Barefoot in the Rain
A Preview of
Barefoot in the Sun
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For Louisa Edwards and Kristen Painter…
My besties who hand me the umbrella (drink) every time it rains.
My team is awesome! I can’t thank every one of the many folks who help breathe life into my books, but a few individuals and groups must get their heartfelt shout-out:
I’m out of superlatives for my team at Grand Central/Forever publishing! Led by a brilliant and keen-eyed editor, Amy Pierpont, and corralled by her indispensible assistant, Lauren Plude, these professionals are top in the business, and I’m so fortunate to give them my characters and watch the magic happen.
Wonderful, delightful, and tireless agent Robin Rue and her right hand, Beth Miller, are with me at every turn in the professional road. Because of them, I never get lost.
My many romance writer friends, especially my fellow blog sisters, who love and support me even though I took the
murder
out of Murder She Writes. This is the A-Team, and I am proud to have been part of it for so long.
Beta reader Barbie Furtado, who never complains about reading revised versions of many scenes multiple times. It’s quite possible she knows my characters better than I do, and has encouraged me every single day of this book’s creation.
Multiple individuals, doctors, and specialists with the Alzheimer’s Association, who took the time to provide me with information about the care, support, and research of all types of dementia. These people are heroes in every sense of the word.
Finally, my breathtaking, patient, loving, and completely wonderful family. I just couldn’t treasure you guys more. And, of course, all my gratitude goes to the One who made everything and blessed me with the ability to tell stories.
A
ugust 1997
“
I
know why they call this a comforter.” Jocelyn pulled the tattered cotton all the way up to her nose, taking a sniff right over the Los Angeles Dodgers logo.
Will didn’t look up from stuffing socks into the corners of his suitcase. “Why’s that, Joss?”
“Because…” She took a noisy, deep inhale. “It smells like Will Palmer.”
Slowly, he lifted his head, a sweet smile pulling at his face, a lock of dark hair falling to his brow. Lucky hair. Jocelyn’s fingers itched to brush it back and linger in the silky strands.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “It stinks of sweat, grass, and a hint of reliability?”
“No.” She sniffed again. “It smells like comfort.”
He straightened, rounding the suitcase to take a few steps closer to the bed, leveling her with eyes the same color as the Dodgers-blue blanket. “You’re welcome to take it to Gainesville. My mom bought me a whole new set of that stuff for the apartment.”
“I’m sure it would be the envy of my roommates.” Girls she didn’t even know, except as names on a piece of paper sent to her by a resident adviser named Lacey Armstrong. Would Zoe Tamarin and Tessa Galloway be her friends? Would they make fun of her for bringing the next-door neighbor’s comforter to her dorm room next week?
“Do you want it?” he asked, the question touchingly sincere.
“No, I don’t need it,” she replied. “I need…” The word stuck. Why couldn’t she just say it, tell him, be honest with her best friend in the whole world who was leaving for college—a
different
college—tomorrow morning? “You.”
He did a double take like he wasn’t sure he’d caught that one-syllable whisper. “That’s a very un-Jocelyn-Bloom-like admission.”
“I’m practicing to be the new me.”
“I hope you don’t change
too
much up there at UF. I like you just the way you are.”
I like you.
I like you.
Lately, those three words were being tossed around like his baseballs during practice. It was almost as if she and Will wanted to say more. But they couldn’t. That would change everything in the delicate tightrope of friendship and attraction they’d walked for all these years.
“Anyway,” she said quickly, “you’re the one who’s going
to change. Living off campus, traveling with the University of Miami baseball team, fending off those pro offers.”
“Please, you sound like my dad now.”
“I’m serious. No one will recognize the golden boy of Mimosa Key when he comes home at Thanksgiving.”
“You’re the one with a full academic ride and so many scholarships you’re
making
money going to school, Miss Four-Point-Six Smartypants.”
“You’re the one who’s going to be on a box of Wheaties someday, Mr. MVP of State Championships.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shit, now you really sound like my dad.” Shaking his hair back, he came a little closer and propped on the side of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight.“So what about Thanksgiving?”
“What about it?”
“You coming back home, Bloomerang?”
