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"Ceri Grenelle writes love, passion, snark, heartache, and romance like no other! She had me hooked from page one and I stayed up late finishing it since I couldn’t put it down for a second! These characters, their struggles, their passion, their love is absolutely beautifully written!"
-Red Hatter Book Blog
"Reading Gemma’s story was an experience. It was heartbreaking and beautiful. Gemma’s book is a must read."
-Goodreads Reviewer
-Red Hatter Book Blog
"Reading Gemma’s story was an experience. It was heartbreaking and beautiful. Gemma’s book is a must read."
-Goodreads Reviewer
Chapter One Excerpt
I find the small trail leading to the bench. Opal was right, it’s perfectly peaceful here. I can barely hear the foot traffic from the main path. Even the sounds of cars are muffled by thick crops of trees and plant life. I’m completely alone, immersed in nature and tranquility.
I fucking hate it.
I groan, resting my face in my hands. What is wrong with me? Where am I? What planet did I move to? Where are the honking cab drivers and the women running like Olympic sprinters in seven-inch heels to make their trains?
The trains. I never thought I’d miss the MTA. But I do. What the hell is BART and MUNI, and why can’t San Francisco have one shared form of transportation instead of ten? And why do I need ten different forms of payment for every single one of them? San Franciscans have no idea how to commute.
Oh, and the passive aggressiveness is killing me. Before I moved out of New York I thought I’d cry if someone so much as said ‘excuse me.’ Now I’m dying slowly from politeness poisoning, and the unwillingness to fight or argue.
Nobody argues here. No one is loud and aggressive, screaming at pedestrians for walking into the street. They wait patiently as the unaware idiots step into the crosswalk with their faces pressed to their phones.
I look up at the tree canopy, praying to the nature gods or whatever hippy, tree-hugging force makes all this plant life thrive through California’s drought.
“I just want someone to be a jerk to me. Is that so much to ask? I want a bagel boiled in the good water. I want real pizza. I want to go home.”
Nobody answers. There’s only silence and branches blowing in the wind. It’s so serene I might go crazy. I stand, closing my eyes and covering my ears, the sound of gently rustling leaves building louder and louder in my head until it could combat rush hour traffic in Times Square.
“I don’t want to be here. Why does this bullshit keep happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?”
I clench my fist against my stomach, holding back the nausea and fear; chills race down my spine. The trees answer me with tranquil rustling. To anyone else it would be calming, but to me it’s the lock clicking closed on my prison cell. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be back in New York, engaged, living the perfect life I worked so hard to craft. The perfect, fake life that kept me from going fucking crazy like right—this—second.
The pressure builds until I’m panting and I can’t take it anymore, and I kick the bench with all my might.
As my foot hits the wooden planks something cracks, and I’m only fifty percent sure it isn’t my heart. I open my eyes. The bench leg I booted is now lying on the ground, the bench itself lopsided and tilted. The wooden slats are accusatory: Why? Why have you done this? I was just an innocent bench, you crazy bitch.
Oh God, what is wrong with me? I broke the quiet and thought-provoking bench that was probably donated by an old couple trying to get a tax break.
I go down on my knees, observing the damage, seeing if it can be fixed. Why does everything around me break?
Because I’m the one doing the breaking.
I feel burning behind my eyes. No. Not now. It cannot be a fucking broken old bench that makes me cry after years of tear drought. I see the bench, lying so stupidly on its side, and I want to bawl.
““I’m sorry. Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” I sniffle, reining the tears in, forcing them back into the box I absolutely need to keep locked tight in order to stay sane.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I dig my fingers into my now-ruined tailored jeans, the knees covered in dirt. “What did this bench ever do to me? I am such a crazy bitch.”
“I would never call a woman a bitch, but crazy? Yeah, that seems to fit here.”
I don’t need to look over my shoulder to see who it is, because who the hell else would it be? Life hates me and deems it necessary to humiliate me at every turn.
Sweaty sculpture man looks down at me with pity in his honey-pot eyes. His voice matches his expressive gaze, mellow and warm and smooth as syrup.
I pat beneath my lashes, relieved to find them dry, then stand to face him.
Yup, he’s still sexy as sin, and with this new perspective I can appreciate it all up close. He’s not only muscular, he’s tall as well. He could be a linebacker with all those rippling divots and curves covering his body. He’s added a tool belt to his dirt-covered ensemble, and it only serves to highlight the cut of his waist and hips.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask, plastering a smile on my face, trying to divert his attention from how I was whimpering on the ground…about a bench.
“Never.”
He’s so adamant that I have to challenge him.
“Not even if she cut you off on the road?”
