by Skye Jordan
“Yes,” Josh muttered. “Yes, it is.” And he was damn well getting to the bottom of this. Grace didn’t have to like it.
Josh glanced down the street from Grace’s apartment building, where he’d been waiting for almost an hour. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the neighborhood was ghetto. Every building needed work, junk cluttered yards, landscaping nonexistent or overgrown. Not one house was decorated for Christmas, and only a few apartment windows had been lined with lights.
At the corner, not a quarter mile from Grace’s car, three young men loitered. Josh was damn sure he’d seen half a dozen drug deals go down in the short time he’d been watching.
“How long has her mom been there?” He’d gone to the home where Carolyn had lived just last year, but, like her daughter, Carolyn had moved on. This time, the current residents didn’t have information on a forwarding address.
“Looks like…” Computer keys tapped in the background. “About nine months.”
The same amount of time Grace had worked at the club.
“Thanks, man. Talk later.”
He disconnected, dropped his head back against the seat as his stomach made another hard roll. He felt like a steaming pile of shit. And not just from the wicked hangover throbbing behind his eyes either. Or the way the rancid 7-Eleven coffee stewed in his gut like acid. No, it was his stupid-ass, bone-deep loyalty that was seriously fucking with him again.
He popped two more Advil, grimacing as he swallowed it down with the brown muck in his coffee cup. Checking the dash clock, he picked up his phone and called his mother.
“Ready to talk about it?” she answered.
“Good morning to you too.”
“So, why’d you miss your flight?”
He winced, wishing he could flop into the backseat, curl up,…and die. “Doing a favor for a buddy.”
“Mmmm?” she coaxed, her way of telling him she expected more information than that.
“Do you remember my teammate Isaac Beck?”
“Of course. I still send packages to your whole motley crew.”
Of course she did. Just like Carolyn Ashby did. Just like Grace used to—before the divorce.
God, even two cups of this mud couldn’t wipe her taste from his mouth. The sultry, lust-filled flavor of her tongue still haunted him.
“Well, he needed a favor. And it’s taking longer than I expected. I’m not sure what day I’ll come in, but don’t worry about it. I’ll catch a cab home.”
She snorted a laugh. “Your father won’t have that, and you know it. What’s wrong, son? What’s this favor Isaac needs?”
He winced. She always knew, dammit. “Nothing big. I’m just helping Grace out. It won’t take long.”
“Are they back together?” she asked. “I thought they got divorced.”
“They did get divorced. It’s complicated.” So fucking complicated it made him want to smash his head against a wall.
“Hmm.” Another one of her all-knowing hums. “Well, just so you know, Grace is always welcome here for Christmas. Carolyn too. Your father has more frequent-flier miles than we’ll ever use.”
The innuendo in her voice only turned the knife in his chest. His mother had been nudging Josh toward Grace since they’d met at one of the team’s first homecomings, when his parents had flown out to the west coast to visit. That had ended, of course, once Beck and Grace were married, but started up again when they’d come to see him in the hospital and found Grace asleep in the chair beside his bed. “Jesus, Mom, don’t start.”
“I’m starting nothing,” she said in her crisp, matter-of-fact tone. “There was something between you two years ago. You always did make things more complicated than they had to be.” A quick sigh transitioned into “I’ve got to go. Your favorite peach pies are cooking, and I don’t want to hear you bitch about burnt crust. Love you, son.”
A reluctant smile turned his mouth. “Love you too.”
Josh disconnected, and the second he looked back up toward Grace’s apartment, she came down the stairs. She was dressed in shin-length workout pants and a sporty tank top, her long hair wound into a messy knot on the back of her head. And, shit, that outfit framed every luscious curve and toned muscle in her tight little body.
In flip-flops again despite the cold, rainy December day, she jumped a puddle with angelic grace and half jogged, half skipped to her car. His heart lifted, squeezed, and ached, all at the same time. She was the most adorable little thing on the face of the fucking planet. So much stronger, smarter, and more savvy than he’d given her credit for. And way sexier. Way.
