The Trouble With Love Page 3

  She thought she’d set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. She’d been tired and must’ve screwed up, setting it for p.m. instead. Thank God she’d woken up on her own, albeit forty-five minutes late, not that she’d ever fallen into a deep sleep. Bleary-eyed, Rocky showered and dressed, bemoaning the fact that this early flight messed with her morning routine. She typically kick-started her day with a few swigs of orange juice and a run along Pikeman’s Trail, weather permitting. This morning all she got was the juice.

  At six thirty Rocky set the cupcake care package on the passenger seat, tossed her rolling duffel into the back of her Jeep, and set off for Starlight Field—a private airport for private aircraft and home of the Sugar Creek Hot-Air Balloon Company. Although she’d never had reason to fly out of Starlight, she often provided directions to B-and-B guests who’d booked a balloon ride. Also, her cousin Nash Bentley, a licensed charter pilot, operated out of Starlight. Too bad Tasha hadn’t booked him. An ally on the flight would’ve been nice.

  Glancing in her rearview mirror, Rocky took a final peek at her beloved home. Last night after printing out the information Chloe had sent, Rocky had e-mailed Luke. Normally she would have called, since Luke wasn’t big on e-mails or texts, but she didn’t want to risk rehashing the discussion she’d had with Dev. Instead, she’d typed a succinct note informing Luke of her weekend plans and asking if he could check on the Red Clover while she was gone. Just to make sure the workers didn’t want for anything. No doubt Dev would check up, too, although he might get distracted and waylaid by the opening of Moose-a-lotta. She hated that she was going to miss Gram and Chloe’s big day, but it would be worth it if she could prevent Tasha from misrepresenting the club in any way. Rocky honestly had no idea what she was in for. She knew nothing about the publishing business, but she did know cupcakes and the mission, history, and heart of Cupcake Lovers. It would have to be enough.

  Even though it was brisk outside, Rocky rolled down the window, breathing in the fresh, crisp air tinged with the scent of wood smoke. She knew without ever being there that New York City wouldn’t smell this good. The sun had yet to rise, so she couldn’t drink in the beauty of the lush green valley or the rolling mountains bursting with last remnants of vivid autumn foliage. Still the images burned bright in her heart and mind. Connecting with nature had always been a source of inspiration and serenity, part of the reason Rocky enjoyed her morning runs.

  Her sense of calm scattered to the brisk October winds the moment she arrived at Starlight and spied a small plane with blinking lights on its wings sitting on the tarmac. She wasn’t afraid of flying. She didn’t have enough experience to be scared. She’d only been up in the air once in her twenty-nine years. That had been a long time ago, a family vacation to Disney World when she was seven. As for other family vacations, they’d always opted for driving. Personally, Rocky loved to drive. She liked being in control. Yeah. She liked that a lot.

  She glanced at her cell. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes from now she’d be giving up control for the next forty-eight hours. Daunting, yet stimulating. So this was the rush Gram got out of taking risks and facing the unknown.

  Braced for whatever crap Tasha slung her way, Rocky locked the Jeep and rolled her burgeoning duffel toward the hangar where she was told to proceed to the DriftAir private jet—the sleek plane with the blinking lights. Crossing the tarmac, Rocky told herself not to obsess on how small the plane was. Surely the lighter the plane, the easier to stay aloft.

  A middle-aged, stiff-postured, suit-wearing man took her bag and helped her aboard. Although the interior was confined, it was certainly luxurious. Plush leather and polished wood. Soft gathered drapes shielding the windows instead of those hard plastic shades.

  Tasha was already seated in a roomy leather club chair, looking as stylish as her surroundings. She frowned at Rocky’s casual attire. “That’s the best you could do?”

  “Don’t worry,” Rocky said, setting aside the care package and dropping into a seat. “I’ll dress up for the meeting.”

  Tasha, who was sipping a glass of champagne, smirked. “To be honest, I was hoping you’d bail and let me handle this. But of course you showed. You’re just dying to pee in my Cheerios.”

  Rocky ignored the dig and buckled in. Yes, she was coming along to preserve the integrity of the club. If that somehow ruined Tasha’s agenda, so be it.

