Where the Heart Is Read online

  Where the Heart Is

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright © 2017 by Jasinda Wilder

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  WHERE THE HEART IS

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  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations.

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  Cover art copyright © 2017 Sarah Hansen.

  ISBN: 978-1-941098-91-2

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Foreword

  As I was writing this book in the early summer, Hurricanes Harvey, Irma and José hadn’t happened yet. And then, as I was editing and preparing to publish this book in early September, Harvey struck, followed by Irma, with José to follow…and suddenly the events in this book seemed eerily prescient. Obviously, this was not my intention. I would never use real and tragic events to tell a story. The hurricanes in my books were used as major plot points and, as I’ve said, they were written well before the real life disasters occurred, resulting in a truly unusual intersection of life and fiction.

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  My thoughts and prayers are with everyone affected by these terrible natural disasters. As a small gesture of doing our part, Jack and I are donating a portion of the proceeds of the sales of this novel to Hurricane Irma relief efforts.

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  Jasinda Wilder

  September 12, 2017

  Prologue

  Six years ago I conceived my beautiful, gorgeous, fabulous little boy, Alex. I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, but the date still stands as the hottest day of my life, and one I do not regret even slightly, despite the fact the man in question turned out to be a rat bastard and every kind of piece of shit. Since then my life has been all messed up and screwed over and irredeemably fucked except for two factors: Alex was born, and his conception entailed some seriously hot sex.

  I never saw Tom again after that—unless you count the time I saw him for less than five minutes. I was six months pregnant and had spent the preceding six months hunting his ass down to inform him of our little “oops.” Or, more correctly, his oops; he’d assured me he was “fixed.”

  I was thirty-two at the time and managing a restaurant . . . okay, well, fine, managing a titty bar. Managing, mind you, not dancing, or waitressing. I’d done my time waitressing in New York, then LA, and then Nashville, and then Chicago, in my pursuit of a career as a musician. Which had gone belly up . . . or, rather, never really got off the ground.

  I was told over and over and over again that I had talent, I had the looks, and I had the stage presence, but the timing just wasn’t right, or my songs sounded like a major artist’s . . . only better. It all just meant that the years got whittled away little by little, and suddenly I was thirty-two with a few songs I’d written playing on the radio, performed by another artist, for which I was paid a laughable amount. The result was the only real work experience I had was waitressing, and I was going nowhere with that career, so when I was offered a job managing a strip bar, I took it because it meant a steady paycheck, and I wouldn’t have to rely on tips to make a living.

  And then I’d met Tom at the gym, and we slept together a few times, and then a few more, and then we met at his hotel room downtown and had a magical afternoon . . . and I ended up pregnant.

  Guess what the strip bar didn’t offer? Health insurance.

  Guess who hadn’t ever bothered to get Medicaid because I was never sick, and thus never needed it? Me.

  I found out the hard way you can’t get pregnancy coverage after you’re already pregnant? True.

  So guess who ended up stuck with a massive hospital bill?

  And guess which strip bar didn’t take kindly to me needing a few weeks off after having a baby?

  There went that job.

  Anyway, about six months into the pregnancy, when I was really starting to show, I finally tracked down Tom’s address—and let me tell you, that fucker did not want to be found. I showed up, unannounced at his door, at two in the morning. He lived in the nice, upper-crust end of suburban Chicago. A brick house, huge and beautiful. Manicured lawn. Four-car garage. Porsche in the driveway.

  I pounded on the door until he answered. He was naked as he flung the door open. Just as hung and ripped as ever . . . and not pleased to see me.

  He stared at me, as if absorbing my presence, and then his gaze slid down to my rounded belly.

  “Oh, hell no,” he’d snarled.

  “Oh, hell yes,” I’d snarled back. “And yes, I know it’s yours.”

  He’d stared at me again, and then held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture. He disappeared then reappeared a few minutes later with a check in his hand worth ten grand.

  And I noticed a ring on his ring finger, which had never been there before, nor had there been a tan line, which meant he must take it off a lot.

  I stood there staring at his check, and his cock, and his house, and the marble floor, and the chandelier over his head, when a young woman several years my junior descended the stairs, wrapped in a thin robe that highlighted her perfectly fake tits, and her perfectly fake tan, and her perfectly fake blonde hair.

  She’d sidled up behind him, leaned against his back, stroking his chest and stomach, as if trying to tease me. “Really, Tom? Another one? Pay her and come back to bed. I want you again.”

  I waved the check at them. “He did pay me. But I’m not sure it’s enough.”

  The woman—Tom’s trophy wife, I assumed—snatched the check out of my hand, glanced at it, sniffed, and tore it up. She reappeared after a moment with another check, this one for twenty-five thousand. “There. Now leave, and don’t come back. He’s a lawyer, and our lawyers have lawyers, so don’t think about trying anything.”

