***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Lorna Barrett ONE Tricia Miles gripped the steering wheel so tightly, her fingers were white. A death grip like that wasn''t healthy, not if one intended to use one''s fingers for other purposes--like turning the page of a book or holding a cup filled with coffee. Or perhaps strangling someone. Okay, strangulation was perhaps too harsh a punishment for someone who supposedly had your best interests at heart, but of late, Dr. Kendra Vought had inspired thoughts of little else. Her specialty was grief counseling, but she didn''t seem particularly good at her profession. Though she said things like "Time is your greatest friend," her body language, bored expression, and an eye on the clock conveyed another message: "Move on, already." Moving on was proving to be a lot more difficult than Tricia had anticipated.
Not that she hadn''t already experienced a prolonged period of grief when her beloved grandmother had died--and at far too young an age. But she had been older than Tricia''s ex-husband, Christopher Benson, who hadn''t died of disease but had been murdered. Maybe that was why after almost two years, Tricia still thought about him daily. And it wasn''t like he had been an everyday part of her life. After their divorce, it got so that she thought of him only now and then--until he''d reappeared practically on her doorstep with requests to "get back together," all of which she had ignored. But it wasn''t Christopher who was on her mind just then. After that morning''s session, Tricia and Dr. Vought were officially through.
Her last piece of advice had been ludicrous, to say the least. "Go read a sexy romance novel, and then visit your friend with benefits." Friend with benefits? That wasn''t how Tricia thought of her relationship with Marshall Cambridge. Okay, they were friends, and they did sometimes have the occasional sleepover, but that didn''t mean . Good grief, Tricia realized. She and Marshall were friends with benefits! And oddly enough, that was all Tricia really wanted from the relationship. At least . for now.
But read a sexy romance? Forget it. Tricia braked as she approached the Stoneham municipal parking lot, which was pretty full on that sunny morning in late June--a morning that was quickly slipping toward noon. After locking the Lexus, Tricia headed for the sidewalk along Main Street, but first she had to pass the Have a Heart romance bookstore, run by her fellow shopkeeper Joyce Widman. Tricia paused in front of the big display window. Romance. It had been a long time since romance had been part of her life. For her, romance had died when Christopher had asked for a divorce. Not counseling, not a trial separation, but divorce.
Then he''d gone to the Colorado Rockies to contemplate his navel for several years until he realized what and whom he had discarded. Tricia took in the book covers of the paperbacks that populated the display. Bare-chested Scottish heroes with six-pack abs dressed in bold tartan kilts appeared to ravish long-tressed heroines in flowing gowns that flaunted their heaving bosoms. Bold romances reflecting a bolder time. But she wasn''t into historicals and knew the store stocked more than just that subgenre. Romantic suspense . now, that she would enjoy. A kick-ass story with an adventurous heroine who could not only take care of herself but save the day and have a successful romantic relationship as well.
Not with a man who''d abandon her. Not with someone who would turn on and stalk her. Not with a man who feared commitment. And not with somebody like Marshall Cambridge? That was a tougher question. Their relationship was satisfying in so many ways--but mostly because Marshall let her do her own thing because he was busy doing his own thing. For both of them, it meant running their businesses and their lives without asking permission and without making excuses. But if she was honest, Tricia did miss the romance. The weekend trips to quaint locales.
Dinners in exclusive restaurants. Snow skiing in the winter, water-skiing in the summer. Giving and receiving little gestures of affection that made her heart sing. Tricia sighed. Maybe Dr. Vought was right. Maybe what she needed was to lose herself in the pages of a romance novel. At least temporarily.
Because she knew what the real problem was. Tricia Miles was bored. Ever since she had given her assistant, Pixie Poe, the job of assistant manager of her vintage mystery bookshop, Haven''t Got a Clue, she''d felt rather lost. And oddly enough, Dr. Vought just couldn''t seem to accept that. Well, it wasn''t her problem. Heaving another sigh, Tricia entered the bookshop. Joyce had done a nice job decorating her shop with pastel-colored walls, comfortable upholstered chairs in reading nooks, romantic prints decorating the walls, and lots and lots of shelves filled with paperback novels, stock that had been carefully sorted according to genre.