  Pulling the latest Martha Stewart Living magazine from her messenger bag, Rocky settled in for the ride, praying she wouldn’t get airsick. Just one more thing for Tasha to rib her about. They settled into a tense silence, but Rocky’s mind screamed with excitement. In less than two hours she’d be in the freaking Big Apple. She had a short must-see/must-do list of her own and an additional list from Gram, who’d delighted in the thought of living vicariously through her granddaughter. Rocky hated the thought of Tasha potentially raining on their parade.

  Digging deep for diplomacy, Rocky smiled. “I know this is difficult given our strained history, but for this weekend at least, could we set aside our differences? For the club? For the book deal?” she added, hoping to strike a mutual chord.

  Tasha-the-Pinhead Burke rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brooklyn, New York

  Jayce Bello stood on the steps of the prewar limestone town house and watched as the moving van drove off with the contents of the one bedroom co-op he’d lived in for the last nine years. He’d spent the past three weeks working up to this decision. No turning back now.

  Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his cargo pants, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes, and absorbed the scents and sounds of President Street and beyond. Park Slope, a fairly upscale neighborhood in Brooklyn, was ripe with historic buildings, top-notch restaurants, bars, and shopping. It was also close to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, the Brooklyn Museum, and Prospect Park—three of his favorite haunts. Various images and memories slid through his mind, some pleasant, some gritty, all vivid.

  He was going to miss this place.

  And he wasn’t.

  Jayce opened his eyes just as a desperate driver tried wedging an SUV into a parking space that would barely accommodate a compact car. Made Jayce think about all the times he’d driven around the block trying to cop a space. There was a reason residents jokingly referred to this area as “No Park Slope.” He definitely wouldn’t miss the lack of on-street parking. Lately, he’d been craving wide-open spaces, along with a few other things.

  Tend to your soul, his friend and former neighbor, Mrs. Watson, had said more than once. It had, in fact, been the last thing she’d said to him—her final words. Jayce wondered if he’d ever adjust to the loss of their unique friendship. Since moving to New York, he had elected to keep new acquaintances at arm’s length. He didn’t trust easily, and he’d always been intensely private. Most people respected his boundaries. Mrs. Watson, rest her soul, hadn’t been most people. She’d been as close as he’d had to a confidante in this city, and now she was gone.

  Not yet ready to face the bare walls of his co-op and therefore the enormity of this move because, Christ, it was daunting, Jayce sat on the stone steps of the historic building and made the call he’d been putting off until his plan was in motion. He didn’t think twice about calling his oldest friend at 7:00 a.m. Dev had been getting up at the ass crack of dawn since they were teenagers. “Hey, man. Free to talk?”

  “You called me.”

  “I know.”

  “No. You called me. Not the other way around. Just want to be clear on that.”

  Amused, Jayce dragged a hand though his longish hair. “What are you smokin’, dude?”

  “Need that distinction in case Rocky tries to tear me a new one.”

  “Lost here.”

  “She told me not to call you. I didn’t. You called me.”

  “We’ve established that. So what did I just give you the freedom to tell me?”

  “Rocky’s en route to JFK.”

  A major ai
rport within minutes of Jayce. His heart slammed against his chest like a steroid-shooting linebacker. Jesus. “Why?” The thought of her coming to her senses after thirteen years and coming after him made him rock hard and slightly light-headed.

  “Cupcake Lovers got a book deal and she’s flying in with Tasha to meet with the publisher.”

  Jayce blinked, the words almost Greek to him because, hell, that wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. He took a second to respond. Or maybe it was five.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah. I just … What the hell are you talking about?” Jayce breathed the crisp air, trying to snap out of his disappointment as Dev explained.

  “She’s staying at the Hotel Chandler until Sunday. Could you just … be available in case she needs you?”

