With Love from 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

  “Small-town charm, a colorful cast, and a hero to root for give this romance its legs as it moves toward a hard-earned happily ever after. [This] slow-burning romance is well worth the wait.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Road to Rose Bend

  “Simone masterfully balances heart and heat...building a convincing slow-burning romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Christmas in Rose Bend

  “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

  Rose Bend

  The Road to Rose Bend

  Christmas in Rose Bend

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

  Naima Simone

  With Love from Rose Bend

  Table of Contents

  With Love from Rose Bend

  The Love List

  Excerpt from What Happens on Vacation by Brenda Jackson

  With Love from Rose Bend

  To Gary. 143.

  To Connie Marie Butts.

  I’ll miss you forever, and I’ll love you longer than that.

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WORD NO is a gift not only to yourself, but also to others.

  Leontyne “Leo” Dennison grimaced. Yeah, of all the rules that governed her life, she had the damnedest time following that one.

  Hence the reason she sat parked outside the house of Rose Bend’s newest resident and town recluse, stalling.

  “What the hell?” she muttered. After pushing open her car door with more force than necessary, she stepped out.

  She didn’t stall. Didn’t hesitate. Leo Dennison made decisions then executed them with confidence.

  Apparently, she spoke about herself in the third person, too.

  Shit.

  It had to be Moe’s breaking her ankle that had Leo so indecisive and weak. Yes, weak. Because nothing else could describe this uncharacteristic uncertainty. But damn, it wasn’t every day she saw seemingly indomitable Lucille “Moe” Dennison, matriarch of the Dennison clan and her mother, as...mortal.

  Okay, fine, to some a broken ankle might seem small in the grand scheme of calamities that could befall a person. But to see the woman who epitomized formidability suddenly looking so fragile...her face taut with pain, eyes glassy with the effort to hold back the tears she knew would upset her kids...

  Leo’s chest seized, and she lifted a palm to rub the suddenly tight, burning spot.

  True. The injury might only require a cast, crutches, elevation and several weeks of healing. But the memory—the memory would leave its mark on Leo long after her mother ditched her crutches.

  Which also explained why Leo stood on the curb outside this regal slate blue Victorian that sat on the edge of town like an elegant but judgmental spinster. Perched on a small rise, a ways from the rest of the neighborhood, it was a grand old lady—three imposing stories and a steep, gabled roof, rounded turrets, pointed towers, dark bay windows, white shutters, a wraparound porch and decorative trim.

  From the gossip Leo had heard about the house’s reclusive tenant, some kind of football or basketball or baseball player—hell, one ball looked like another to her—the house and the temporary owner had a lot in common.

  They both screamed, “Get off my lawn!”

  Only the love of a daughter for her injured mother could have Leo here, braving this obvious No Man’s Land. Well...love and pride.

  God knew she had her fair share.

  And according to the Bible her ex-boyfriend loved to thump and quote, that same God didn’t look too kindly on it, either. Still, pride wouldn’t permit her to return home without bagging this celebrity as the newest judge for the wildly popular chili contest in Rose Bend’s annual spring Honeybee Festival. Especially since she’d taken Moe’s place on the festival committee—approaching the reluctant ball player was her first assignment.

  She had to acquire his agreement.

  Failure was not an option or in her vocabulary.

  Failure is impossible.

  Another of the rules she lived by.

  All right, fine. So Susan B. Anthony said it first, but still, Leo claimed it, so that made it hers.

  Rolling her shoulders back, she hiked up her chin, repeated the mantra in her head and marched up the front walk bordered by a tidy lawn.

  Having spent most of her life at Kinsale Inn, first observing and then working alongside her parents, she noticed the little things about the stately home whose dark blue steps she climbed. Though the porch and its white columns and railings were immaculate, no rocking chairs with cushions slightly worn from sitting occupied the vast space. No wooden swing swayed in the early-afternoon breeze. No small tables claimed the corners. No lush green plants were tucked under the windows.

  If she had to conjure up a word to describe the place it would be...lonely. The place was lonely.

  She fought the urge to rub her chest again. Her mind argued that coming from her large, boisterous, nosy and loving family there was no way she could understand the empty ache of loneliness.

  Yet, her heart—the heart of the girl who’d faded into the shadow of her more brilliant, vibrant siblings—told her brain it had no idea what it was talking about.

  “C’mon, girl, the town hermit’s porch is not the place for a counseling session,” she muttered to herself, shoving aside the guilt at her uncomfortable thoughts.

  She came from a home with adoring parents and sometimes pains-in-the-ass, but for the most part wonderful, brothers and sisters. Complaining insulted all of them.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she tugged open the storm door and knocked on the front door with the beautiful stained-glass windows. It slowly opened and she locked her knees.

