Truly Madly Deeply: A Grumpy x Sunshine Romance (Forbidden Love Book 1)

“Alive” —Pearl Jam

My alarm clock notified me that it was six a.m. by blaring into my ear in decibels that shook the purple walls of my bedroom. I smacked it off and rolled onto my stomach, moaning into my pillow. Even after a trillion-hour shift at Descartes and crying to Kieran for forty minutes straight about Dad, I still couldn’t fall asleep last night. My mind was on overdrive, replaying my interactions with a certain sulky, tattooed chef the size of a prehistoric animal all night.

Row was right. Yesterday, Kieran’s presence had caught me by surprise. I had texted him that I was feeling too sad and anxious to sleep, but I’d never expected him to show up at my house. Then again, I’d never expected Row to refuse to evacuate my premises. How did he know I felt uncomfortable around Kieran? How did he know I was scared?

Well, I wasn’t scared per se, but I had sat on the other side of the wraparound porch of my house, across from Kieran, like a freak. Clutching my phone, 911 already saved on the screen just in case, as we’d talked into the night.

Now I needed to both keep my promise to Dad to pick up running again and somehow appear to be a functioning human for work today. My Spidey-senses told me there was a lot of caffeine in my near future.

Dragging myself to my closet, I stuffed my legs into neon-green leggings, slipped on a pink Dri-FIT shirt with a matching headband, and grabbed a fanny pack for my keys and scrunchie. I also put on two yellow wristbands for the cuteness factor. I wasn’t hoping to bump into Prince Charming. With my luck, I was more likely to bump into Ted Bundy. But Dad had loved this outfit. He’d said it screamed Cal, and it was an homage to him.

Mom was still asleep when I tiptoed my way out of the house. Cool, briny breeze assaulted my nostrils. I did a few torso twists and leg stretches on my front porch as I scanned my surroundings, dread drip-drip-dripping down my belly.

You can do this. There is nothing to be afraid of.

Only there was. Which was why I hadn’t run in so many years. My worst memory was attached to running. But I couldn’t let my father down. He hadn’t known what made me stop running, but he had known that running was important to me. I needed to at least try.

There will be no evil men, no lonely woods, no bad people. Just you and the music. And your maddening urge to pee every time you run, probably.

Squaring my shoulders, I squinted beyond the mountains stretching along the coastline. I decided to take a two-mile route downtown, make a U-turn at the harbor, then jog back home. It was a familiar route—one I’d run with my dad often before my injury—and I knew there would be at least a handful of pedestrians around. After watching a ten-minute TED Talk about motivation on YouTube, I began power walking down the street. At first, I strode fast. This was no issue. I was used to walking—I was a New Yorker now, after all—then gradually, I picked up speed.

See? It’s just like riding a bike. Minus the crotch pain and freezing fingers.

Soon, the soles of my shoes pounded the pavement. The first few minutes felt fine. Good, even. Physically, I broke the barrier. I was running again. Fast too. Then I realized…I was running. Just like that time when my life had turned upside down. A shock wave of anxiety zipped up my spine, and my whole body turned to ice.

Do it for Dad. Don’t quit now.

Fear clogged my throat, cutting my oxygen supply. My heart pulsated violently in my chest, and my hands felt like two pillars of salt, heavy and foreign to the rest of my body. A persistent, dull pain throbbed in my right shin, reminding me of that day all those years ago. I was reliving that moment all over again. The memory crisp, vivid, and in full color.

The woods.

The blood.

The laughter.

“Leave the weirdo to die. It’s not like anyone’s gonna miss her.”

Air. I needed air. I sucked in a breath, but my windpipe was crammed with lint. My vision swam. My eyesight became milky, fogged with terror; my mind screamed at my feet to stop moving, but they continued running of their own accord, going harder, faster; I looked around frantically. I wasn’t on Main Street anymore. At some point, I had veered off course. There wasn’t a soul on this residential, tree-lined street. No one to help me.

Calm down. Everything is okay. You just need to figure out how to stop moving.

But my brakeless feet wouldn’t slow. My body was a broken vehicle, and all I could do was swerve it off the pathway to try to soften the blow.

“She dead yet?”

“Smells dead to me.”