He could have had her last night. Had that strong, slim body wound up in his. Could have felt every part of her. Touched and tasted his fill. Driven deep inside her. Been surrounded by her. Could have heard her whisper, moan, scream his name. His name.
She could have been his. Even if just for the night. Hell, just for the moment.
After feeling her in his arms, experiencing the passion she kept bottled up, he knew making love to her would blow his fucking mind. He craved the luxury of giving himself over to the desire, a desire that would turn into an all-consuming passion if he really let himself go.
The only thing he’d ever wanted as much as he wanted Grace now, was to become a SEAL.
And at the moment, he had neither.
Grace slipped into her piece-of-shit ’90s-something Honda and cranked the engine three times before it started.
He swore under his breath. She shouldn’t even be living in this neighborhood, let alone driving a car that could break down on her. She pulled away from the curb, and Josh let her get two blocks ahead before he followed.
His cell rang with a blocked number, and he answered through his car’s automated system. “Marx.”
“Did you find her?” Beck asked over a crackling connection.
Josh’s mind flashed with the memory of pushing her wet shirt up, skimming his hands up her tight, warm belly, taking her plump, soft breasts in his hands, and covering one rosy-tipped mound with his mouth. His eyes closed on an involuntary moan, and he cleared his throat to cover. His desire turned him inside out with lust…and clenched his stomach with guilt.
“Yes, I found her,” he said. “And she’s fine.”
“What’s going on with her? Why isn’t she calling me back?”
She’d never given him an answer about that. “She’s working,” he ad-libbed. “It’s Christmas. She’s just busy, dude. We didn’t get much time to talk. But you don’t have to worry about her. I’m checking everything out, making sure she’s square.”“Oh, great,” Beck exhaled in relief. “I know you haven’t had much time. It’s just that we’re headed out again, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to call. The targets weren’t where they were supposed to be. Lousy fucking CIA intelligence.”
Josh pictured the team wandering around in the background, collecting equipment, checking gear. Knew there would be an intense silence over the camp as they all focused on the mission. A sustained adrenaline level almost tangible in the air. Hell, he missed that. And a hot streak of envy only added to the mess in Josh’s chest.
He followed Grace through town at a safe distance. She was headed toward Balboa Park, away from the high school where she taught the cheerleading squad, away from the club.
“What about the strip club?” Beck asked.
Fuck. Josh stopped at a red light with Grace four cars in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut. He just couldn’t break this kind of news to Beck over the phone. Besides, Josh was realizing it wasn’t any of Beck’s damn business—any more than it was Josh’s. But…shit. This nagging sense of loyalty felt like a goddamned trick monkey on his back.
“She’s not stripping,” he said. “I don’t know what that guy thought he saw. I’m telling you he had to be plastered off his ass, or maybe he was just trying to rile you—”
“Thank God. I didn’t know what I was going to do if she was working at a strip joint.”
“I hate to keep pointing this out to you, buddy,” Josh said, growing annoyed. “But it’s not your call anymore.”
“So, is she seeing anyone?”
“Are you listening to me?” Josh lifted both hands off the steering wheel in a what-the-fuck gesture. This was that dense part of Beck that made Josh crazy. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“Relax. I’m just asking.”
The line of cars started moving again, but an odd and deepening nagging sensation played at the base of his neck. Josh suddenly realized he didn’t know if she was seeing anyone. He’d assumed she wasn’t because of what happened between them, but… The possibility that she had a guy in the wings was an uncomfortable thought.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, more to himself than to Beck. “I don’t think so.”
“How does she look?” Beck asked.
Josh’s temper flared again. “What the fuck? What’s going on with you? How could that possibly matter?”
“Are you PMSing?” Beck laughed. “I just haven’t seen her in forever, and she stopped sending me pictures—”
“That’s because you’re divorced, dude. D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, divorced.”