  Not since the early hours of a morning a little over a year ago had she experienced such a strong urge to bolt. But bolting had been her reaction to an utter loss of control on that night. She shook her head. Hard. The fewer thoughts on all of that,
the better...

  Holy. Shit.

  She closed her eyes in an unnaturally long blink.

  Lifted her lashes.

  Nope.

  The man was still there.

  Standing at the front door of this lonely house was the man who’d transformed her into a wild, hedonistic being on that night, the one she’d just been thinking about.

  It’d been a little over a year, and even though the door concealed half his chiseled features and dense, dark scruff covered the lower half of that beautiful face, she hadn’t forgotten the one person who’d made her burn every one of her rules on a pyre of sex.

  Control.

  That was what her rules were about. Control over her actions, her words, her expectations, her future, her heart... If she had control over all of those, mistakes were minimal.

  Yet, she’d lost complete control that night and the man looming in the doorway right now, like a brooding giant, was a glaring, neon mistake. A mistake that had sent her running out of that hotel room in the dark without leaving her name or a way to contact her.

  “What?”

  His brusque—okay, no, rude AF—question snapped her out of her memories. Swallowing a curse, she scrounged for a smile and forced it to her lips.

  “Well, this is awkwa—” The man she knew as Patrick shifted in the doorway and shock slammed into her. A gasp escaped. Hurt for him swelled, submerging her surprise, and she moved forward, lifting her arm toward him. “I didn’t know—”

  “What do you want?” He cut her off, those hazel eyes that had been so warm and flirtatious during their night together in Boston now glittered like chips of cold amber.

  She lowered her arm, embarrassment keeping company with the unease, but neither could outrace the pain. The pain for him.

  For the sensual, laughing, charming stranger who’d gifted her with hours of abandonment and freedom. Such abandonment and freedom she’d run scared from it.

  Because he’d obviously suffered. A person who’d survived whatever tragedy had left the scars marring the left side of his face must have suffered. And horribly.

  If not for the slip of the door, she wouldn’t have guessed. The right half of his face remained exactly as she remembered—a perfect study of symmetry, angles and beauty. Dark, arching brows that somehow conveyed both wickedness and elegance. Slumberous, thickly lashed hazel eyes. Cheekbones that an artist would despair of perfecting. An arrogant blade of a nose softened by a too-lush, carnal mouth that could stretch wide in a charismatic smile or harden in sensual promise. A year ago, both had her willing to give him anything, do anything, become anything...

  Yet, now that symmetry... Another gasp crawled up her throat, but she locked it down. That symmetry no longer existed because a long, raised, dark pink scar bisected his cheekbone, stretching to, and cutting through, the corner of his mouth and slightly drawing it down. Smaller marks scattered along his cheek and jaw as if maybe glass had shattered and sliced into his skin.

  No, he was no longer the perfect man she’d met, but the scars didn’t detract from his masculine beauty. In a way, they highlighted it.

  And God, did her fingers itch to trace the evidence of his pain. To assure herself that the vibrant, vital man she’d met in that hotel bar was still full of life. To imagine otherwise... Even though she’d once run from him, she now wanted to shift closer. Her chest seized, twisting so hard she swallowed a whimper. She curled her fingers into her thigh, preventing herself from reaching out to him.

  “Have you had a good enough look yet? Or should I turn more to the left so you have a better angle?”

  Shit. She briefly closed her eyes. The only way she could mess this up any worse was if she’d walked up here with a manual on How to Offend and Other Social Faux Pas.

  “I’m sorry. Can I please start over?” She shook her head, offering him a rueful smile. Which he returned with a flat stare. Okay, that was fair. She tried again with a small, tight chuckle. “You have to admit this is a little shock—”

  “A shock for who? Me? You showed up on my doorstep unannounced and uninvited.” His gold-and-green gaze dipped down over her as if she were something the neighborhood mutt had dropped on his porch. Something hot, stinking and waiting to be pooper-scooped.

  Irritation curled in her chest, mingling with and darkening the sympathy. Inhaling a deep breath, she held on to her smile.

  “What I mean is neither of us expected to...to...” She trailed off as he arched a dark eyebrow.

  Horror and the truth collided inside her in a cataclysmic bang. It mushroomed, filling her head with a deafening roar and shoving against her chest, as if trying to escape this humiliating situation.

  Run. Run far away from the mortifying fact that he had no idea who she was.

  He’d gifted her with the most intense, earth-shattering sexual experience of her existence and she hadn’t even rated a space in his memory bank.

  That. Fucker.