He crosses his arms over his abundantly muscular chest and says matter-of-factly, “Road rage is for the repressed, and she most likely was late for her kid’s recital or soccer game.”
“Not even if she stole something out of your grocery cart, after you bought it?”
“She’s probably hungry. I’m not about to let someone go hungry. Maybe she’s got low blood sugar.”
“Not even if she hurt your mother?”
I think I’ve got him now, but he waves that one away, like it’s the easiest come back he has. “My mama can take care of herself. Nobody messes with her.”
He’s won. I’ve got nothing left. The pretense is over. I have to confess I kicked state property. Maybe something in the useful-looking belt can fix the catastrophe I’ve caused.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask again, stalling. “Ever?”
“Miss, not ever.” He tilts his head, the closely shorn curls against his head shining as they dip into a beam of light. “Why is that so shocking to you?”
“Not even if she kicked a really old, probably important bench in a city park and broke it?”
I step aside to reveal the damaged bench. He observes it, his expression somber. I can tell he’s concerned and focused because his obtrusively masculine jawline is so tight his chiseled features look like they might pop off his face.
He steps forward, and I skedaddle out of his way as quick as I can, not wanting to be within a certain distance of him. I don’t know why, but I have this awful feeling if he comes near me, the carefully erected, fragile wall I’ve built around my heart might disintegrate. His presence is abrasive, unruly.
He glances at me as I move, but I can’t decipher what’s running through his mind. The jaw is still tense. He’s probably thinking I’m nuts.
I was in the dirt apologizing to a bench.
He kneels and bends over, starting his inspection. I bite my bottom lip. Hard. I’m going to hell, but even the devil itself couldn’t divert my gaze from his well-rounded ass. And still, nothing stirs in me. My appreciation is objective.
He pulls a wrench from the back of his tool belt and a screw from a side pouch, then sets to work. Barely a minute passes before he stands and says, “Done!” His smile is so bright and jarring I think I might go blind from the effervescent force.
“You fixed the bench.” I point at it like an idiot. “How did you do that?”
“It was wobbling yesterday so I knew I’d need to work on it today. The screws come loose every now and then.” He leans toward me, as if to whisper, and my body jerks back. When he sees my reaction he lifts his hands, placating, his mouth tight. I’m acting ridiculous, like an abuse victim would react to a man coming near her. No. I’m not this person. I am not some wacko afraid of being near men for no damn reason.
He didn’t marry me with a big lie hanging over my head. He didn’t cheat on me. He’s a nice guy, fixing a bench.
Stop being so weird, Gemma.
I ignore the wary feeling in my gut. We’re about two feet away from each other now, and he’s staring down at me with that grim expression again.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, smiling up at him openly.
See? I’m fine. I’m not some peculiar person who’s developed a psychosis with men I find attractive. Nope.
He considers me for a moment, most likely trying to parse out what exactly my damage is. Kneeling next to me, he points at the bench’s leg joints with a screwdriver. “Just that the bench is old, and I have to tighten the screws every now and then. Lillian told me she sent you here for contemplation, and I thought I should fix it before it crashed under you.” He lowers his voice in a mock whisper. “She does this to all the new volunteers. Thinks she’s playing a prank on them in hopes the bench will tip over while they’re sitting on it.”
My mother would have no shame in doing that.
“That can cause a lawsuit.”
He smacks the screwdriver down on his palm. “Nobody would sue the garden.”
“That’s adorably naive of you.”
He amends his statement with a searching glance. “Nobody with a heart would sue us.”
I’m tempted to launch into a speech about how most people suck, and I’ve assisted on a million legal suits to prove it. But that might make me seem crazier than I already am. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.
Not that it matters what he thinks. He doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
He shifts on his heels and comes within less than a foot of my skin. Shouldn’t I be feeling something? Should my skin be tingling at his proximity, and my body shifting with the awareness of his?
There’s nothing. I’m completely numb.
“I’m glad the bench didn’t break while I was sitting on it. I might have developed a complex about my weight.”
He sits back on his heels, his tone flat and disbelieving. “Yeah, because kneeling on the ground and apologizing to an old bench is a much better outcome than a weight complex.” He points at my dirty knees. “And you ruined your pants.”
“You’re a man; you wouldn’t understand.” I fruitlessly try to brush the dirt off.
He tilts his head again like an adorable, inquisitive puppy, and I don’t know how it’s possible because he’s so rugged, and cute isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe him.
“I wouldn’t understand about weight problems?”
“Look at you.” I gesture to the large amount of person next to me. “You probably eat like an elephant, run for an hour, then step out of the shower with another row of abs.”
