The Road to Rose Bend Read online

  Praise for the novels of Naima Simone

  “Simone balances crackling, electric love scenes with exquisitely rendered characters.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Passion, heat and deep emotion—Naima Simone is a gem!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates

  “Simone never falters in mining the complexity of two...people who grow and heal and eventually love together.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Sarah MacLean

  “Simone is always a good bet.”

  —All About Romance

  “I am a huge Naima Simone fan. With her stories, she has the ability to transport you to places you can only dream of, with characters who have a realness to them.”

  —Read Your Writes

  “[Naima Simone] excels at creating drama and emotional scenes as well as strong heroines who are resilient survivors.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  Also by Naima Simone

  The Billionaire’s Bargain

  Black Tie Billionaire

  Blame It on the Billionaire

  Vows in Name Only

  Trust Fund Fiancé

  Ruthless Pride

  Back in the Texan’s Bed

  Look for Naima Simone’s next novel available soon from HQN.

  For additional books by Naima Simone, visit her website, naimasimone.com.

  Naima Simone

  The Road to Rose Bend

  Table of Contents

  The Road to Rose Bend

  Slow Dance at Rose Bend

  Excerpt from The Last Little Secret by Zuri Day

  To Gary. 143.

  To the real “Moe” and “Eva,” Lucille “Moe” Alston and Eva Lee Butts. You taught me kindness, selflessness, sacrifice, generosity, how to cheat at cards and how to creatively use, uh, agitated adjectives. You both showed me what it was to live life loud and full of laughter. You encouraged me to dream big and supported me every step of the way, whether it was going to college, traveling to another country for the first time or writing a book. You were—still are—the matriarchs who exemplified pride, courage and beauty in grace. I couldn’t have asked for better examples of womanhood and dignity. Most important, you loved me. God, how you loved me. I will miss you both for the rest of my life.

  The Road to Rose Bend

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  THERE’S NO PLACE like home.

  Huh.

  Obviously, Dorothy hadn’t gotten out much.

  Sydney Collins stared at the majestic Monument Mountain and Mount Everett, the breathtaking sentinels that soared above the picturesque town of Rose Bend, Massachusetts. Dorothy’s bewildering need to return to boring, sepia-toned Kansas couldn’t be found among the trees that covered their peaks, though.

  Sydney could still remember sitting in the living room and watching The Wizard of Oz for the first time when she’d been seven years old. While her parents and her sister, Carlin, had been rooting for Dorothy to click those ruby heels and make it back home, Sydney had jumped to her feet and yelled, “Are you crazy, Dorothy? Keep your ass in Oz!”

  Well, her parents hadn’t been too happy with the language—they’d later had words with Uncle Travis about watching his mouth around her—but Carlin, resting in her special recliner, had quietly snickered.

  Carlin...

  A dusty, too-familiar feeling weaved through Sydney, burrowing deep in her heart. From experience, she knew no amount of meditation, Come-to-Jesus talks or Sunday sermons explaining how “God moves in mysterious ways,” could dig it out.

  Sydney’s fingers curved around her slightly rounded belly, the mound and life within keeping her grounded here, in the present.

  God. She hadn’t been back home for fifteen minutes, and already the memories were smothering her, seeking to drag her back.

  Well, the past wasn’t exactly dragging her back. As of yesterday morning, when she’d left Charlotte, North Carolina, to start the twelve-hour drive to the Berkshires, she’d willingly returned to her hometown located in the Southern Berkshires.

  The hometown she’d vowed—eight years earlier—to never step foot in again.

  Had it been only about her, she still might be settled in her Ballentyne condo.

  But it was no longer only about her.

  Sydney splayed her fingers wider over her stomach. Seventeen weeks, her doctor had confirmed the day before yesterday.

  Love, so deep, so fierce it was terrifying, welled up inside her as it did every time she thought of the tiny, vulnerable person growing inside her. Love and...fear. Oh God, Sydney was scared. Not only for herself, but for the life she would soon be responsible for. On her own. Yes, it was her choice to raise her child as a single mother, just as it’d been her choice to divorce her ex-husband, Daniel. But those decisions didn’t make the future any less daunting. They didn’t mean she wasn’t questioning if she was doing the right thing.

  Shaking her head, as if the abrupt motion could dislodge her doubts, she inhaled a deep breath. Released it.

  “I’m doing this,” she said to the mountains. To no one. “I’m really doing this.”

  Was she reminding herself...or questioning her sanity? Yeah, she had no clue. But with her apartment lease canceled, all her belongings either packed away in storage or piled inside this vehicle, with her ties cut, she had no choice but to go forward. Literally and figuratively.

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. Up here, the air didn’t contain the mugginess of the South. Though she’d lived almost a decade in Charlotte, North Carolina, she’d never quite become accustomed to the humidity that clung to her skin like a layer of clothing. Here, though, summer had truly arrived. A high seventies temperature with a fresh breeze that brushed over her skin like a loving caress.

