Copyright © 2019 by Jeannine Colette

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jeanninecolette.com

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, www.okaycreations.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreading: Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services, www.jdproofs.wixsite.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Wilmari Delgado

  Prologue

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  Epilogue

  Keep in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Like sands through the hourglass …

  I remember my mom watching the iconic daytime soap opera show when I was a kid. I’d sit at the foot of the couch, legs crossed with my chin in my palm, staring at the grains of sand passing through the glass. At seven years old, I didn’t understand how powerful those swift drops of time could be.

  Seconds turn into minutes, hours to days, months to years …

  The days are long, years are quick, but it’s the seconds—the seconds—that can be altered. A laugh with friends passes in a flash while a fall to the ground can last a lifetime.

  For me, it was the shot of a gun.

  Ten seconds.

  That was all I needed for my life to change forever.

  “Benjamin!” I screamed.

  The gunshot echoed deafeningly in the confines of the room as he fell, clutching his chest.

  My body collapsed to the floor, the blood on my skin, and the agonizing pain of watching the man you love become something else is seeped into my bones.

  I stared down the barrel of a gun. I held a dying man in my arms. Yet, as the sirens blared and the tape lined the room, I realized the nightmare has only just begun. Like a game of dominoes, the first chip has fallen, and now, all I could do was stand back and watch them topple.

  I was a pawn in the game of life. I just didn’t know I was playing.

  Despite the pain of loss, the world keeps revolving. Your worst day is another’s boring Tuesday. So, you do what your mother has always told you to do.

  You get up.

  You go to work.

  You live.

  Well … you pretend to live.

  Until one day, a man walks in and alters the course of your life but this time for the better.

  “Happy Friday!” Jackie announces as she walks into the main dining room of the café holding two ceramic plates and balancing two more on her forearms.

  I pull the hair in my ponytail tighter and square my shoulders. I have a smile on my face by the time she returns from placing the items on the table by the booth.

  “You’re chipper,” I state as she brings two empty glasses over to where I’m standing.

  “Just trying to add some sunshine to your life.”

  I lean over the counter and look out the window of the Harvest Café—the quaint breakfast and lunch shop we work at in the heart of Warwick, New York. The clouds are thick in the sky as the gray gets ready to unleash a downpour.

  “Looks like you should be doing the rain dance instead,” I muse.

  “I can do that too.” She does a little shimmy, reminding me of one of our favorite movies.

  “ ‘God wouldn’t have given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ’em.’ ”

  She places a hand on her hip and taps her lip with the other. “Dirty Dancing?”

  With a wink and a point, I let her know she guessed the quote right. It’s a game we’ve been playing since high school. Back when we were two kids in New York City, an actress and a dancer ready to take on the world. That was before marriage, mortgages, and murder wreaked havoc on our lives.

  With the shake of my head, I force those thoughts to the back of my mind, a place where I can’t let myself wander right now. Not at work. Not in front of Jackie.

  Nick, Jackie’s husband and our boss, pops his head through the quick-serve kitchen window and snaps his fingers. “Table two is asking for a refill.” He points with a scowl.

  I peer down at the coffeepot in my hand and nod. My Toms squeak on the checkered floor as I walk to the four-top where my customers are eating lunch.

  I hear Jackie whisper-scolding Nick in the background, “You’re such a dick.”

  “Can I get you anything else?” I ask the customers as I refill their mugs.

  “Just the check,” the gentleman answers without making eye contact.

  His lunch partner is staring at her iPhone.

  Placing the pot on a vacant table, I reach into my apron and pull out the order pad, ripping the top paper off and handing them their bill. “Bring this to the counter when you’re done.”

  Just like that, I leave their side, as invisible as when I arrived.

  I used to love being the center of attention. I thrived on the stage with the lights glaring on me, so bright that I couldn’t see the faces of the crowd. Now, I’m content with being a fly on the wall, the one patrons don’t always look at, and that’s fine with me.

  I check on my other tables—more coffee for table four, a Sprite and extra mayo for the tuna melt at table nine, and table six wanted curly fries, not steak fries. When everyone is served, I head back to the counter and open the lid to the coffeemaker to change the filter.

  “You forgot to wipe down around the machine,” Nick says as he walks out from the kitchen with a rag draped over his shoulder. His Mets hat is slung backward with his jet-black hair curling over the sides.

  Jackie takes a napkin, crumples it up, and throws it at her husband’s head. “Be nice to my best friend. She’s too good for this place.”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I agree, but she’s my employee, and you’re both on the clock. Plus, we’re due for an unannounced visit from the health inspector, and I need this floor to be so clean that I can eat off it.”

  She makes a gagging face. “Honey, we have an A rating, but there is no way I’d ever eat off this floor.”

