“Who?” he asked again, unable to look at her.
“My ex, Jason.”
The heat of his anger was soon replaced with the chill of his heart symbolically turning to stone. He stepped back from her, his jaw tightly clenched. “To hell with you,” he said in a low and harsh whisper.
Long after she had gathered her voluminous skirt in her hands and rushed from the church to run down the stairs, straight into the waiting car of her lover, Chance had stood there in the open doorway of the church and fought to come to grips with the explosive end of their whirlwind courtship.
Chance shook his head a bit to clear it of the memory, hating that nearly eight months later it still stung. The betrayal. The hurt. The dishonor.
Damn.
“Baila conmigo, Chance.”
He turned his head to find Sofía, the best friend of Carlos’s wife, extending her hand to him as she danced in place. She was a brown-skinned beauty with bright eyes, a warm smile and a shapely frame that drew the eye of men with ease. They had enjoyed one passionate night together a few months ago after a night of dancing, but both agreed it could be no more than that, with his plans to return to the States. And his desire to not be in another relationship.
Accepting her offer, he rose to his feet and took her hand, pulling her body closer to his as they danced the bachata. “You remember what happened the last time we danced?” he teased her, looking down into her lively eyes.
Sofía gave him a sultry smile before spinning away and then back to him. “I can’t think of a better way to say goodbye,” she said.
Chance couldn’t agree more.
* * *
“Lord, help me get through this day.”
Ngozi Johns cast a quick pleading look up to the fall skies as she zipped up the lightly quilted crimson running jacket she wore with a black long-sleeved T-shirt, leggings and sneakers. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the early morning air was crisp. She inhaled it deeply as she stretched her limbs and bent her frame into a few squats before jogging down the double level of stairs of her parents’ five-bedroom, six-bathroom brick Colonial.
Her sneakered feet easily ate up the distance around the circular drive and down the long paved driveway to reach Azalea Street—like every street in the small but affluent town of Passion Grove, New Jersey, it was named after flowers.
Ngozi picked up the pace, barely noticing the estates she passed with the homes all set back from the street. Or the wrought iron lamppost on each corner breaking up the remaining darkness. Or the lone school in town, Passion Grove Middle School, on Rose Lane. Or the entire heart-shaped lake in the center of the town that residents lounged around in the summer and skated on in the winter.
She waved to local author Lance Millner, who was in the center of the body of water in his fishing boat, as he was every morning. The only time he was to be seen by his Passion Grove neighbors was during his time in the water, tossing his reel into the lake, or the rare occasions he visited the upscale grocery store on Main Street. In the distance, on the other side of the lake, was his large brick eight-bedroom home with curtains shielding the light from entering through any of the numerous windows. He lived alone and rarely had any guests. The man was as successful at being a recluse as he was at being a New York Times bestselling author.
He waved back.
It was a rushed move, hard and jerking, and looked more like he was swatting away a nagging fly than giving a greeting.
Ngozi smiled as she continued her run. With one movement that was as striking as flipping the middle finger, he confirmed his reputation as a lone wolf with no time to waste for anyone. When he did venture from his lakeside estate, his tall figure was always garbed in a field jacket and a boonie hat that shaded his face.
Passion Grove was the perfect place to come to enjoy high-scale living but avoid the bustle, noise and congestion of larger cities. Home to many wealthy young millennials, the town’s population was under two thousand, with fewer than three hundred homes, each on an average of five or more acres. Very unlike Harlem, New York. She had enjoyed living in the city, soaking in the vibrancy of its atmosphere and culture and the beauty of its brownstones and its brown-skinned people—until a year ago. A year to the date, in fact.
When everything changed.
“Damn,” she swore in a soft whisper as she shook her head, hoping to clear it.
Of her sadness. Her guilt.
Ngozi ran harder, wishing it were as easy to outrace her feelings.
It wasn’t.
She came to a stop on the corner of Marigold and Larkspur, pressing her hand to her heaving chest as her heart continued to race, even though she did not. She grimaced as she released a shaky breath. She knew the day would be hard.
It had been only a year.
Ngozi bit her bottom lip and began jogging in place to maintain the speed of her heartbeat before she finally gathered enough strength to push aside her worries and continue her morning run. She needed to finish. She needed to know there was true hope that one day her guilt and remorse would no longer hinder her.
She continued her run, noticing that outside of the echo of her colorful sneakers pounding on the pavement, the chirp of birds and errant barks of dogs occasionally broke the silence. With the town comprising sizable estates that were all set back three hundred or more feet from the streets—per a local ordinance—the noise was at a minimum.
“Good morning, Counselor.”
Ngozi looked over her shoulder to find the town’s police chief standing on the porch of the Victorian home that had once served as the town’s mercantile during the early days of its creation in the 1900s. For the last fifty years, it had served as the police station and was more than sufficient for the small town. She turned, jogging in place as she looked up at the tall and sturdy blond man who looked as if his uniform was a size—maybe two—too small. “Morning, Chief Ransom,” she greeted him as she checked her pulse against the Fitbit. “Care to join me?”
He threw his head back and laughed, almost causing his brown Stetson hat to fall from his head. “No, no, no,” he said, looking at her with a broad smile that caused the slight crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes to deepen. He patted his slightly rounded belly. “My better half loves everything just as it is.”
Eloise, his wife, was as thin as a broomstick. Opposites clearly attracted because it was clear to all that they were deeply in love. The couple resided in the lone apartment in the entire town—the one directly above the police station. It was a perk of accepting the position as chief. It would be absurd to expect a public servant to afford one of the costly estates of Passion Grove—all valued at seven figures or more.
“You have any future clients for me?” Ngozi asked, biting her inner cheek to keep from smiling.
“In Passion Grove?” the chief balked. “No way.”
She shrugged both her shoulders. “Just thought I’d ask,” she said, running backward before she waved and turned to race forward down the street.
As a successful New York criminal defense attorney, Ngozi Johns was familiar with the tristate area’s high-crime places. Passion Grove definitely was not counted among them. The chief had only two part-time deputies to assist him when there was a rare criminal act in the town, and so far that was limited to driving violations, not curbing a dog, jaywalking or the occasional shoplifting from the grocery store or lone upscale boutique by a thrill-seeking, bored housewife.
There were no apartment buildings or office buildings. No public transportation. Only stop signs, no traffic lights. There were strict limitations on commercial activity to maintain the small-town feel. Keeping up its beautiful aesthetic was a priority, with large pots on each street corner filled