secrets? No hesitation? Jayce thumbed the screen, smiled. Not Brody. Not any man. “It’s from Chloe.” He paraphrased, “Wants to know if you’re okay.”

  “Oh! Tell her … Tell her I’m great. Tell her thanks for the room rec. Perfect. And the dress rec. Awesome. And…”

  “Everything’s peachy,” Jayce said as he texted: All’s well. More soon.

  He tossed the phone back on Rocky’s bed and crossed to the window. He looked down on the kinetic sidewalks and streets of the city, yearned for the quiet of Sugar Creek. It hadn’t always been like this. Just lately. A slow burnout and an unexpected call to arms.

  “Did you reply?” Rocky called out.

  “Done.”

  “Thanks. Be out in a sec.”

  “Take your time.” Meanwhile Jayce ached to fast-forward. Summoning patience, he dropped back into the club chair. He wasn’t one for philosophizing. He didn’t sit around analyzing his life. He didn’t wallow in self-pity or stress about the future. He rolled with the punches—a coping mechanism he’d honed over the years. As a kid he’d survived some tough breaks. As an adult he’d dodged some bad shit. In all his thirty-five years he’d only been blindsided twice. The night of his parents’ death and the night he’d fallen in love. The first had scarred him for life. The second had put all he cherished at risk. A surprise attack that had coldcocked his conscience and left him for buzzard bait.

  That weapon of destruction had a name: Rochelle—Rocky—Monroe. His best friend’s little sister. Five years Jayce’s junior. Not a shocking age difference except she’d been jailbait when he’d nailed her. Just seventeen, her birthday in fact. He’d been twenty-two and spontaneously besotted and seduced by the beautiful girl who’d crawled in through his bedroom window and peeled off her clothes. At first he’d thought Rocky was drunk. But, damn, she’d been sober and aggressive and frickin’ irresistible.

  Jayce shook off the past and focused on the woman who emerged from the hotel bathroom. Curvier than the girl he’d bedded thirteen years prior. He’d gotten a prime view of Rocky’s bodacious figure three weeks ago when they’d faced off in her bathroom at her inn. At the time she’d been wearing a sheer cami and skimpy underpants. Now she wore a long-sleeved, knee-length, black-and-white-patterned dress and tall black boots. Nothing racy about this ensemble, yet his pulse revved.

  “How do I look?”

  I’d like to lick you head to toe. “Not bad.”

  Rocky frowned. “This meeting is important. I need to look great.” She unknotted the sash-belt and tied it in a bow. “Better?” She turned before he answered, kicked shut the bathroom door to see for herself in a full-length mirror. “Too frilly. Maybe it’s supposed to tie in the back.”

  “It was fine before.”

  “Then what?” she snapped, fixated on her reflection. “Too short? Too long? Too clingy? Not clingy enough?”

  Okay. This was a side of Rocky he’d never seen. He’d never heard, let alone witnessed, her fretting over her appearance. Never known her to ask anyone’s opinion. Unlike most of the women Jayce knew, Rocky didn’t obsess on fashion. She opted for comfortable. Casual. Jeans and T-shirts never looked so good. Sneakers never so sexy. He chalked it up to confidence. One of Rocky’s most alluring and irritating qualities. She was definitely off her game.

  Jayce remained seated, although he did lean forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. He locked on to her nervous energy, her uncharacteristic insecurity, and considered that gash on her forehead. She’d just been mugged, then hit by a car. Rocky was tough, but was she really up for a corporate meeting? What if she got dizzy? Or sick? Though she’d downplayed the head wound, there’d been a lot of blood on her shirt. Enough to stop his heart. He’d spoken to the doctor who’d declared her fit enough to leave. But that overworked resident had also been dealing with various other crises. Could Jayce really trust the man’s, She’ll be sore, but fine?

  The more Jayce thought about it, the less inclined he was to let Rocky out of his sight. “Maybe you should call Tasha and ask her to postpone the meeting.”