“Listen, we’re lifting off. I gotta go.” His tone was lighthearted. He was blowing off everything Josh had said with his signature this-will-work-itself-out attitude. That might have lowered stress in the field, but Josh was getting a glimpse of how fucking annoying it must have been for Grace to deal with here at home. “I’ll check in when I can. Later, dude. And thank you.”
Beck disconnected, and Josh sat there with his buddy’s thank-you weighing on his conscience. Beck wouldn’t be thanking him if he’d known what Josh had let himself do last night, let alone what he’d wanted to do…
Grace made another turn, and while Josh had been playing guilt games with his brain, she’d led him straight to Twenty-eighth Street. He dropped back so she wouldn’t spot his car in the quiet residential neighborhood, one that was 180 degrees from the one she’d just left. Here, every house was decorated with lights and lawn ornaments. Every home had a Christmas tree filling the front window. When she pulled into the driveway of a large home, Josh parked along the curb of a cross street. She hopped out of her car, jogged the steps, and opened a tall gate in the wrought iron, no-climb fence surrounding the property.
Lights had been wound around the top of the fence, and every inch of the home had some touch of Christmas added—lights along the eaves and roofline, garlands along the porch banister, wreaths on every door, including the garage.
But that fence struck Josh as odd. Every other home on the street was just as well manicured, just as large, but not one had a security fence. He stood from his car and strolled closer. Most Craftsmans were called bungalows for a reason. But this one wasn’t small, quaint, or cozy. The house rambled, filling a huge lot with pristine tan siding, charcoal gray roof, and a shiny hunter-green front door.
He angled to read a large sign posted on the fence.
Safe Haven Guest Home.
An uncomfortable pressure built in his chest. He stopped, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rolling the name around in his head several times. “What the hell…?”
Pulling out his phone, he googled the name along with San Diego, tapped the page that came up first, and knew he had the right website by the image of the home on the main page. The short description read: A loving, secure, assisted-living program focused on memory care. Lovely private rooms, structured activities, and experienced staff.
“Memory care.” He shook his head, still confused, then dialed Pete back. “What the hell is memory care?”
“Sup boss?” Pete answered.
“That address for Carolyn Ashby,” he said. “Was that her work address?”
“I don’t think so. Hold on a sec…” Rustling papers sounded over the line, more keys clicking, and every passing moment developed a whole new layer of sickening dread in Josh’s gut. “No. That is her home address. She has no work address.”
Josh rested his forehead in his hand. Fuck. Everything Grace was doing suddenly made sense. Perfect sense.
“Oh my God.” He rubbed his hand down his face. He couldn’t have fucked up any worse. “Shit, Pete, can you do me a quick favor? That address is for a private home care facility for something called memory care—”
“That’s a nice way of saying Alzheimer’s or dementia. My grandmother went to a home like that.”
Josh’s shoulders sagged. His brow furrowed. Nine months. Grace had been suffering and struggling with this for nine months? Alone?
“Can you find out how much the facility costs?”
“Looking. But I can tell you it’s expensive,” Pete said, fingers tap-tap-tapping. “And insurance doesn’t cover it. I remember because my mom was my grandma’s only living relative, and the cost nearly bankrupted our family.”
“Just…” Josh rubbed his eyes. “Text it to me, would you?”
“Done. Later.”
Pete disconnected, but Josh stood there a long time, letting everything gel in his mind. There were still questions, but the big ones had pretty much just been answered—Grace was working at the club to pay for her mother’s care.
His chest felt both hollow and full. Tears wet his eyes.
If he hadn’t already been in love with Grace, he’d have fallen hard that very second.
He took a minute to get his emotions together before heading inside. He hadn’t anticipated seeing Grace again after his royal fuck-up last night, knowing she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. But that wasn’t an option anymore. She needed a friend. And, like it or not, she was stuck with him.