  “He does this a lot, then?” I’d asked. “Knocks up girls and then pays them off to vanish?”

  She’d eyed me up and down. “I’m not sure you count as a girl, honey. A little past your prime for that.”

  Damn. That had hurt. The only retort I could manage was, “You know, if I’d known all along it was like this, I’d have tried to get some goodies out of you.”

  “You were a side-fuck, Delta, not a sugar-baby,” Tom replied.

  He was wearing a watch, something gold and glittering with diamond insets. He stripped it off and tossed it at me, careless of whether I caught it or not. “Here. Now, seriously, get the fuck out of here.” I took the money and the Rolex, and I got the fuck out.

  I still own that Rolex, although there have been times when I needed money and it was the only asset I had. But I kept it because I want a reminder of my bad decisions and how I got to where I am today. It’s way too big, but if I wear it with a sexy little black dress, I can pass for someone I’m not. Which is useful when you’re a single mother trying to get laid.

  1

  Jon
ny Núñez gives me the tingles, and I have never before had the tingles.

  I’m on the beach sitting next to him, and we are both exhausted, mentally and physically.

  He’s worked non-stop since I first showed up in Ft. Lauderdale two days ago. And he says he was here for three days before that. I have yet to see him sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, and when he does sleep he lies down wherever he is, pillows his head on his arm, and dozes off immediately. When he wakes up he is alert and energetic, working tirelessly and methodically, helping the first responders attempt to find survivors in the hell that is what is left of Ft. Lauderdale after a Category 5 hurricane blew through. He seems to be inexhaustible. He does the work of three men and makes it look easy.

  Curiously, we both arrived in Ft. Lauderdale for the same reason—to find my sister, Ava. By some miracle she is alive. She took cover in her bathtub when the storm first hit and that action, along with a bottle of water, saved her life. It took three days to find her, and Jonny was one of the first on scene.

  Ava is in the hospital, crowded into a room with three others. She’s dehydrated, exhausted, and suffering from shock; she has a concussion, despite not remembering hitting her head at any point. Given how crowded the hospital rooms and hallways are, there’s no way for us to be with her except for occasional visits, and there’s so much work to be done. So we work.

  We’ve taken a break to have coffee and sandwiches, and I’m so tired I can hardly eat. I’d love to fall asleep, but I’m overtired, so I just sit and let my mind drift.

  My head is resting on Jonny’s shoulder. I’m not trying to be cute or coy, I’m completely flattened by exhaustion. He doesn’t seem to mind. He hasn’t said anything, so I’m assuming he’s okay with it. If there is one thing I’ve learned about Jonny in the past couple of days, it’s that he is a man of few words.

  From his actions alone I can tell he’s salt of the earth. Strong. Solid. Fit. Handsome, but not flashily so. Exotic. Ruggedly sexy. Deep-set dark eyes narrowed in a permanent squint. Weathered and darkly tanned, his Latino skin is scarred in places, and he seems to favor one of his legs. Black hair, thick and wavy and messy, dirty and unwashed at the moment, is flecked with debris and mud and who knows what else, finger-combed straight back, curling around his collar. He has scruff on his jaw, almost but not quite a beard, and he has a scar on his jawline going from right cheekbone through his beard to his chin. His voice is smooth, with a musical Hispanic lilting, rolling accent.

  I made the decision to stick with Jonny, help with the cleanup, and look for survivors and bodies, but I hardly know why. I should try to spend more time with Ava, or I should get back to St. Pete’s and be with Alex.

  I check with my mom and dad every day to let them know how Ava is doing, and to hear how things are going with Alex. He sounds like he’s having the time of his life with Gramma and Grampa, as he calls them. Eating sweets and junk food and watching movies all day, probably being spoiled rotten. But God knows he deserves a little spoiling, since I have trouble keeping a roof over our head and food in the fridge.

  For six years I’ve kept the money Tom gave me as a nest egg, a cushion. I try not to rely on it, or use it unless I have to. It’ll go quick, if I’m not careful. I work all the hours I can, provide for Alex on my own, and pretend as if that money isn’t in the bank. My neighbor, Mrs. Allen, is a retired widow, and she picks up Alex from the school bus each day and watches him till I get home. Even working double shifts most days, it’s all I can do to pay rent, utilities, and buy food. I have an apartment in a decent neighborhood. It wouldn’t be as tight if I lived in a less desirable area, but I want him to grow up safe. I want him to go to a nice school. Get a decent education and grow up to be a successful adult. Which means I work my ass off to afford a nicer apartment in a nicer area than I really can afford, but he doesn’t know that, and he never will.

  Ava always said I was easily distracted, and prone to oversharing. Which, I suppose is true. It’s why I sucked at school and never even tried to go to college. I focused on music, writing songs, and honing my acoustic guitar skills, booking gigs at coffee shops and dive bars. For a while, in my twenties, I actually made a decent living on music alone. But my music career wasn’t going anywhere, and I had to have a day job to support the gigging. Which meant I gigged less and less, and then, eventually, not at all.