“I think it’s the cabbage. Dirty Russian whore and her stinky food.”

“Quick, let’s go before her nerdiac friend finds out and gets us in trouble.”

Tears needled my eyes, and I choked on the little air that still swirled in my lungs. Why had Dad asked me to do this? How careless could he have been? How cruel? This was a mistake. I’d have to—

Thwack.

Dirt filled my mouth, cold and crunchy. My face was pancaked over loose construction sand. I spat grit, slowly digesting that I had fallen down. Tripped over a stone and dived right onto my face. My right leg was scorching with pain.

I needed to move, stand up, call for help, but found that I was too paralyzed to do anything at all. The floodgate of memories had been broken, and the trauma I kept at bay was rushing like a river, drowning every positive thought in my head.

“Look at her leg.”

“Ugh, gross.”

“She’s never gonna run again.”

“Dot?”

The last voice belonged to the present. It also belonged to someone who absolutely despised me. What was Row doing awake, anyway? Did he ever sleep? Was he a vampire? I mean, he was painfully beautiful and permanently sulky. Though he did cook with garlic and wasn’t destroyed by fire.

“Are you hurt?” His low, husky baritone rumbled over my head. My face was still stuck in the mud, which was currently my preferred location. Now was not a good time to face your former crush turned boss from hell. I shook my head without lifting it up, feeling so thoroughly mortified, I prayed for a deadly heart attack to spare me the conversation.

“Can you move?” he gruffed.

“Are you asking because I’m blocking your path or because you’re worried about me?” I moaned.

“Can’t afford to be one server short.”

“And they say romance is dead.” My lips moved around the claylike mud.

“Plus, you’re on my property and I can smell an insurance claim from miles away.”

Normally, I was the first to appreciate a good sarcastic quip. But I was currently spiraling worse than a Slinky over my pathetic attempt to run two miles, so all I managed was whimpering into the mud. I felt like an injured animal, cornered by a big, bad wolf.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” His voice hovered above my head. He sounded like he was standing on a treetop. How tall was this man? “Just wanna make sure nothing is broken.”

I am broken, Row. Permanently so. Even if my body is all healed.

“Gently,” I croaked, feeling so pathetic I wanted to cry.

“Of course.”

Row placed his palm between my shoulder blades. It was warm, heavy, and reassuring. A hint of a tremble danced through his fingertips. It wasn’t too cold out, so it gave me pause. Maybe he was an alcoholic. That could also explain his mood swings.

“You gonna stay there for long?” he inquired.

“Maybe enough for a quick power nap,” I mumbled into the dirt. “I thought you were going to check my leg isn’t broken?”

“It’s not your leg I’m worried about.”

I hated that he always did that. Seemed to know so much more about me than anyone else. It was ridiculous, but sometimes I felt like he knew me better than Mom. He always knew when I lied and when I needed something I was too chicken to ask for. Like right now? I really needed that big, warm, reassuring palm on me.

“How did it happen?” he asked quietly, his hand still on my back. I wanted him to keep it there forever. I also wanted him to go away and never come back.

“I was jogging. My legs kept running when I told them to stop. And then I kind of lost my vision for a moment and my breathing got all weird. I think maybe I’m broken.” My voice cracked a little, and I felt like the tiniest, stupidest creature on planet Earth. “Best if you leave me to die here.”

“Your broken is still the most whole thing I’ve seen.”

Maybe I was hallucinating, but I could swear I heard McMonster. But of course I hadn’t. McMonster was down in New York, and I’d never even heard his voice. Known his name. This was Row. Infuriating, sexy, my best friend’s brother, Row.

“What?” I raised my face from the dirt, peeking at him.

“Didn’t say anything.” Row clasped my shoulders very gently, lifting me up to collapse over his broad chest. He was on his knees in the dirt, right there with me. And I wanted to throw a tantrum like a toddler because now I couldn’t even hate him all the way. Underneath his relentlessly cold exterior was a compassionate creature who built the women in his life their dream house and literally pulled people from the mud.

God, please don’t let me crush on him again. My heart couldn’t survive season six of This Is Us, what makes you think I can withstand him?

I wanted love. I wanted sex. I wanted all the things other people had and I didn’t. But I wanted them with someone I could trust. And that someone was McMonster. Not Row.