  So much for starting his road trip within the hour. “Sure.” He didn’t feel any more comfortable about Rocky being alone in the city than Dev did. Yes, she was tough and smart, but not big-city smart. She didn’t know this town. Jayce did. Rocky was Hollywood gorgeous. She typically wore her long blond curls in two braids. Easier that way, she’d once said, but the tomboyish style just looked plain sexy to Jayce. As did her sultry blue eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips, milky-white complexion, and the generous curves that would make a dead man drool. The thought of Rocky Monroe walking the streets of Manhattan, unaccompanied, chilled his bones. Stunning young woman. Unsuspecting innocent. She didn’t have a clue. He did.

  “I’m not asking you to tail her—”

  “On it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “So why did you call?”

  Jayce rolled back tense shoulders. “I’m moving home.”

  Now it was Dev’s turn to pause. “To Sugar Creek?”

  “Remember when I said I couldn’t decide whether to lease out my parents’ house again or to sell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not doing either. I’m moving in.”

  “Really. Huh.” Another awkward pause. “I mean … I’m thrilled you’re coming home. It’s just…” Dev lowered his voice. “You’re not exactly fond of that house.”

  “Something I’d like to come to terms with.”

  “Well, hell, Jayce, that’s great. That’s … It’s about time.”

  The heartfelt sentiment, in addition to Mrs. Watson’s gentle nagging, reinforced Jayce’s decision to slay his demons in a bid for peace of mind and a slice of heaven. Jayce’s personal paradise included a certain blond hellion, three or four kids, and a couple of dogs. Maybe a cat. The amount of kids and animals was negotiable. The woman was not. He was also keen on surrounding himself with the most caring brood he’d ever known—the Monroes.

  Jayce had grown up with Dev, best friends since grade school. Dev’s mom and dad had been a guiding force in Jayce’s life. Daisy Monroe had treated Jayce like any one of her many grandchildren. Luke had been like a sometimes annoying, always entertaining younger brother, and Rocky … Yeah, well, that’s where things got complicated. “Do me a favor,” Jayce said. “Don’t spread the news just yet. Let me ease into it.”

  “Not to dissuade you, but there’s not a big market for private detectives in Sugar Creek.”

  “Got that covered. I’ll explain later.”

  “When should I expect you? Please tell me not until after Sunday.”

  Jayce thought about Rocky, naïve and vulnerable, had-him-by-the-balls Rocky. “Not until after Sunday.”

  * * *

  Rocky was damn proud she didn’t hurl when the plane hit turbulence. She even kept her cool during the harried transfer from charter jet to private limo. John F. Kennedy International Airport was a frenzied center for hordes of travelers, many of whom were short on patience and manners. Holding her tongue around so much obnoxious behavior was nothing short of a miracle. Or maybe she was too floored to comment.

  Mostly she was impressed with herself when she didn’t climb over the seat of the hired limo to commandeer the wheel because, damn, the chauffeur Tasha had enlisted to drive them from the airport to Manhattan was insane. To be fair, he wasn’t in the minority. So many cars, so much congested traffic. So many morons who ignored the speed limit and didn’t signal when changing lanes. Which might have been endurable if Rocky was in control. But she wasn’t.

  She’d been so distracted by the white-knuckled ride she’d been unable to enjoy the thrill of seeing the Manhattan skyline for the first time. Tasha seemed oblivious to their perilous journey. Then again she was, yet again, sipping champagne. Rocky might’ve joined her if she wasn’t allergic to sulfites.

  Then they were in Manhattan and surrounded by blocks and blocks of skyscrapers, endless jaywalking pedestrians, mind-boggling traffic, and taxi drivers with a death wish. By the time the chauffeur dropped her at her hotel, Rocky was so overwhelmed, she couldn’t think straight. She numbly thanked the driver and told Tasha she’d meet her at the publisher’s address at the appointed time of 2:00 p.m. and, yes, she’d be wearing a flipping dress. If she weren’t so in awe of the Big Apple chaos she might’ve curled into an overly tired ball of stress until one thirty. Instead, she checked into her room, a small but really nice room, then, after calling Dev for the third time this morning, set off to do some shopping.