  And it’s been six years since I last gigged.

  I still play though. When I get home from work at three or four in the morning, Alex is asleep and I’m too wired from work to sleep; I get out my battered and beloved Yamaha, tune her up, and I play quietly and sing my favorite songs. I even write some new ones, since I can’t seem to help it. My songs are usually bitter Ani DiFranco-esque pieces about how men are assholes, and quasi-artistic pieces about how life is hard, told via metaphor.

  Tingles, tingles. My mind drifts back to the present, and I am acutely aware of how I feel sitting next to Jonny.

  My ear and cheek tingle where they rest against Jonny’s shoulder.

  My hip, where it touches his, tingles.

  He lifts a hand to munch on his sandwich, and then lowers it, and his forearm touches mine, and my skin tingles.

  Why am I tingling?

  It’s stupid. I shouldn’t tingle. I never tingle.

  I mean, after a really nice orgasm, I’ll tingle for a few seconds, but it goes away. Just innocently making contact with someone has never made me tingle before.

  I know nothing about him. Nothing. NOT A DAMN THING. He doesn’t talk much, if at all. He just works tirelessly, like a machine.

  He listens to me when we take breaks together. I’m the original Chatty Cathy my dad used to say, and I do enough talking for both Jonny and me. He watches me with those intense, inscrutable dark eyes of his, nods and asks probing questions, and never seems surprised by my tendency to blab what other people might consider personal info, or TMI—I’m a constant fountain of TMI.

  He seems utterly without judgment. He accepts me and listens to me. And I don’t get the sense that he’s only tolerating me or keeping his judgment to himself.

  I LIKE HIM.

  Dammit.

  That means he’ll probably turn out to be an asshole.

  If I’m honest, I have to admit I’m preoccupying myself with Jonny and the cleanup efforts in an attempt to not freak out about—well, everything.

  I’m thinking about Ava, and the hurricane, and her husband Chris. Ava hasn’t heard from Christian for a long time—the last time they spoke he was out at sea somewhere off the coast of Africa. I’m also worrying about how many days of work I’m missing and that when I return to Chicago I’ll probably have to find a new job. I miss my Alex, and I’m worried that he’ll like living with Gramma and Grampa more than with me and I’ll end up alone.

  And, oh yeah, Jonny. I’ve been thinking a lot about him.

  And liking him.

  And reminding myself about the mantra I’ve had looping through my head since I met him:

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  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

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  I’m putting the reminder on repeat in my head, because I have to at least try to be a good girl.

  But I’m not. I’m a bad girl.

  I like sex, and I’m reckless and impulsive, and I’m a terrible judge of people—the exact opposite of Ava, in other words. She’s perfect and always has been. She excelled in school and never got in trouble. A good writer. Sweet. Funny. Classy. Effortlessly elegant. Effortlessly skinny. She snagged Christian without even trying, and he turned out to be a mega-popular novelist with books being turned into movies, and he makes a shitload of money. Now Ava drives a fucking Mercedes-Benz and I’m . . . just me, still struggling like I’ve always struggled.

  I am the exact opposite of Ava. I was bad at school. I was always in trouble, because I was always hanging out with the wrong crowd. And I’m dyslexi
c, or dysmorphic or something, or just not book smart, and I can’t write or read very well.

  I’m sarcastic and sassy and rude, and I talk too much and spout too much highly personal information without thinking about it. I’m not classy or elegant at all, and I have to work out like a fiend to keep my ass from ballooning into something with its own zip code. I hate running. I drive a fourteen-year-old Accord. I have no boyfriend, much less a wealthy and successful and admittedly gorgeous husband like Christian St. Pierre.

  What I have going for me: a beautiful voice, talent with a guitar, a knack for song writing, and a cool name. I mean, come on, Delta Martin says music star, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought so, but the music industry didn’t seem to agree.

  I also have naturally big and still-perky-at-thirty-eight-despite-having-breastfed tits. That’s pretty much it as far as my positive qualities go.

  I’m good at sex, so I’ve got that going for me, too, I suppose. I give a hell of a BJ, I’m flexible enough to get into some really neat positions . . . and I have the libido of a girl twenty years my junior.

  Which, currently, is a problem.

  As I said, I’m trying to remind myself that I should NOT, under any circumstances, allow myself to sleep with Jonny Núñez, because it’s bad timing, it can’t go anywhere, and he’s probably an asshole or transient or both. Plus, I have enough on my plate to deal with; I’m a thirty-eight-year-old single mom and nobody wants to be saddled with that baggage, and I’m at the stage of my life where I’m prone to getting clingy and, now I have to be here for Ava, because God knows she’s gonna need a hell of a lot of help between the storm and Christian going missing.