Prologue
Something In The Way
[Pam]
My tears are nearly blinding my eyes as I peel onto the highway.
Damn the chief. Just damn him and the entire crew. I can’t believe he wouldn’t let me near him—my own father. I have no idea yet what happened other than an accident. As an EMT, I’m trained to respond and wired to help others. I wanted to be there, but everything you’re taught in training demands that you don’t take care of family. The position is too personal, and by my initial reaction, it’s warranted that the fire chief tried to hold me back.
“Pam, you can’t handle this.” His stern voice had commanded me to back down, but I’d struggled with the man larger than me in height and girth.
“That’s my dad, Joe.”
When the call came through, I’d been on duty.
Possible hit and run.
There was no possible about it. My father laid sprawled on the side of the road in our small town, and no additional vehicles were present. The sheriff was in hot pursuit of a suspect, but it made no difference to me. Innocently walking home, only two blocks from the local favorite Town Tavern, my father was down.
Joe Carpenter, my boss, did everything he could to block me from the scene.
“You don’t want to see this,” he warned.
I swipe at my eyes as I accelerate south on the highway, hoping to catch up to the ambulance. I’m not athletic, but I ran as fast as my short legs could take me back to the fire department a block away and hopped into my Jeep. At this time of night, the highway is relatively clear minus the slowest moving vehicle ever in front of me. I swerve left in hopes of passing it but can’t estimate the oncoming traffic of the two-lane highway.
“What the fuck!” I scream, cursing the car ahead of me while willing it to move faster. I bang on the steering wheel for emphasis. I need to get to the hospital. As we continue moving slower than the speed limit, my blurry vision shifts right as the car in front of me decelerates. Another string of profanity fills my Jeep until I notice a car off the side of the road, down in the ditch near the treeline.
Don’t look, I tell myself, begging the car before me to move it. But inside me, my training kicks in. Pull over and help.
But my dad, I argue, and in my head, I hear his voice.
You’ve been trained for this. It’s your calling to assist. It’s because of your generous heart.
“Fuck,” I yell again, slapping the steering wheel one more time as I pass the accident and then pull over.
Forgive me, Daddy. The prayer might be contrition for passing an accident. It might be hope that he’ll hang on until I get to the hospital. Please, Daddy.
Slamming off the ignition, I exit my Jeep and race down the gravel shoulder. A bright red Corvette plastered into a tree isn’t hard to see despite the dark night. The windshield is shattered. The driver’s door is wedged shut. The air bag deployed. With the driver’s window down, I’m able to call out to the driver.
“Hey buddy, are you alright?” I don’t want to be here. I need to get to my dad, but this scene doesn’t look good. I reach through the open window to feel for a pulse. He’s alive.
Everything tells me I can’t get the driver's door open. The front of the car is like an accordion, pinning the door in the closed position, but somehow, strength finds me, and I pop the door. I puncture the airbag with a small pocket knife I grabbed before exiting my Jeep. This guy’s head has a gash on it and lolls to the side when the airbag deflates. I catch him as he tips toward me.
“Whoa, pal.”
It’s then that eyes red-rimmed and glassy gaze up at me.
“Are you an angel?” he whispers, and I stare down into the darkest, most haunted eyes I’ve ever seen. My heart hammers, and I attribute it to my anger. This man is on something. Drunk, high, it doesn’t matter to me. Is he possibly the suspect who hit my father? How could I save him when I want to strangle him for hurting the man most precious to me?
“I’m the devil,” I hiss in warning because if this man hit my father and flee, I’ll never forgive him. “Or maybe you are.”
The man gags, and then he turns his head to vomit at my feet.
Gross. Definitely the devil himself.
As my blood races and adrenaline courses through my veins, my father’s voice comes back to me again.
Fight through the pain. Fight from the heart. Love hurts, but it also heals.
For the first time ever, I don’t know that I can take my father’s advice.
Chapter 1
Must Be The Flu
Two and a half years later.
[Pam]
I hate that I’m in love with my boss.
I actually have two jobs, so it’s not my day-job boss. It’s my other boss—an annoyingly needy grown-ass forty-year-old man. I’ve worked for him for over two years and still wonder most days why I do it.
Because you think he’s hot, and he pays you well for your time.
Yes, but should it be about money and looks? I’m literally arguing with myself while I massage my pounding temple. As a single woman, I’d survived the dreaded Valentine’s Day only to come down with your classic flu. Stuffy nose. Sore throat. Cough. Aches. Chills. All I want to do is curl up in bed—my bed—in my apartment.
Not here. Not at selfish Jacob Vincent’s house while I wait to let the house cleaner in.
You live alone. It’s not even dirty in here. My chest pinches as I cough. It’s almost as if by cursing Jacob in my head, my body wants to punish me.
His home on the shore of Lake Michigan is just outside our small town of Elk Lake City. Boasting floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall facing the water, this contemporary mansion strangely reminds me of how Edward Cullen’s residence was depicted in Twilight, the books, not the movies.
Jacob likes to argue with me that the movies never get it right. It’s all about the written word. Books do it best.
And he isn’t wrong. As a fiction author himself, his writing was what first attracted me to him. To his books, not him personally.
It was not love at first sight when we finally met in person.
Jacob Vincent is nothing short of edgy and rugged in a boxer kind of way. He’s lean but muscular. Feisty and jumpy with deep, dark eyes like midnight and a head of short hair to match. He doesn’t have a scruffy beard so much as a jaw covered with artful stubble unless he’s in writer mode. Then he might go days without shaving, giving him the lumberjack effect. Either way, he’s a good-looking man in the way a man can be when he’s had his nose broken a few times, scars on his forehead and cheek that mar his perfection, and several tattoos on his body. From his physical appearance, you’d never imagine words are how he fights best.
And right now, I’d like to throat punch him for requesting I be here to let the house cleaning service in.
Just give her a key, I'd argued before he left on a ten-day holiday with his girlfriend.
That’s right. The man I’m in love with also has a picture-perfect girlfriend, tall and lean with big boobs and a tight ass. Not like me, who is curvy in all the right places but just not the right places for a man like Jacob Vincent. She’s Malibu Barbie, and I’m just the shape of Michigan. I’m not horrible to look at, but I’m no model like his woman.