He entered through the tall gate, which made more sense now, and approached the double front doors. He cleared his throat, planted his hands at his hips, and stared at his shoes. While his thoughts darted in five different directions—Beck, Carolyn, Grace, the club, his own scheduled vacation—his heart filled with purpose.
His cell buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to find Pete’s message.
Safe Haven runs $6300 a month for full care of Alzheimer’s patients. Ashby has no personal long-term insurance, but she does have Medicaid, which covers very little. Ashby’s doctor visits and medication are partially covered by Medicare. Family picks up the bulk of the overall cost for care.
Which meant Grace was footing a monthly bill of somewhere between four and five thousand dollars.
He sucked a deep breath, blew it out, and knocked.
A muffled female voice called, “Come on in.”
With a hive of bees buzzing in his chest, Josh pushed the door open and glanced into the foyer.
“I’m in the kitchen,” the woman said from somewhere deeper in the house.
He stepped into the small tiled foyer and shut the door. The thick, fresh scent of pine hit him first, which he guessed was coming from the tree in the window of another room facing the street. This formal living room had been decorated elaborately with pine branches and holly leaves on the fireplace mantel, and prettily wrapped presents stacked alongside the brick hearth.
Two elderly women—much older than Grace’s mother—sat on either end of a blue sofa watching television. Neither took their eyes off the set when Josh walked in. Both sat upright and still, hands in their laps, reminding Josh of a pew in church. The rosary sliding through one of the women’s fingers might have helped that impression along.
“Hi there.” Josh stepped into the living room, and both women turned to look at him.
The woman with the rosary returned her attention to the television without a word. The other woman did the same but pointed at the screen with a pride-filled “That’s my husband, right there, Regis.”
Josh glanced at the TV where Regis Philbin, a popular morning talk-show host from years past, was interviewing a celebrity in what had to be a rerun. Josh’s rough age calculation made the statement possible but, he guessed, highly implausible.
“Really,�
� he said, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “He’s a pretty big celebrity.”
The woman nodded, her smile blissful. On screen, applause erupted, and Josh glanced over to find Philbin speaking to the camera with a grin, a wink, and a “We’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”
“That was just for me,” the supposed wife said, never taking her gaze off the television as a commercial for toothpaste replaced the talk-show rerun. “That smile, that wink. Just for me. And the message too.” She sighed dramatically. “He’s such a sweet man.” She seemed lost in her own world a long moment before she popped out with “Tammy’s making tuna sandwiches for lunch.”
Josh was still trying to find the relevance in the two disjointed topics when movement drew his gaze to the room beyond. A woman in her early sixties with black-and-silver hair, wearing a bright red, kiss-the-cook apron, appeared in an archway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry. I thought you were one of our regulars.” She started through the living room and offered her hand. “I’m Tammy, owner of Safe Haven.”
“Josh—” he started.
“Tammy,” the older woman interrupted. “Did you just see Regis wink at me? He knows I love it when he does that.”
“Handsome devil,” Tammy responded. Then to Josh, “Do you mind talking in the kitchen? I’m making lunches.”
“Sure.” He followed her past a dining table that could seat twelve and into a large kitchen where the wall over the sink was lined with windows looking out onto a garden. At the center of the garden, Grace sat at a table with Carolyn.
At first glance, Josh’s heart took a hit. Carolyn, the vibrant, funny, free-spirited sixty-five-year-old, had aged ten years since he’d last seen her. On the table, a bowl of cereal…Cheerios…sat between the women who were each threading them onto a piece of yellow yarn.
“How can I help you?” Tammy asked.
Josh refocused on Tammy. She leaned her hip against the counter, where bread was laid out next to a large bowl of what clearly looked and smelled like tuna salad. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m a friend of Grace and Carolyn. I don’t know how your visitor rules work… I’m just in town for a few days and thought I’d stop by…”