“Just leave,” I moaned into his neck. He smelled like himself again, not the cologne I’d smelled yesterday when he’d come to pick me up. Of winter and leather, warm spices and Ambrose Casablancas. My skin hummed with pleasure.

“Dot, I’d never leave you like this.” There was a two-second pause. “You’re a construction hazard. Someone could trip all over you.”

That made me snort out a laugh, which resulted in snot shooting out of my nostrils. In the absence of a tissue, I balled my shirt over my fist and quickly wiped my nose with my sleeve. “You didn’t see that,” I mumbled.

“See what?” He tugged me up to my feet, tucked me under his arm, then ushered me in the direction of the construction site I’d decided to fall in. I guessed it was Dylan’s gift house. The place looked almost ready to move into.

“My wiping my nos—ohhh, I see what you did there.” I sniffled, burying my face into his pecs to avoid eye contact. “Sorry about the, erm, nervous breakdown.”

“That’s all right. No one wears nervous breakdowns better than you.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze.

Being in his arms felt good. No, not just good, divine. I could see myself getting addicted after that first hit. I felt like nothing could hurt me as long as he had his arm wrapped around me. Which was dumb because Row was the very thing that could rip me into shreds.

He shoved one fist into his front pocket. “So what do you think?” He jerked his chin to the property in front of us. “Tell me while I take you inside and break in that first aid kit.”

I blinked the dirt out of my eyes. “Oh. Wow.”

This pretty much summed up my feelings toward the mansion. It was huge. One of those modern, avant-garde architecture thingies that looked like an origami piece. A low, wide, white block of concrete. A wraparound pool engulfed the property, and bare cement steps led to the heavy front doors, which we ascended together. It looked futuristic and clinical. One of those homes you saw in reality TV shows and wondered how people actually lived in them.

“C’mon, Dot. You used more words than that to describe a tissue yesterday.” He pushed the doors open.

“Hey, that was a supersoft tissue. My nose was very grateful. Was it the Costco brand?”

“Answer the question,” he chided softly, and I knew what he was doing—taking my mind off my obvious panic attack. Keeping me engaged.

“Am I interrupting anything?” I looked around. My echo bounced across the walls and ceiling.

“No, I made a pit stop here before heading to the restaurant for an inventory count.”

“You visit the restaurant before you pick me up?”

“Yeah. I get there at around ten, help with prep and inventory, staff meeting, marketing, then go back home for a quick shower before picking you up.” Then he stayed until we closed shop, at around midnight.

“Do you have a life?” I blurted out.

“A what?” He feigned confusion, walking over to a beige luxury kitchen and popping open an exotic quartzite drawer. He produced a first aid kit. “You hate the house, don’t you?”

“Hate is such a strong word. I only hate political grifters and frosted tips as a hair trend. Even David Beckham couldn’t pull it off.”

“Are you going to tell me what you think about this house anytime in the next century?” He grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me over one of the two kitchen islands facing each other. Like a lightning strike, every hair on my body stood on end. To make matters worse, he didn’t let go of my waist while he pulled a wad of antiseptic wipes from a container. I wondered if he felt it too. Like he was brought to life by a simple touch.

Calm down, girlie. He doesn’t like you. Just wants to make sure you don’t die on his property.

“Should I check you for a concussion?” He scowled. “You haven’t said anything in over a minute. I’m starting to get worried here.”

“The house is…modern.” I cleared my throat.

“And you don’t like modern?” He propped my right leg up, straightening and holding it by the back of my ankle. Pulling my legging up, he exposed a nasty-looking scrape. It looked worse than it felt, oozing blood and dirt. “Gonna sting a bit. Pinch me if it gets to be too much.” He slung one of my hands over his rock-hard shoulder.

Swoon.

“Modern is great.” I swung my gaze upward, toward the ceiling, refusing to be turned on by this innocent, tender moment.

“Liar. You think it has all the charm of a Walmart warehouse.”

“It’s not what I’d choose for myself,” I admitted.

He wiped my scraped shin with the antiseptic wipe, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulder with a wince. It burned worse than acetone on a paper cut. “Right. You’d go for something Victorian. Lots of arches, iron railings, churchlike steeply-pitched rooftop.”