"Tricia, fancy seeing you here." The voice had come from behind the cash desk. "Hi, Joyce. I came by to find a little reading material." Joyce did a classic double take. "Really?" Did she have to sound so skeptical? "Yes. Something a little--" "Racy?" Joyce suggested and giggled. "Not exactly.
Something with a lot of suspense and with a heroine who can take on the world." "I should have known you''d like some intrigue." Tricia nodded. "I can recommend a number of different series and stand-alone books by a variety of wonderful authors." "I''m listening." Before Joyce could walk around the counter to help Tricia, the door burst open and a matronly woman with a mop of gray hair and an expression filled with fury bounded into the shop. "You had to call that tree surgeon when I specifically asked you not to!" the woman protested in what was definitely an outside voice. "Hello, Vera," Joyce said politely, if curtly.
"And yes, I did. We talked about it and I told you what my insurance company said. That limb was over my yard and fence and legally I had the right to trim it and its branches." Tricia started to edge away from what might well become a confrontation, but Joyce''s voice stopped her. "Vera, have you met Tricia Miles? She owns the Haven''t Got a Clue mystery bookstore down the street." "No, I haven''t--and why would I care? I don''t have time to read stupid books." Them was fightin'' words, but Tricia didn''t respond to them. She simply said, "Hello.
" Vera ignored her. "That giant limb could have come down in my yard during the next windstorm, and when it did--!" "You would have been compensated by insurance. I spoke to my insurance agent, too. But I specifically asked you to wait--" "Well, my garden couldn''t wait. It needs full sunlight if I''m to grow vegetables to can for the winter." "Don''t give me that bull. You can buy vegetables at the grocery store or the farmers'' market for a lot less money and effort." Joyce let out a sigh of disgust and looked away.
"If you touch anything else that grows in my yard, I will sue you for every penny you have. I''ll take this precious shop of yours, too, you--you smut peddler!" Vera may as well have slapped Joyce across the cheek as insult her beloved romance novels. Joyce''s mouth dropped open and her cheeks went a vivid pink, but despite that, she did not raise her voice. "I''m afraid I''ll have to ask you to leave." Vera defiantly crossed her arms across her chest. "I''m not going anywhere." It was then that the newest hire at the Stoneham Police Department stepped around one of the tall shelves. "Is there a problem here?" asked Officer Cindy Pearson.
She looked to be in her mid- to late twenties and stood five ten or so, with a blonde ponytail that stuck out the back of her ball cap with the Stoneham Police Department emblem emblazoned on the front, and her thumbs hooked on her thick leather belt, her service revolver resting on her right hip. Vera''s eyes widened in anger, and for a moment Tricia thought the woman might explode, but then she averted her gaze. "The problem is Joyce''s." "I believe Ms. Widman is correct about her right to take care of her property as she sees fit. If you have questions, feel free to contact the Stoneham Police Department to clarify your homeowner rights," Officer Pearson said. Joyce let out a breath and gave the officer a grateful smile. Vera, however, wasn''t placated.
She turned her baleful gaze on the bookseller. "You haven''t heard the last of this, Joyce." And with that parting shot, she turned and bolted from the shop. For a long moment, Joyce and the officer just looked at each other, and then the cop spoke. "My lunch break is over. I need to get going. I''ll come back another time to get some books. Feel free to let me or the department know if you have any other problems with your neighbor.
" "Will do. And thank you," Joyce said gratefully. Officer Pearson touched the brim of her hat and headed out the door. "Wow," Tricia said, "that was uncomfortable. I''m glad the officer was here to defuse the situation." "So am I," Joyce said. She gave herself a little shake. "Living next to Vera has been a trial.
She''s angry that her good friend no longer lives next door and that I bought the property." Frannie Mae Armstrong, who had been Tricia''s sister Angelica''s assistant at the Cookery for almost six years, had had to sell the house in order to pay her legal team''s fees. They had so far not been able to get her rele.