Her heart did a little roll and dive at the nickname he’d given her years ago.
Jocelyn Bloom-erang, he called her. Because you always come back to me, he’d say after she’d been MIA for a few days. But the truth was, she had no real reason to come back to this barrier island hugging the coast of Florida. Except him, and he was headed for bigger and better things.
In answer to his question she just shrugged, not wanting to lie and really not wanting to ask a question of her own: Would he ever consider taking her with him on his journey to fame and fortune?
“You’re not coming back, are you?” he asked.
“I… might.” She locked her elbow and let her head fall on her shoulder, hiding behind the hair falling over her face. “You know how things are.”
He stroked her cheek and smoothed that fallen hair over her shoulder. “I know how things are.”
They didn’t have to say more than that. Ever since the Palmers had built this addition to their house so their star-athlete son could have a gym attached to his bedroom, he’d also had a front-row, second-story seat to the drama unfolding at the Bloom house next door. The windows behind his power-lifting station let in light—and noise.
He’d heard enough to know what happened next door. That was why he left the door at the bottom of the steps open, so Jocelyn could slip up to the safety and comfort of her best friend’s loft.
And she had, so many, many times.
“Your mom will miss you,” he said, his voice surprisingly tight.
“My mom…” She wanted to say she’d be fine, but they both knew better. “Was born without a spine.”
“Which means she’ll miss you even more.”
“I’m not the parent-pleaser you are, Will. Well, I can’t please him, obviously, and I don’t need to please her. She refuses to leave him and, you know, half the time I think she feels like she
deserves
what she gets.”
He didn’t respond; what could he possibly say? Jocelyn’s dad was a ticking time bomb and no one ever knew when the fuse would blow. All they knew was that her mother would end up bruised. Or worse. And, honestly, it was only a matter of time until that fist made contact with Jocelyn.
“But I
do
have a spine,” Jocelyn said, lifting her chin. “And next week can’t come fast enough for me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Sadness? Pity? Longing? “I wish Miami didn’t start a week earlier than Florida.”
“You’re ready,” she said. “You’ve outgrown the shrine.”
He laughed at her favorite name for his loft. Did he know that when she said that, she meant a different kind of shrine—a sanctuary? That was what it was for her. This second-story suite might be his workout room and bedroom, but it was her safe harbor; the sight of his gazillion trophies and framed newspaper articles always made her feel safe and secure from the mess next door that was her home.
Or maybe it was just the broad, strong shoulders of a boy who always let her lean on him that made her feel so safe and secure here.
She realized he was looking directly at her, his expression serious, his hand still resting against her neck.
“What?” she asked.
Without answering, he tunneled his fingers into her hair, inching her closer. “It’s our last night, Jossie,” he whispered. “And I’m going to miss the hell out of you.”
Warmth curled through her, unholy and unfamiliar—no, it was familiar enough, especially in the last few months They’d been dancing around this all summer, both too scared to tear the safety net of their friendship and do what they were thinking about constantly.
They’d almost talked about it. Almost kissed. Frequently touched. And every time they parted, Jocelyn felt twisted and tortured and achy in places that had never ached.
His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he tried to swallow. Unable to resist, she touched that masculine lump on his throat.
“When I met you, Will, you didn’t have one of those.”
A smile threatened. “I didn’t have a lot of things I have now.”
“Like this manly stubble.” She brushed her hand along the line of his jaw, his soft teenage whiskers ticking her knuckles.
“Or these massive guns.” He grinned and lifted his arm, flexing to show off a very impressive catcher’s bicep.
Then his eyes dropped from her face to her chest. “Speaking of things someone didn’t have.”
She felt her color rise and, oh, Lord, her nipples puckered. There was the ache again.
“Will…” She looked down, directly at the sight of a shockingly big tent in his jeans. He hadn’t had
that
when he’d moved in seven years ago.
She stared at the bulge, her throat dry, her chest tight, her hands itchy. Dear God, she wanted to touch him.
“Jossie,” he whispered, trailing a finger up her throat and across her bottom lip, sending fireworks from her scalp to her toes and a whole lot of precious places in between. “I don’t want to leave without…”