That was freakishly accurate. “Are you able to read people’s minds? Like that Mel Gibson romcom? Is that, like, a medical condition?”

“Absolutely not.” He patted my shin clean of blood and dirt with the tenderness of a loving parent, and I dug my nails deeper into those jacked-up deltoids, this time not because it hurt but because I hadn’t touched a man in years and was extremely deprived. “I make it a point not to read anything. Reading might lead to opening my horizons. I like ’em narrow and flat.”

“You’re not as bad as people think you are,” I admitted begrudgingly. “More than anything, I think you’re misunderstood.”

“You sound like every woman who’s ever tried to fix me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to do that. I don’t have superpowers.” I decided to change the subject. “So where do you live?”

“The Half Mile Inn, up on Main Street.” He dumped the used antiseptic wipes into a nearby trash can and ripped open a gauze wrapper with his teeth, pressing it against my wound.

“You live in an inn?” My eyes bulged out.

“Yup.” He draped a bandage around the gauze, securing it to my shin, still laser-focused on his task. “Have since I moved back here.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Don’t wanna get comfortable somewhere I don’t plan on staying. I purchased an apartment in Chelsea, though. I plan to stick around in London for at least eight years.”

My heart deflated like a balloon, floating aimlessly before crashing in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t tell if it was because it meant the next goodbye would be morbidly final, or because I was jealous he was in a position to buy a whole-ass apartment when I couldn’t even afford to rent a bike in New York. Either way, the pang of sadness unsettled me.

“That’s…awesome!” I hopped off the marbled counter, all bandaged and good as new. “Uhm, thanks for wrapping me up. And for the distraction.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned against the opposite island, arms idly crossed across his chest, making his biceps bulge.

More staring. Zero words. I didn’t move, and neither did he. In fact, we were both frozen in place, waiting for something, anything, to happen. It was just that…it was the first time since he’d taken my virginity that we weren’t enemies, and I liked it. I missed it.

Too bad he has better things to do with his time than engage in a stare-off with you.

“I should leave,” I blurted out again at the same time he said, “Wanna see the rest of the house?”

“Yes!” I shrieked. I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.

He shook his head and chuckled, the international you’re-cute-but-ridiculous male gesture, and it felt like my face had been licked by a group of squishy puppies. “Start with the living rooms.” He cleared his throat, tilting his head sideways.

I followed his back, inwardly patting myself on the shoulder for my cunningness. Now I could ogle his butt and triceps to my heart’s content, make impressed sounds, and he’d think it was the house I was admiring.

Row weaved through the two living rooms, giant pantry, dining room, kitchen, two downstairs bathrooms, and the adjoined cabana that spilled onto the backyard portion of the pool. There was a lot of house. I sincerely hoped Tucker’s sense of direction was better than his grades in high school, otherwise the man was bound to get lost here frequently.

“Why’d you decide to take up running again?” Row asked when we were going up the stairs to the second floor (his butt was twelve out of ten, by the way).

“My dad bullied me into it. Made it his last wish. Can you believe it?” I grumbled. “Guilt-tripping me beyond the grave. That’s some next-level helicopter parent shit.”

Row made a hmm sound. He didn’t know what had happened to me that day. Even Dylan wasn’t privy to the entire story. “What’s so terrible about running?”

“I kind of have PTSD.”

We ambled along the colossal hallway of the second floor, where he showed me the nursery, the guest room, and the laundry room. “From doing something healthy?” he taunted.

“From running.”

“Why?”

“It reminds me of a very nasty injury…and a situation I never want to be in again.”

“You won’t be,” he said decisively, stopping by the double doors of the master bedroom. “Know what you are?”

“What am I?” I had a feeling whatever he was going to say was going to change my life, so I had to listen carefully.

“Beef Wellington.”

Okay, maybe not.

“I’m not following.” I batted my eyelashes. What business did I have batting my lashes, anyway? Why was I flirting with this man, whom I found out yesterday wanted to destroy my childhood town? The place where my beloved mom still lived. Literally erase its identity and replace it with plastic, mass-market, easily digestible junk.

“All soft puff pastry on the outside, but once you take a bite, you realize the inside is almost always too raw.”