  Anger surged, hot and bright, and she welcomed it. Better than hurt and that godawful humiliation. Anything was better than that.

  “Neither of us expected to be here today,” she quickly amended through gritted teeth. According to Vanessa Perkins, chairwoman of this year’s festival, Patrick was a football player. Not an English teacher as he’d told Leo. And apparently, emphasis on the player. But wait... Vanessa had called him by another name. Owen...something. Definitely not Patrick. So not only had she been a forgettable footnote in his sexual history; he’d given her a false bio and name, too. Wow. So not her greatest moment. But damn if she would remind him of it. Her pride might be sprinkling the porch like ticker-tape confetti, but hell, she still had it. “But if you’ll just give me a couple of minutes of your time, I’ll let you get back to your afternoon.”

  “Look, Ms....”

  “Dennison. Leo Dennison.”

  Yep, that burned. Once more she inhaled a deep breath, held it. Then quietly, deliberately released it. And it did nothing to ease that scorching ache inside her.

  This was what she got for breaking her rules. He was a living, breathing reminder of why she had rules in the first place. If she hadn’t loosened the reins—if she hadn’t forgotten that being emotionally out of control held irreversible consequences—then she wouldn’t be in this predicament. If she had remembered the penalty for inhibition, she wouldn’t be standing here now, convincing herself she wasn’t wounded. This was her fault for not following the rules. For letting her guard down.

  Lesson learned.

  Again.

  But it would be the last time.

  “Look, Ms. Dennison, I don’t know if this is some belated Welcome Wagon, but fine. I consider myself welcomed.” His hand rose and gripped the edge of the door, fingers tightening in preparation to shut it in her face. “If you’ll excuse me...”

  “Not the Welcome Wagon. Sorry to disappoint, but that’s not an actual thing.” She shifted closer, ready to sacrifice her foot and slide it in the doorway, if necessary, to prevent him from closing it. She’d come here on a mission. She might be a disappointment at being a notch on his bedpost, but getting him to judge this contest? This she wouldn’t fail at. She couldn’t.

  “Listen, Mr. um, uh...”

  Shit. She couldn’t call him Patrick. And Owen was a little too forward. But for the life of her she couldn’t remember what Vanessa said his last name was.

  Annoyance flickered across his face. “Seriously? You don’t even know my name?”

  She swallowed a bark of incredulous laughter at the irony.

  You can’t snap on the football player because you need him.

  “I apologize,” she shoved out between gritted teeth. Moe’s counting on you. And so is the rest of the committee. And think of the revenue this festival will bring in for the inn. So shut up and get through this. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I
t’s only one o’clock.”

  Good Lord, this man could try the patience of a saint. And considering what he could do with his tongue, he was far from being canonized. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” she said. And she could use a happy hour drink right about now. “Anyway, I’m here representing Rose Bend’s Honeybee Festival committee. It’s our annual spring festival, and it’s a pretty popular event for the town as well as the region.”

  “Honey. Bee. Festival,” he repeated, and she couldn’t quite hide her wince.

  “Yes, I know, the name is a little...cutesy.” She shrugged, holding up her hands. “But let me tell you. There’s a helluva lot of honey at this festival. People come from all around to sell homemade wild honey, honey soaps, honey candles and lotions. We have a honey cake contest, and every year Melba Dinkins wins. And she’s smug about it. Although, I’m pretty sure it’s not just the honey that gets her that win but the bit of rum she adds in, too. Want to know an interesting fact, though?”

  “No.”

  “The honey doesn’t actually come from directly from honeybees or beehives,” she continued, ignoring his refusal. “It’s from the lavender that grows wild on a farm a couple of towns over. Crazy, right? But Honeybee Festival sounds better to the ear and makes more sense than Honey Lavender Festival. Speaking of the festival,” she segued without taking a breath or permitting him a chance to interrupt. “We really would love if you’d agree to be a judge for our chili contest. It’s one of our most popular contests, aside from the Lavender Pageant and aforementioned honey cake contest, and you would be doing us a huge favor. With a celebrity as one of our judges, the crowd you’d draw would be fantastic. More people would mean more money for the town and the...”

  His flat “no” couldn’t get her to shut up, but the blanching of color from his face accomplished it.

  She’d read of people paling, just going white, but in all her twenty-nine years, she’d never witnessed it. Alarm crackled through her like bad static, and she moved farther into the doorway, afraid he might faint. What she, at five feet seven inches and one hundred and forty-five pounds, could do to catch him, a huge athlete who stood well above six feet and had to exceed two hundred pounds of pure muscle if her memory served her well—and unfortunately, it did—she didn’t know.