  “Seriously? I look that bad? Dammit!” She fussed with the deep-V neckline, frowned. “Chloe said this wraparound style was a good fit for my figure and business appropriate. I called her from Macy’s and—”

  “It’s not the dress.”

  “Is it the boots? Too clunky? Should I go with the pumps?” She bent over, flashing her generous cleavage as she unzipped the boots and kicked them away, treating Jayce to her shapely calves. The woman had kick-ass runner’s legs and she accentuated them by slipping her pretty feet into a pair of pointy-toed, three-inch-spike-heeled pumps. Christ.

  She straightened. “Better?”

  Jayce shifted to hide a boner. “Only if you want the marketing department to be distracted by your legs.” He dragged his gaze from her killer gams to those lethal eyes. “Sexy.”

  She flushed, holding his gaze for a second before grunting in exasperation. “I don’t want to look sexy. I want to look stylish. Professional. Tasha said … Oh, what does she know?” Rocky turned her back and rooted through her shopping bags. “I bought a new blazer. Maybe I should just wear my jeans—”

  “The dress looks great, Dash.” Jayce pushed out of the chair. “Go with the boots. Business appropriate. Stylish.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Although if you’re opting for stylish over sexy you might want to reconsider your hairstyle.” The tousled mass of soft blond curls looked just-rolled-out-of-bed enticing. He should know. She’d rolled out of his bed after that one night of lovemaking, backlit by moonlight and looking like a young and sassy version of the legendary bombshell who shared her last name.

  Boots zipped, Rocky whirled back to the mirror. “I’d go with a ponytail, but I don’t want to expose my forehead. That butterfly strip looks like a freaking badge of stupidity and the bump is starting to discolor.”

  “Let me see.” Jayce turned her around and gently inspected the wound. “It’s swollen now, too.” Plus, flecks of dried blood caked one edge of the butterfly strip. Damn. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Achy?”

  “Stressed.” She batted away his hands and glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to meet Tasha in forty minutes and I look like freaking Frankenstein.”

  “Not quite that bad,” Jayce teased. “And I’ll get you there in plenty of time.” He moved into the bathroom, inspected the vanity strewn with toiletries. Powder, deodorant, lotions, hairbrush, blow-dryer, elastic bands, hair clip.
“Where’s your makeup?”

  “Why? Aren’t I wearing enough? Jesus. I’m going for a book, not a modeling, contract. There’s something to be said for understated, you know.”

  “Relax. Just looking to camouflage that bruise.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I don’t wear foundation, if that’s what you’re looking for. Just mascara and tinted lip balm.”

  A natural beauty, Rocky didn’t need makeup to enhance her looks. Still, most women he’d known kept an array of beauty products even if they only used them for special occasions. Rocky wasn’t most women. He spied a nail file and a pair of manicure scissors. “How do you feel about bangs?”

  “What?”

  He rounded the corner—comb, towel, scissors, and hair clip in hand. “I dated a hairstylist once.”

  “That qualifies you to cut hair?”

  “Let’s just say I was subjected to enough fashion hype to know what qualifies as stylish.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Sit.” He motioned her into one chair, placed the towel over her lap, then pulled over the other chair and sat across from her. “Lean forward.”

  She blew out a breath and did as he asked. “Fine. Chop away. Just … not too much.”

  “Just enough.” Jayce concentrated on the task, thankful that Rocky lowered her lids so he didn’t have to gaze into those feisty baby blues. Breathing in the tantalizing scent of her shampoo and body lotion was torture enough. “Followed up with the police,” he said. Which seemed wiser than his first thought: I want you flat on your back and writhing.

  “Did they catch the mugger?”

  “No.”

  “Recover my bag?”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Great.” She sighed. “Thanks anyway.”

  “I’ll keep on it.”

  “And thank you for reminding me to cancel my credit cards. The officer mentioned that earlier, but I was frazzled and then, well, whatever. It’s done. Not that the bastard thief could do much damage anyway. I’ve only got the two cards now and they’re pretty maxed out. Dev consolidated—” She looked up, then away. “Never mind.”