The Last Autograph (A Reluctant Kiss #3)
Chapter 1
1
Fuck Valentine’s Day.
Jake Sinclair couldn’t quite pinpoint why the day pissed him off so much, but piss him off, it did. All that buildup, the pressure, the overpriced red roses and crass greeting cards for sale on every other street corner. Come to think of it, perhaps his pinpointing skills were better than he’d given himself credit for.
Now, on that threatening-to-rain February morning, one of the patisserie’s busiest of the year, Jake woke late, showered in haste, and barely had time to guzzle a cup of coffee before running out the door and kicking his Vespa into life.
As Jake sped down the hill toward the CBD, a mild panic surfaced when he contemplated the number of mille-feuille, éclairs, and macarons they had to finish, not to mention the two hundred heart-topped cupcakes some guy from a local department store had ordered just the day before.
Jake checked his watch. Five to six . His pastry chefs started baking over two hours ago, and he hadn’t even managed to shave. It wasn’t until he turned onto Seaview Road that he realized he wasn’t wearing a helmet. Although he seldom wore one in Europe, Clifton Falls was no Paris, and here, it was the law. One the police strictly enforced.
Jake had returned to his hometown several months ago, but settling back into the local culture was proving harder than he’d expected. Now here he was, waiting at a red light—his helmet still on the hall table at home—while in his rearview mirror, a cop car slowed to a stop one car behind him.
Gripping the brake while waiting for the light to turn green, Jake looked up as a group of women stepped onto the crossing from the opposite side of the road. At first, his interest was half-hearted at best—although, if asked to rate the one closest to him on that absurd scale that some of his mates used, she’d be a solid nine. Tall, fit-looking, and with a figure that filled out her activewear with generous curves, she’d be a welcome addition to his dating roster—if and when he ever got around to making one.
Jake glanced up at the lights and then back to Number Nine. She seemed vaguely familiar, but as she moved closer, he frowned as he tried to slot her into a space in his mind.
Déjà vu wasn’t something he often experienced, but as he watched her happily interacting with her friends, he struggled with the uncertainty of where, what, and when.
So close now that he could almost reach out and touch her; she looked over at him and caught his stare. She froze momentarily, her eyes widening beneath the peak of her baby-blue cap. Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled, but her startled expression told him a smile was inappropriate. He had no idea why. After all, Kiwis were generally considered a friendly bunch.
Not today.
Just as quickly, the woman averted her gaze and followed her friends across the road. It wasn’t until they reached the curb that she glanced back—the exact same moment the guy in the car behind him sat on his horn. If it weren’t for the cop car, Jake would have flipped him the bird. Impatient jerk. He knew the light had turned green, but as the walkers skipped down the steps into the sunken garden and out of sight, he needed a second to gather his thoughts.
As Horn Guy changed lanes and overtook him, the police car sounded one blip of their siren. Jake pulled into a parking space and balanced his Vespa to a stop, muttering a curse under his breath. Today of all days.
A few minutes later, with an annoying fifty-five dollar fine in his pocket, Jake continued his journey—on foot. And as he pushed his Vespa along Seaview Road and into the alleyway beside the patisserie, the South Pacific Ocean pounding the nearby shore with urgency, he couldn’t get the image of Number Nine out of his head.
When he opened the back door and noticed a large bunch of red roses propped up in the sink of the back counter, he stilled. “What’s with the roses?”
One of Jake’s staff, a budding pastry chef named Ari, looked up from his task and grinned. “The couriers started early today. They dropped them off a few minutes ago.”
“So, they’re yours?”
“Um, no, Chef. Your name’s on the envelope.”
“What the…?”
Jake searched amongst the blooms and pulled out a small envelope. Inside, written on a single sheet of white card, were the words “ I’m so sorry. A xx.”