I stand, offering him a hand up. He takes it with a gracious nod. His hand is almost twice the size of mine. Dirt cakes the lines on his fingers, the granules scrape against my palm.
His grin grips my previously comatose libido and slaps it awake. The shock of it nearly shoves me onto my ass.
Whoa. That was definitely a feeling. One I want to avoid from now on.
I find the small trail leading to the bench. Opal was right, it’s perfectly peaceful here. I can barely hear the foot traffic from the main path. Even the sounds of cars are muffled by thick crops of trees and plant life. I’m completely alone, immersed in nature and tranquility.
I fucking hate it.
I groan, resting my face in my hands. What is wrong with me? Where am I? What planet did I move to? Where are the honking cab drivers and the women running like Olympic sprinters in seven-inch heels to make their trains?
The trains. I never thought I’d miss the MTA. But I do. What the hell is BART and MUNI, and why can’t San Francisco have one shared form of transportation instead of ten? And why do I need ten different forms of payment for every single one of them? San Franciscans have no idea how to commute.
Oh, and the passive aggressiveness is killing me. Before I moved out of New York I thought I’d cry if someone so much as said ‘excuse me.’ Now I’m dying slowly from politeness poisoning, and the unwillingness to fight or argue.
Nobody argues here. No one is loud and aggressive, screaming at pedestrians for walking into the street. They wait patiently as the unaware idiots step into the crosswalk with their faces pressed to their phones.
I look up at the tree canopy, praying to the nature gods or whatever hippy, tree-hugging force makes all this plant life thrive through California’s drought.
“I just want someone to be a jerk to me. Is that so much to ask? I want a bagel boiled in the good water. I want real pizza. I want to go home.”
Nobody answers. There’s only silence and branches blowing in the wind. It’s so serene I might go crazy. I stand, closing my eyes and covering my ears, the sound of gently rustling leaves building louder and louder in my head until it could combat rush hour traffic in Times Square.
“I don’t want to be here. Why does this bullshit keep happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?”
I clench my fist against my stomach, holding back the nausea and fear; chills race down my spine. The trees answer me with tranquil rustling. To anyone else it would be calming, but to me it’s the lock clicking closed on my prison cell. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be back in New York, engaged, living the perfect life I worked so hard to craft. The perfect, fake life that kept me from going fucking crazy like right—this—second.
The pressure builds until I’m panting and I can’t take it anymore, and I kick the bench with all my might.
As my foot hits the wooden planks something cracks, and I’m only fifty percent sure it isn’t my heart. I open my eyes. The bench leg I booted is now lying on the ground, the bench itself lopsided and tilted. The wooden slats are accusatory: Why? Why have you done this? I was just an innocent bench, you crazy bitch.
Oh God, what is wrong with me? I broke the quiet and thought-provoking bench that was probably donated by an old couple trying to get a tax break.
I go down on my knees, observing the damage, seeing if it can be fixed. Why does everything around me break?
Because I’m the one doing the breaking.
I feel burning behind my eyes. No. Not now. It cannot be a fucking broken old bench that makes me cry after years of tear drought. I see the bench, lying so stupidly on its side, and I want to bawl.
““I’m sorry. Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” I sniffle, reining the tears in, forcing them back into the box I absolutely need to keep locked tight in order to stay sane.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I dig my fingers into my now-ruined tailored jeans, the knees covered in dirt. “What did this bench ever do to me? I am such a crazy bitch.”
“I would never call a woman a bitch, but crazy? Yeah, that seems to fit here.”
I don’t need to look over my shoulder to see who it is, because who the hell else would it be? Life hates me and deems it necessary to humiliate me at every turn.
Sweaty sculpture man looks down at me with pity in his honey-pot eyes. His voice matches his expressive gaze, mellow and warm and smooth as syrup.
I pat beneath my lashes, relieved to find them dry, then stand to face him.
Yup, he’s still sexy as sin, and with this new perspective I can appreciate it all up close. He’s not only muscular, he’s tall as well. He could be a linebacker with all those rippling divots and curves covering his body. He’s added a tool belt to his dirt-covered ensemble, and it only serves to highlight the cut of his waist and hips.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask, plastering a smile on my face, trying to divert his attention from how I was whimpering on the ground…about a bench.
“Never.”
He’s so adamant that I have to challenge him.
“Not even if she cut you off on the road?”
He crosses his arms over his abundantly muscular chest and says matter-of-factly, “Road rage is for the repressed, and she most likely was late for her kid’s recital or soccer game.”
“Not even if she stole something out of your grocery cart, after you bought it?”
“She’s probably hungry. I’m not about to let someone go hungry. Maybe she’s got low blood sugar.”
“Not even if she hurt your mother?”