  The Southern Berkshires in mid-June were simply...breathtaking. As much as she resented the place where she’d grown up, she couldn’t deny the beauty of it. Centuries-old trees seemed to preen with their vividly green, lush leaves. Wide fields rolled into hills that were only eclipsed by the majesty of mountains and endless blue sky. As a child, she’d stared up at those great sentinels, imagined they’d been stacked there by lightning-bolt-wielding gods and fierce Titans. And as a teen, she’d studied them, dreaming about what lay on the other side. They’d been her friends, her guardians. And they’d been the only thing she’d waved goodbye to as she’d left Rose Bend eight years ago.

  But now she was back.

  Tears stung her eyes, and Sydney blinked against them. Stupid hormones. She’d never been much of a crier—she’d learned at an early age that tears solved nothing—but since she’d been pregnant, they popped up like stray hairs on a chin.

  Family. Acceptanc
e. A sense of belonging. Those had never been hers to have in her hometown. Hell, there was a very good chance they still might not be hers now. But for her baby, it could be different. The burdens of Sydney’s childhood didn’t have to be her child’s. She wouldn’t let it be.

  But she wasn’t in the habit of fooling herself. While she hoped—prayed—for a nurturing haven for her child, and truly believed she would find it here, she also wanted that for herself, for Sydney “That Girl” Collins. On that latter point, she knew better. Nothing changed in Rose Bend. Not the houses. Not the townspeople. Not the opinions. Not the hearts.

  That’s why she stood on this hill behind St. John’s Catholic Church, the oldest church in Rose Bend, instead of driving to her parents’ home. It was an ancient institution.

  Carlin was buried at the newer cemetery on the other side of town. Undoubtedly Sydney’s parents still visited her older sister’s resting place, while Sydney hadn’t been there since they lowered Carlin into the ground. Eighteen years. What kind of sister did it make her that she hadn’t visited Carlin in almost two decades?

  A shitty one.

  The answer popped into her mind, clear and adamant. And curiously, the voice sounded very similar to her mother’s. She huffed out a rough, jagged laugh. That criticism and more awaited her once she arrived at her parents’ house.

  Focus on the bigger picture. You’re here to raise your child in a warmer and safer environment. To give your baby a place where she’s not a passing strange face, but a part of a loving family and community. True and true. While Sydney and her parents had a strained relationship that might be impossible to heal after years of too-cold politeness and stinging disapproval, she believed—had to believe—that they would accept their grandchild. Love their grandchild.

  But now that the idea was cold reality and no longer theory? Well, she would be a liar if she claimed her stomach wasn’t bolting for her throat. And the feeling had absolutely nothing to do with morning sickness.

  Oh God, she’d made a mistake. What the hell had she been thinking returning here? She should leave right now. It wasn’t too late—

  “Stop it, dammit,” she hissed at herself. “Get a hold of yourself and woman-the-fuck-up.”

  Sydney shook her head, and a whisper of movement out of her peripheral vision snagged her attention. Surprise crackled through her as she spotted a lone, tall figure standing in the newer section of the graveyard. The leaves of a soaring, ancient red oak cast shadows over him, concealing his identity at this distance. Not that she would’ve called out if she recognized him. He was obviously here for solitude, just like her.

  With one last glance in the mourner’s direction, she concentrated on the view before her once more.

  Peace settled over her, like an old friend eagerly welcoming her back. As she’d known it would. The people in Rose Bend might not be the most receptive to her being back. They might not ever accept her. But this place? It knew her heart. Closing her eyes, Sydney tipped her head back, allowing the fat sun sitting low in the sky to warm her skin with its last rays. This had been her special place after Carlin died. Here, she could be alone. Away from the censure and overwhelming grief she’d glimpsed in her parents’ eyes. Here, she could shed the I-don’t-give-a-fuck persona she’d adorned, because God...she gave so many fucks.

  Here, she could be Sydney and not sink in the shame of being alive.

  “Sydney?”

  Well, damn.

  Irritation flashed through her, but years of living in the South already had her lips curling into a polite smile. Until she turned her head and met a pair of stunning amber eyes. A very familiar pair of stunning amber eyes that she hadn’t forgotten in the eight years she’d been gone.

  Astonishment ricocheted through her, robbing her of coherent speech.

  “Cole?” The shallow rasp was all she could squeeze past her constricted lungs.

  A full, sensual mouth curved at the corners, that bottom lip heavy, and for a moment, his smile briefly banished the shadows lurking in his gaze. And it was that smile that confirmed the tall, wide-shouldered, powerfully built man standing before her was indeed Coltrane “Cole” Dennison. The man she’d hopelessly crushed on so many years ago stared down at her now, that jeweled gaze filled with confusion, surprise and delight.

  Delight.

