CHAPTER 1
Paige
The Bridge Senior Care Facility sits in a parklike setting in the southern part of Austin. I love it here, especially the view of the cypress, mesquite, and oak trees that fill the landscape. My favorite sight is that of a Mexican plum tree that sprawls in front of my office window. My new office window.
I’ve had this office for—I glance at my wall calendar—a total of 37 days. One month and one week. I’m currently employed as the acting Activities Coordinator, or, as the residents call me, the cruise director. One of them coined the title from the old 70s TV show, the Love Boat, and it stuck.
It makes me laugh. It makes me feel…wanted. Like I belong. I’m important. Those are things I’ve come to value over the years.
I know what it’s like to feel worthless, and I never want to feel that way again.
I smile crookedly to myself. It might seem weird to some that I found my acceptance with a group of senior citizens, but it makes perfect sense to me. Seniors know what’s important. They’re done with all the bullshit of youth and middle age and go straight for the truth. The things that matter.
And they make me feel special.
They didn’t have a nickname like mine for my predecessor and former boss. She was far more reserved and serious than I am. A little older, in her late thirties. Stella always loved her job, she told me when we first met, but working with the elderly had slowly become almost foreign to her. Gradually, I’d taken on more of the personal interaction with the residents.
I understood it. She’d explained it from the very beginning. She’d hired me because her biological clock had begun ticking louder and faster, and we’d met in the middle of her years-long struggle to get pregnant. When her third in vitro had taken, she’d given her notice immediately.
And so, after two years as Stella’s assistant, I’m five weeks into proving myself as a suitable permanent Activities Coordinator. I even have Grace, my own brand-new assistant. She’s about my age; a full, lush figure; blonde hair; and with kind of strong features that I think are beautiful.
She doesn’t, but I can’t argue it with her now. She’s smirking at me from my office door.
“It’s Mrs. Hurley again.”
I smile to myself but try to keep my outer expression relatively bland. “What is it today?”
Grace holds up a finger. “Her TV isn’t working.” Finger number two. “There are strange people lurking in the hallway.” A third finger. “She doesn’t have the right equipment to refill the postage meters.”
I shake my head with a small sigh. “So she’s cycling back to the post office construct.”
“Yes. And she won’t talk to anyone besides you.”
“That’s because I’m the Postmistress.”
Grace grins. “Yep.”
“All right.” I stand and smooth my burgundy pencil skirt over my hips and thighs. “I’ll figure this out.”
“Did she ever really work at the post office?”
“Yes, actually, she did. For years.” I smile softly. “She wasn’t a letter carrier—she’ll tell you that right off. She worked in the facility for thirty years, longer than everyone else.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I know she worked at the main post office.” I shrug. “I don’t know exactly what she did or if she was actually there longer than anyone else.”
Grace follows me from my office. “Why does she listen to you but everyone else upsets her? You’ve never said.”
I stop near Grace’s desk, partitioned off just outside my office. It used to be my cubicle, and I still find comfort there.
Reassurance. Almost strength. Emotions that come from being appreciated.
I close my eyes for a second. Why does Mrs. Hurley listen to me? Feel safe with me? Treat me differently from the way she is with everyone else?
His face pops into my mind, but I give a quick shake of my head to erase it. I’ve been having to do it more often lately than seems fair, especially after all this time, but I don’t know how to change it. Fix it. I can’t exactly ask Mrs. Hurley to stop talking about her grandson. Even if she could remember the request, she wouldn’t understand it.
“Paige?”
I blink and glance at Grace. My half-smile is rueful. I know it, because that’s exactly how I feel.
“I’ve known her for a long time,” I admit with a heavy breath. “I…went to school with her grandson.”
“Her grands—” The words die a hard, sudden death. Grace stares at me, her eyes wide and mouth open. “Her grandson?” she repeats.
I nod.
“You know…him?”
I nod.
“As in…Noah Dexter.”
I nod again.
“Wycked Obsession’s drummer?”
I nod one more time.
She sinks down onto a nearby lobby chair and stares at me. “Oh, my God.” It’s a whisper. “You know Noah Dexter?”
I take the seat next to her. “Yes. And I’m guessing you’re a Wycked Obsession fan.”