I think I’ve got him now, but he waves that one away, like it’s the easiest come back he has. “My mama can take care of herself. Nobody messes with her.”
He’s won. I’ve got nothing left. The pretense is over. I have to confess I kicked state property. Maybe something in the useful-looking belt can fix the catastrophe I’ve caused.
“You wouldn’t call a woman a bitch?” I ask again, stalling. “Ever?”
“Miss, not ever.” He tilts his head, the closely shorn curls against his head shining as they dip into a beam of light. “Why is that so shocking to you?”
“Not even if she kicked a really old, probably important bench in a city park and broke it?”
I step aside to reveal the damaged bench. He observes it, his expression somber. I can tell he’s concerned and focused because his obtrusively masculine jawline is so tight his chiseled features look like they might pop off his face.
He steps forward, and I skedaddle out of his way as quick as I can, not wanting to be within a certain distance of him. I don’t know why, but I have this awful feeling if he comes near me, the carefully erected, fragile wall I’ve built around my heart might disintegrate. His presence is abrasive, unruly.
He glances at me as I move, but I can’t decipher what’s running through his mind. The jaw is still tense. He’s probably thinking I’m nuts.
I was in the dirt apologizing to a bench.
He kneels and bends over, starting his inspection. I bite my bottom lip. Hard. I’m going to hell, but even the devil itself couldn’t divert my gaze from his well-rounded ass. And still, nothing stirs in me. My appreciation is objective.
He pulls a wrench from the back of his tool belt and a screw from a side pouch, then sets to work. Barely a minute passes before he stands and says, “Done!” His smile is so bright and jarring I think I might go blind from the effervescent force.
“You fixed the bench.” I point at it like an idiot. “How did you do that?”
“It was wobbling yesterday so I knew I’d need to work on it today. The screws come loose every now and then.” He leans toward me, as if to whisper, and my body jerks back. When he sees my reaction he lifts his hands, placating, his mouth tight. I’m acting ridiculous, like an abuse victim would react to a man coming near her. No. I’m not this person. I am not some wacko afraid of being near men for no damn reason.
He didn’t marry me with a big lie hanging over my head. He didn’t cheat on me. He’s a nice guy, fixing a bench.
Stop being so weird, Gemma.
I ignore the wary feeling in my gut. We’re about two feet away from each other now, and he’s staring down at me with that grim expression again.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, smiling up at him openly.
See? I’m fine. I’m not some peculiar person who’s developed a psychosis with men I find attractive. Nope.
He considers me for a moment, most likely trying to parse out what exactly my damage is. Kneeling next to me, he points at the bench’s leg joints with a screwdriver. “Just that the bench is old, and I have to tighten the screws every now and then. Lillian told me she sent you here for contemplation, and I thought I should fix it before it crashed under you.” He lowers his voice in a mock whisper. “She does this to all the new volunteers. Thinks she’s playing a prank on them in hopes the bench will tip over while they’re sitting on it.”
My mother would have no shame in doing that.
“That can cause a lawsuit.”
He smacks the screwdriver down on his palm. “Nobody would sue the garden.”
“That’s adorably naive of you.”
He amends his statement with a searching glance. “Nobody with a heart would sue us.”
I’m tempted to launch into a speech about how most people suck, and I’ve assisted on a million legal suits to prove it. But that might make me seem crazier than I already am. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.
Not that it matters what he thinks. He doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
He shifts on his heels and comes within less than a foot of my skin. Shouldn’t I be feeling something? Should my skin be tingling at his proximity, and my body shifting with the awareness of his?
There’s nothing. I’m completely numb.
“I’m glad the bench didn’t break while I was sitting on it. I might have developed a complex about my weight.”
He sits back on his heels, his tone flat and disbelieving. “Yeah, because kneeling on the ground and apologizing to an old bench is a much better outcome than a weight complex.” He points at my dirty knees. “And you ruined your pants.”
“You’re a man; you wouldn’t understand.” I fruitlessly try to brush the dirt off.
He tilts his head again like an adorable, inquisitive puppy, and I don’t know how it’s possible because he’s so rugged, and cute isn’t a word I’d ever use to describe him.
“I wouldn’t understand about weight problems?”
“Look at you.” I gesture to the large amount of person next to me. “You probably eat like an elephant, run for an hour, then step out of the shower with another row of abs.”
I stand, offering him a hand up. He takes it with a gracious nod. His hand is almost twice the size of mine. Dirt cakes the lines on his fingers, the granules scrape against my palm.
His grin grips my previously comatose libido and slaps it awake. The shock of it nearly shoves me onto my ass.
Whoa. That was definitely a feeling. One I want to avoid from now on.