  “An A that was one point away from a B. The café is doing good, but plaster anything other than a top score on the window, and the customers will flee. We have a loan to pay off, and I’m not in the business of defaulting.”

  Jackie reaches up on her tippy-toes and kisses the side of his head, earning her a sideways glance and a smirk from Nick. It’s an endearing interaction, one that sums up their relationship perfectly. He gives her hell. She busts his chops about it. No matter what, Jackie always wins.

  I grab a rag of my own and start wiping down the coffee machine.

  Jackie curls into Nick’s side and addresses me, “It’s Friday night, Mara. Why don’t you come out with us?”

  “And be the third wheel? Awesome,” I say sarcastically.

  “Nick could bring someone for you,” she sings.

  And my hand halts its motion. I know she means well. Being in a relationship is the natural goal for most people. Unfortunately for her, I’m not most people, and her desire to get me out of my shell and into the arms of someone new isn’t happening.

  Not today. Not ever.

  Nick shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m the only one here tomorrow. I have to be back at five in the morning.”

  Jackie grabs my arm. “See, even more reason for you to come out with me. This killjoy is a workaholic.”

  He grumbles. “Jack—”

  A loud bang interrupts his words.

  I fall to the floor, my hands over my head, as electric bolts of fear shoot up my spine. The blood pulses in my ears as my heart pounds against my chest. I clutch my hair, breathing hard—so very, very hard—yanking with a firm grasp to feel the physical pain. A reminder that I’m here. Not there. Not back in the past and the horrific events that still make my hands shake and feet tingle with distress. Bile rises in my throat as I hunch over into a ball, pulling my knees up against my chest.

  Jackie is quickly at my side, her hands on my back, rubbing in a circular motion. “Mara, it’s okay. It was just Manny in the kitchen. He dropped a pot.”

  I close my eyes and run my hands over my face, sweeping down my neck. With my hand over my chest, I feel the swift kicks against my palm and mentally berate myself for being so overdramatic. Thankfully, I’m behind the counter and out of view of the customers.

  For someone who hates attention, I sure do have a way of bringing it upon myself.

  I take a deep breath as I stand. My hands are clammy, so I wipe them on my apron and raise my chin.

  Jackie’s brows pull together; her pale eyes are laced with concern. “Do you need a second to relax?� �

  “I’m fine.” I plaster on a smile. “It just caught me off guard.”

  From the way she’s pinching her mouth, I know she doesn’t believe me.

  Nick twists his cap around and yells into the kitchen at Manny, “Watch it next time. You’re affecting the customers!”

  I know he’s not talking about the patrons because they’re going about their meals as if nothing happened, except for a few nearby who are looking at me like I’m a madwoman.

  With a wave in explanation, I say to a customer, “The floor can be slippery back here.”

  I push a stray hair off my face and collect myself. I wasn’t always such a mess. In fact, I was a pretty well-adjusted woman. Successful, philanthropic … didn’t freak out when someone dropped a piece of Cuisinart.

  My chest tightens painfully as my thumb traces the sliver of skin where my gold wedding band used to rest.

  There’s a second of silence until the front door of the café swings open, hitting the wall next to it.

  A swirl of wind from the autumn afternoon comes barreling in. The paper menus fly off the counter as the leaves from outside swoosh through, moving the hair I just tucked behind my ear back onto my forehead.

  I bend down to collect the menus that Jackie worked for hours creating and gather them in my arms, placing them back on the counter.

  When I rise, I see the wind isn’t the only thing that came in.

  In the doorway is a man.

  He’s tall and imposing with dark jeans, construction boots, and a smoldering stare.

  The ruggedness of his chiseled face is offset by the worried expression in his eyes. For in his arms is an injured child, curled into his chest.

  The chatter of the café goes silent at the sight.

  The man looks over at us, his brows bent at the ends. He seems to be in pain, but from the scrunched-up face of the little girl in his arms, it’s clear she’s the one in agony, and he’s in pain for her.

  “My daughter fell off her bike,” he says, his head bowed down into his daughter as his arms cradle her like she’s the most delicate thing in the world.

  Jackie looks over at me with a questioning glance.

  The little girl has a large wound from her knee down to her calf. There’s blood coming from her leg, and it’s dripping onto her sock. It’s wide, deep, and in need of medical attention.

  Nick takes a step forward. “I’m sorry, man, but I can’t have her in here.”

  My head shoots up in his direction, and my eyes widen. I round the counter and grip him by the forearm, pulling him back. “Nick, the little girl is hurt.”

  He turns to me with a grimace. “The health inspector,” he says in explanation.

  I understand his concern. The café has been in his family for fifty years. He’s not going to let anything get in the way of it not surviving.

  With an outstretched arm, he suggests to the man, “Take her to the emergency room.”