“A fan?” She places her hands splayed over the middle of her chest, one on top of the other. “Like, their biggest fan.”
She squirms in her seat, and I can’t help but smile. Noah and I might have a history—a shitty history that I prefer to forget as much as possible—but Grace is still cute in her adoration.
“They are all so hot,” she gushes. “Ajia is so sexy, like he’s gonna have an orgasm when he sings. Knox is a guitar god, but he’s kind of intimidating, too. Rye’s so mysterious but kind of sad. I love Noah and his flirty ways, but Zayne…”
Noah’s flirty ways? Fuck that!
I don’t swear very often; it’s rarely appropriate in my daily life. But this time it fits. In fact, it feels so good, I’ll think it again.
Fuck Noah Dexter and his flirty ways.
Not saying any of that out loud. The last thing I want to do is have to explain any of it to Grace.
Instead, I try to relate to her as one fan to another. “So, Zayne’s your crush?”
“Yes! God, yes. He’s so hot and…I don’t know—tortured? But now…” Her voice fades, and her expression falls.
I’ve heard the rumors. Everybody has. Not just about Zayne Prescott, but other, questionable stuff. Orgies with Knox Gallagher’s sister, Bree, before she and Ajia Stone hooked up. Then some groupie claimed Noah gave her an STD. Unfortunately, knowing Noah, it isn’t that hard to believe. Then Zayne ended up in rehab after almost ODing.
Who’d have thought being in a rock band would be such a…challenge?
I can’t guess how Noah feels about it all. Life has changed for him; he’s a celebrity. For an ordinary person like me, it wouldn’t be all that easy. How does a person manage the kind of notoriety that Wycked Obsession’s success has brought?
Again, those thoughts are more personal than I want to share with Grace, so I keep my comments focused on the man she’s most interested in.
“I hear Zayne’s in rehab,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “Supposedly here in town.” I gesture with one hand. “They’re all from around here, and the band formed in Austin.”
“I know.” Grace’s eyes go all soft and dreamy. “Did you know Noah then? Meet the others?”
I shake my head. “No, that happened after—high school.” I catch myself at the last second, reforming my words. “We’d…lost touch by then.”
“But he’d remember you?”
Would he? A part of me thinks yes, of course he would! We were together for two years. I wasn’t his first girlfriend, and not even his first sexual partner, but he was mine. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he?
Knowing the things he’s done since then, the women he’s had, the threesomes he’s famous—or infamous—for…would he really remember some silly girl from high school who couldn’t stand to be a part of a ménage a trois? A three-way relationship that meant she had to share him.
“I think so.” I finally say the easiest thing.
“Maybe he’ll come to see his grandmother. Maybe—”
“Oh, Lord!” I jump to my feet. “Mrs. Hurley. She’s been waiting, and you know how she hates that.”
Grace blinks and then wrinkles her nose with a little chuckle. “You better get going.”
I wave behind me as I start down the hall.
“Tell her you were in a meeting with the Postmaster General,” Grace calls. “Maybe she’ll accept that as an excuse.”
I laugh to myself. When has any excuse been good enough for Mrs. Hurley?
Lorraine Hurley’s room is at the end of a long corridor on the east end of the building. She has what we call a studio apartment, a large main room with a sleeping alcove and a bathroom. It’s furnished with a small sofa, a comfortable recliner, a bookcase, table and chairs. Her television is mounted on one wall, while opposite is a pseudo-kitchen with built-in cabinets and a small, under-the-counter refrigerator. No other cooking facilities are allowed in the room.
“Good afternoon, Lorraine,” I call as I push open her door.
“Miss Hamilton!”
She’s standing in the middle of the room, her mostly gray hair a tangled mess. Her blouse is buttoned crookedly, and her pants are stained. I make a mental note to speak with the nurse on duty. We have measures in place to help our residents dress and groom themselves when they need additional assistance. Especially our dementia patients.
No one needs to look like an unmade bed, as my gran used to say.
“You can call me Paige, you know.” I move into the room with a smile. “I told you that.”
She looks around uneasily. “Are you sure it’s all right? As the postmistress—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt her, hoping I can sidetrack her post office construct. “We’re a lot less formal these days.”