  Coltrane Dennison was delighted to see her. Then again, her childhood friend’s older brother had always been nice to the foolish and reckless teenager she’d been. Even though she and his sister Leontyne had gotten into some scrapes that could squarely be placed at Sydney’s feet. Now...some might still call her reckless. But at twenty-six, she’d learned discipline and restraint. The hard way.

  “It is you,” he said in a voice that landed somewhere between the smooth glide of water over pebbles and thunder rolling across an inky sky.

  Damn. Not only had pregnancy turned her into an emotional Tilt-a-Whirl and caused hair to sprout in places it really had no business growing, but it’d apparently transformed her from grant writer to poet. Cole shifted closer, effectively cutting off her scolding of herself. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to adopt a carefree smile that was a flat-out lie.

  “It’s me,” she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her billowy red-and-gold maxi dress. “Guilty,” she added with a chuckle that sounded way too self-deprecating for her comfort.

  Seemed she was always on the verge of apologizing for something.

  For not saving her older sister’s life.

  For not being the perfect daughter.

  For not giving her baby a two-parent home.

  Yep. That was her. The Queen of I’m Sorry.

  He moved forward again, and before she could brace herself, his arms encircled her, his wide, hard chest pressed against her cheek and his scent wrapped around her. Her lashes fluttered then lowered, her hands raising to flatten against the strong muscles of his back. She slowly released her pent-up breath, and for the shortest of moments, she caved. Yielded to the pleasure of his—of anyone’s—genuine joy in seeing her again. Capitulated to the thrill of being welcomed instead of scorned.

  Surrendered to the need for human contact, for being close to someone, held by them. Touched by them.

  She stiffened. Jesus, what was she doing?

  Being a damn glutton for punishment, that’s what. Hadn’t it been giving in to that last need that had led to her current state of impending single motherhood? Yes, a bottle of Moscato and a boatload of being-up-in-her-feelings had guided the way to unwise sex with her ex-husband, but still... It’d been that desire for intimacy, for emotional and physical connection, that had greased it. And that desire, the fear of being alone, had kept her in her marriage long past its expiration date.

  Hours and hours on a therapist’s couch had granted her insight into the whys. Distant parents. Lack of affirmation. Viewing her looks as her primary value. Validation. Yada, yada, yada.

  It all boiled down to one thing: she needed to keep dicks out of her pants because it led to nothing but trouble.

  Not that Cole, her best friend’s brother, wanted her... Good God. She was devolving.

  Easing out of his arms, she dropped hers to her sides.

  “It’s good to see you again. God, how many years has it been? Seven? Eight?” If her abrupt retreat confused him, his voice didn’t betray it. His smile didn’t slip, and he dipped his head in a nod. “I just saw your mom this morning at her store. She didn’t mention you were coming in for a visit.”

  Because she doesn’t know.

  A shiver of anxiety quivered through her at the thought of showing up on her parents’ doorstep, her life packed in her car. “Unhappy” would be a serious understatement for the confusion, disappointment and anger that would greet Sydney’s news.

  Shrugging a shoulder, she glanced away from him and refocused on the view so she didn’t have
to lie to his face. “I’m sure she just had other things on her mind. And it’s been eight years since the Black Sheep of Rose Bend left.” What in the hell had possessed her to add that? Because she was a master of deflection, she switched the subject. “What are you doing out here anyway? The back of a church isn’t exactly a hot spot on a Friday night,” she teased.

  She waited for a husky chuckle or his playful response, but only silence replied to her. No, it screamed at her so loudly she jerked her head to the side and peered at Cole.

  The utter desolation in his gaze punched the air from her lungs. She lifted a hand to her chest and pressed her knuckles to the ache there. How could those eyes contain so much pain and yet he still stood? Still breathed? She was having a difficult time doing both just witnessing it.

  His lashes lowered, and he slid his hands into the pockets of his black, tailored pants. He turned toward the sun and the sky that bled lavender and gray. His white dress shirt clung to his taut shoulders and back. And for the first time, the shock of seeing him again ebbed enough for her to catalog the smaller details about Cole.

  As long as she’d known him—and in a town the size of Rose Bend, that was all her life—his dark hair had tumbled around his face in loose curls and waves. But no strands flirted with his cheekbones or jaw. They were gone, shorn into a closely cropped cut that framed his head and exposed his sharply hewn profile. Golden wheat skin that proudly proclaimed his Puerto Rican heritage stretched across cheekbones that could slice air, but his strong, patrician facial features were more pronounced, more severe than she remembered. As if he’d lost some weight recently and the whittling down had emphasized the bold bones of his cheeks, the slant of his nose, the sensuous curves of his mouth, the slash of his clean-shaven jaw.

  The same with his big body. Still tall, still a swimmer’s build with the expanse of shoulders and chest and a tapered waist, lean hips and powerful thighs. But whereas before he’d carried a sense of peace she’d always envied, now a fine tension seemed to hum from his motionless frame. As if even when not moving, he was on the verge of it. Or needed to be moving. She understood that. Because putting her hands to something, losing herself in action, prevented thinking.