  Even though it was probably a really touristy thing to do, Rocky had her heart set on buying something at Macy’s. When she was growing up, one of her favorite movies had been the old black-and-white version of Miracle on 34th Street. Yes, it resonated simply because it was a Christmas movie and Rocky loved Christmas, but it also represented the power of childhood dreams. Of wishing for and wanting something so badly that, via magic or faith or whatever, that dream came true.

  Rocky had set her sights on the Red Clover when she was ten. Her daddy had encouraged that dream by co-signing on the initial loan, and Dev was helping to keep that dream alive.

  Another reason Rocky was so intent on seeing Macy’s was because of her own ties with a department store. J. T. Monroe’s Department Store—family owned and operated for six generations. In her lifetime, her Grandpa Jessup had run the store and, after him, her dad, Jerome (Jerry to a select few) Monroe. Her dad had surprised everyone by retiring to Florida this past year, and now Dev ran the place, although their dad still had a voice, a big, freaking, insistent voice, in the overall operations, which drove Dev, a mega control freak, nuts. J.T.’s was small potatoes compared to bigger chain stores, but it had heart. Rocky wanted to know if Macy’s had heart.

  After acquiring walking directions from the concierge, Rocky made it from the Hotel Chandler to the famous department store—hassle free. After losing herself on multiple floors and trying on several dresses, she left Macy’s after two hours with her booty—hassle free. Shopping bags looped over one arm, she dipped into the pocket of her over-the-shoulder messenger bag and snagged her Android. She wanted to take a picture of the storefront to text to Dev. He was planning to renovate J.T.’s, and she thought he might be inspired by some of the imaginative window displays. As someone with an intense love of decorating, she was duly impressed.

  Phone camera in hand, Rocky pushed through the revolving door and was assaulted by a barrage of chaotic noise, pungent scents and odors, and crowds of hustling, bustling people. Disorienting and exciting at the same time. Shaking her head, she jockeyed for a prime position, aimed her camera, and—BAM!

  “Sorry,” a man mumbled.

  Unlike at JFK, at least this person had apologized for knocking into her, but then Rocky looked down and noticed her messenger bag was gone. What the …

  She looked up and saw a man rushing away through the crowd, caught a glimpse of her bag peeking out from under his flapping coat. “Stop! Thief!” Outraged, she took chase. The gall! The nerve! The freaking horror! Her financial life was in that bag. Wallet, cash, credit cards, ID. She spotted the mugger’s sorry ass darting across the street.

  Incensed, Rocky darted, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t look both ways first.


  * * *

  Jayce was nearing the Flatiron District when he got the call. He recognized the number and swore. Rocky wouldn’t call to shoot the shit. Something was wrong.

  “Jayce?”

  “What’s up, Dash?”

  “I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Not always.”

  “Just since.”

  She sounded shaky. Christ. “What’s up?”

  Silence, then an aggrieved sigh. “I need your help.”

  Given the bad terms they’d been on for years, and especially since the additional falling-out last month, he’d never expected to hear those words. Oh yeah. This was bad. “Where are you?”

  “NYU Medical Center.”

  Christ. “Narrow it down, Rocky.”

  “I think the paramedics called it Tisch. Tisch Hospital?”

  “Got it.” His pulse raced as he veered toward the East Side.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing in New York City?”

  “More interested in why you’re at Tisch.”

  “I was sort of hit by a car.”

  “Sort of?” Jayce muscled his Volvo through a gridlocked intersection.

  “It was more of a tap. Rolled right over the hood. It’s nothing but—”

  “I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.”

  “You’re that close?”

  “In the area on business.” Which wasn’t wholly a lie. Running a red light, Jayce swerved and dodged traffic, crossing over Third Avenue. “Are you in the emergency room?”

  “Yeah. I have to say, it’s a little scary here.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The guy on the other side of the partition? I think he was stabbed.”

  “Are you with a nurse? A doctor?” Tasha?

  “Doctor just came in. I have to go.”

  “Almost there, Dash.”

  “Jayce?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t call Dev.”

  In spite of his dark mood, Jayce smiled.

  * * *

  Jayce was the last person Rocky wanted to call. But she’d first called, then texted Tasha, only to get the response: Do u know what I paid to get an appt w/this hair designer?