“I’m not ra—”

“You do the happy-go-lucky schtick, and that’s why you’re stuck. Because you don’t dare. Your father’s right. Running again should be a priority for you. Otherwise, you’re gonna be stuck in the same place forever.”

“Thanks for the quick psychoanalysis.” I picked up my pace, which he matched easily. I was irrationally annoyed now. “But you know nothing about my life.”

“I know enough. Yesterday you said you want to start a podcast. What’s stopping you?” His expression was calm, his tone deadly.

“Hmm, life? I work a full-time job at a restaurant!” I tossed my hands in the air.

“Five days a week.” He knotted his arms over his chest. “Two spare days to do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Actually, I pulled some doubles in the last few months.” To help pay Dad’s hospital bills, but he didn’t have to know that. “Anyway, I need money to rent recording equip—”

“The top-notch stuff, yeah. But some people start their podcasts recording themselves on their phones,” he said, cutting me off. “What’s your next excuse?”

I clamped my mouth shut, then opened it again. “I need to think very carefully about my first episode. If it’s not good enough—”

“Then you make another badass episode. Record it from scratch. Send all the demos to your friends and get better after they give you feedback. I burned my first three omelets. The second one, I almost set fire to my entire house. Didn’t make me quit.”

“Your medal’s on the way.”

He suppressed a smile, folding his arms and making me turn cherry red. “Next?”

“Stop, just stop.” I poked his chest, partly because he was pissing me off but mostly because I wanted to see if it was as hard as it looked. Suspicion confirmed. “Nobody asked you for a pep talk.”

“Well, I’m giving you one on the house.” He stepped out of my way so I’d stop jabbing his chest. “You need to start running or you’re never gonna get anywhere worth visiting.”

“You saw my panic attack out there.” I pointed at the door. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can. It will be hard, uncomfortable, but worth it.” He leaned forward, popping the doors to the master bedroom open. “And if running alone scares you so much, ask your mom to run with you.”

That made me snort out loud. “Mamushka’s only cardio involves unscrewing the ice cream tub’s lid every evening after dinner. And Dylan is pregnant with an entire daycare.” My shoulders slumped with a sigh. “Maybe I’ll take Kieran.”

He paused, his back to me, before pushing the doors open. “Good idea, if you need some deadweight. Fox Sports said his leg is busted.”

Yesterday, Kieran had mentioned that he and Row weren’t each other’s greatest fans. He hadn’t gotten into what had caused the rift but alluded to it being his fault. That he had been a dumb, power-drunk teenager and that he regretted the way he’d treated Row. This made me feel guilty about mentioning Kieran at all. Especially because Row’s instincts last night had been right—I hadn’t wanted to stay alone with Kieran. He had sort of ambushed me, and I’d felt like a caged animal throughout the entire duration of his visit.

Row continued, “And this is the maste—”

A blood-chilling shriek left my mouth, drowning out his last word.

“Shit.” Row backed out of the room, plastering his palm over my eyes to shield me from the image in front of us. Too late. It was already permanently seared into my brain.

“Is it dead?” I slapped his hand away, peering behind his massive shoulder. Violent nausea slammed into the back of my throat.

There was a coyote lying right in the middle of the empty room. It looked like roadkill, its eyes open, dead, and empty. Its guts spilled onto the floor. My eyes watered at the smell, and I palmed my mouth to keep myself from heaving.

“Unless the tire marks on its body are a fashion statement, I’m pretty sure it’s dead.” Row tugged me by the arm out of the room, turning me in the other direction and forcing me to march out into the hallway.

“This is sick.”

“Agreed.” But Row seemed more pissed off than surprised. Which begged the question—had he been the target of something similar before?

“Who could’ve done this?” I glanced over my shoulder at his face. Row advanced toward the hallway window in a daze, his scowl deepening, trying to see if someone was lurking nearby.

“Any one of the nine hundred and twenty-eight people living in this town. Every single one of them is a suspect, seeing as they all hate my guts.”

“This happened before?”

“I’ve had people pranking me, but this is some next-level shit. Vandalizing my property is a step too far.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m going to break some skulls.”

Well, this was terrible news to me.

Because just as he said that, I keeled over, emptying my stomach onto his brand-new lush carpet.