She nods slowly, as though considering the idea. “All right.”
“Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“You complained, said you needed to see me.”
She looks confused, so I smile.
“Here, Lorraine.” I reach for her buttons and begin to refasten them properly. “It’s a lovely day out,” I say with probably more cheer than she’ll understand. But if it keeps her distracted, it’s worth it. “A little warmer than I’d like, but it’s just the middle of September.”
“September?” Her eyes cloud a little, like she’s trying to place herself. Maybe not where, but when.
“Yes. It will be fall soon. Halloween, jack-o-lanterns, and pumpkin spice.” I take her arm and lead her toward the sofa. “And pecan pie has always been your favorite.”
“Oh, yes.” Her face goes dreamy. “My beautiful pecan tree.” Her eyes close, and when she opens them again, she pierces me with a surprisingly sharp gaze. “You and Noah used to collect the pecans for me.”
I smile with the memory. “We did. But that’s because we both loved pecan pie almost as much as you do.”
She closes her eyes again, linking her fingers together, as though trying to hold a memory close in her mind. I’ve seen it often enough in her and others like her. Tears no longer sting my eyes, but my heart clenches all the same. Lorraine Hurley was always a strong, vibrant, and independent woman. Seeing her in this state just breaks my spirit a little bit.
I slip away into the bathroom for a comb and a warm, damp cloth. Lorraine is still seated when I return to the main room, and I resume my seat next to her. She smiles as I gently wipe her face, and then I separate her hair in small sections.
“May I comb your hair for you?” I ask quietly.
She blinks, reaches for her head. “Does it need it?”
“There are a few snarls. Will you let me take care of them?”
Her eyes track from side to side. “Yes. I need to look…professional for the customers.”
Customers. So she hasn’t completely given up on the post office theme for today.
“Yes, we want you to look your best,” I say mildly, and begin carefully pulling the comb through her tangled gray hair.
She closes her eyes, and her head moves with the tug of the comb. I’m gentle, remembering my own mother’s ruthless hairdressing skills, and Lorraine sighs with what I hope is pleasure.
“Lolo, my love, how are you today?”
My hand stops in mid-comb, because I suddenly have no air in my lungs. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t stop the trembling in my hands.
I’d recognize that voice anywhere, anytime, for the rest of my life.
Lolo, my love, how are you today?
I love you, Paige. You’ll always be my girl, sweetness.
I drop my hands to my lap, close my eyes for a heartbeat, and then slowly turn to face the doorway. I know what—who—I’ll see, but even expecting it can’t prepare me for seeing Noah Dexter again. It’s been five years, and while everything has changed, it’s also true that nothing has.
He’s taller by an inch or two, and he was almost 6’3” in high school. His arms and chest have filled out to an adult masculinity, and his chestnut brown hair is long, almost halfway down his back. His trimmed beard is a shade darker and somehow doesn’t disguise the sharp cut of his jaw. In fact, it accents the fullness of his bottom lip.
How many times did those lips find mine? Wrap around my nipples? My clit? His mouth knew my body almost as well as I knew myself, and the memories I’ve been running from for five years come roaring back.
God, how I’ve missed this man!
I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes, even though I’ll never forget the startling blue that always seemed somewhat out of place when paired with his brown hair. Instead I take in his tight, ripped jeans and a white button-down shirt. He still favors the same type of biker boots he used to wear, and he looks…stunning. Exactly like a rock star god should look.
Rock star god.
Drummer for Wycked Obsession, the hottest band to come out of Austin, and making a name for themselves with hot-as-hell guys turning out some amazing rock songs that have topped the charts for months now.
How do I know all this? Everybody in Austin knows about Wycked Obsession. Their ups, their downs, their successes, their failures. Everybody has a story about one of the guys, how they met them, partied with them, fucked them.
Fucked them. I avoid those stories most of all.
And me? I have all those stories about Noah—and more. How I loved him and he loved me. And then how he threw me away, moved on to bigger and better things, and never looked back.
I take a breath, long and deep and more ragged than I’m willing to admit. I force my gaze up to his and say the only words I have.
“Hello, Noah.”