  “I don’t do hospitals,” the man bellows, his voice deep and penetrating. The way his teeth clench, you’d think he had a personal vendetta against hospitals. Maybe he does.

  I speak up, “You could—”

  He looks over at me, and my words fall flat, as I’m temporarily frozen by the extraordinary face of the man. Bronzed skin, a strong jaw, and intense midnight-blue eyes. They’re on fire with concern. He’s a feral man willing to tear down a village to protect the one he loves.

  And that blue, God, there are movie stars with wild eyes like his, not real-life, pedestrian, thirty-something men. At least, not here in this town.

  It’s not just the color that paralyzes me. It’s the way his gaze is fixed on me with parted lips and a furrowed brow—a look that’s a plea and a promise mixed into one. What he’s promising, I have no idea.

  The girl cries out again in a wet whimper, so he lowers his head back down to her, placing a kiss on her forehead. Her little nose is bright red from sobbing, and her eyes haven’t opened as she squints in agony.

  My body shifts with a yearning for these two as if they were my own. I open my mouth to apologize for not being able to help them, but I can’t.

  “Jackie, get the first aid kit,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Mara”—Nick walks in front of me and thumbs toward the other patrons in the café—“I don’t want to kick a kid out, but—”

  “You know I can’t leave a child in pain.” My words are stern.

  He knows me. He knows this is bigger than any rational argument he can make about keeping the floor of a diner spotless.

  He looks down with an exasperated yet agreeable breath. “Can you at least bring her outside?”

  Out the window, the dark clouds are rolling in. Small drops of rain tap the floor-to-ceiling glass.

  “No.” I push him to the side, approaching the father and child. “Sit here,” I say to them as I pull a chair from a vacant table and place it by the door.

  Nick doesn’t say another word as he walks back to the kitchen with a grumble to get to work.

  After everything Nick and Jackie have done for me since I moved to this town, I hate going against their wishes. Actually, it’s the first time I’ve uttered a disagreeable word to either of them.

  I sigh heavily as I turn back to the man and encourage him to sit. He does, and I get a good look at the girl’s leg. The large gash in the torn skin is red and pulsing with an oozing yellow substance. There’s gravel sitting in the cut that needs to be cleaned out.

  Jackie appears next to me with the first aid kit. I take it from her and open it up as she rests a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll cover your tables. You’re gonna be okay?”

  I nod and take a knee, turning to the girl. With a soft touch, I rub her shoulder and ask, “What’s your name?”

  She sniffles loudly. “Amanda.”

  I smile as I open an alcohol packet. “It’s nice to meet you, Amanda. I’m Mara. I’m going to clean your boo-boo, and it’s going to tickle a little. Is that okay?”

  She gives me a nod before whimpering and burying her face deeper into her father’s neck. I start to clean her cut, but she pulls her leg away with a startled yank and cries loudly. With light pressure, I gently hold her in place as I push the gravel away and spray peroxide onto the wound, making it bubble with foam.

  The injury is bad, but it won’t need stitches, I don’t think. Just time to heal.

  I notice her clutching her arm up to her chest. It’s discolored and limp. It could be the angle I’m looking at it, but it appears to have a slight bend.

  “Amanda, sweetie, can you show me your arm?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and pulls it closer to her body, which only makes her cry more.

  I look at her father and speak quietly, “I think it’s broken.”

  His eyes shut for a moment, as if he’s cursing himself. If there’s one thing I can relate to, it’s the feeling of blaming yourself for other people’s misfortune. I’m quite brilliant at it actually. I get the feeling he is too.

  I put more peroxide on the cut, and Amanda cries as tears fall down her face. I hear a patron call out, asking if she is okay. I assure him she is even though my heart begins to break.

  “What about a pediatric urgent care?” I suggest to the man. “A new one just opened about a mile down the road. They’ll be able to take X-rays.”

  His chest rises with a nod. This idea seems to appease him. “We’re on our bikes. I don’t have a car.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, a hint of a smile appears on his face. It’s barely there, and yet just the slightest rise of his full lips makes a dimple appear on the side of his cheek—not that it’s the time or place to be appreciating smiles.

  I look behind me and ask Jackie, who is passing by with plates of food, “Will you cover for me?”

  “Absolutely,” she states quickly despite her look of surprise.

  I rise from my crouched position, and the man, with Amanda still in his arms, stands. His six-foot-tall frame is like a statue of strength, as he doesn’t waver from holding on to his child.

  Nick is over at the booths, holding a bin and clearing plates, as Jackie serves the table next to him. Her forehead creases with intrigue as I hold the door open for the man and his daughter.

  The rain is now pouring down. We pause for a moment underneath the maroon awning of the Harvest Café.

 

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