Chapter 3 Rose
ROSE
My car slid through a puddle of mud, bumper grinding onto the sidewalk. I threw it in reverse, wincing as it scraped off the concrete.
Two cane-toting, Wrangler-wearing cowboys watched from the awning, rain dripping off their hats. One—handlebar mustache and all—muttered, “Damn women drivers.” The other spit tobacco into the ditch.
Exhaling, I glanced at the clock.
3:37 p.m.
Late. Again.
I’d dropped Theo at the office after a lunch meeting that ended without a decision.
Then raced home to ditch my manure-stained clothes.
After a closet meltdown involving three outfit changes, I settled on my black wool pencil skirt, matching blazer, teal paisley blouse, and black pumps. My “I’m totally confident” suit.
Because today I needed it.
I grabbed my purse, briefcase, and skim-milk latte, muttered a Hail Mary, and stepped out, into the rain.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I chanted, doing a careful tiptoe across the puddled sidewalk. Hot coffee spurted from the lid like a volcano.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I escalated.
“Good day, dear. You really ought to wear a raincoat,” croaked a gravelly voice behind me.
Chester Jenkins. Cartoon bullfrog voice, flat cap, and a moth-eaten tweed jacket two sizes too small. The former proctologist turned baker was a Berry Springs legend—chain-smoking, whiskey-sipping, and four divorces deep. He knew everyone, their neighbors, and their dogs by name.
I glanced back. He stood with grocery bags in both hands, more in his trunk.
“Need some help, Mr. Jenkins?”
“I’ll manage,” he said, stepping onto the slick sidewalk and wobbling like a seesaw.
I rushed forward, purse and briefcase slipping, just as my heel caught the edge of the curb. My coffee launched skyward. I hit the sidewalk. Cold, wet, muddy.
Second fall of the day.
By the time I stopped flailing, my skirt had migrated to my waist. I yanked it down and looked over. Chester, on the other hand, was still upright.
I followed his gaze to Louis—my brand-new bag—lying in a puddle beside the truck. A fresh wad of tobacco stuck to the side.
“Dammit,” I whispered, gripping his hand as he helped me up.
Behind the bakery window, the cowboys laughed.
I gathered my things, plus a grocery bag, and tried to salvage my dignity. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes. Damn heart meds got me a little wobbly. But listen—your three-thirty? Been waiting at your clinic for forty-five minutes. Was there before I even went to the store.”
“Forty-five minutes?”
He nodded.
I glanced at the office, dark against the gloomy afternoon. If luck was on my side, my new patient had witnessed that entire mess.
Kline and Associates sat at the bottom of a steep hill off Main Street, nestled among quaint tourist shops. On either side, a bakery and a cigar lounge. Nothing like flanking a mental health clinic with addictive vices.
I followed Jenkins (with his grocery sacks) into Mulberry Maverick, our town’s unofficial gossip headquarters. The air smelled like croissants and secrets.
Every morning, the man had a ham and cheese croissant and donut holes waiting for me. He’d turned the place into a clubhouse for retired cowboys and military vets, with Willie and Waylon crooning from the jukebox and political debates echoing from the booths.
In the afternoon, the smell of fresh bread tangled with cigar smoke from next door, luring my emotionally fragile patients with the promise of comfort and caffeine. Confidentiality didn’t stand a chance.
Berry Springs had a rhythm all its own. Nestled in the Ozarks, it was the kind of place where you called people sir and ma’am, where jeans were church clothes and Sundays ended with sweet tea on a porch swing.
Spring brought tourists—campers, hikers, hunters, and wine-tasters—preferably not together.
It was charming. For some. Me? It made me itch.
I didn’t fit here. I hadn’t married my high school sweetheart or popped out two towheaded boys by twenty. While the local women wore bleached curls and spray tans, I sported pale skin, black hair, and designer clothes that screamed city-slicker.
And I was fine with that.
I’d earned every pair of heels and every high-end bag—gripped onto them like lifelines. When you grow up with nothing, you tend to cling to the things that make you feel like something.
Even if they end up with tobacco stuck to the side.
I ignored the cowboy smirks and followed Jenkins behind the counter, groceries in hand, mud on my heels.
“You look particularly nice today, Miss Floris, aside from the mud of course.” He handed me a pack of napkins. “Got a hot date after work?”
“Not sure what you mean by particularly…” I winked and wiped myself down, the paper-thin napkins only smearing the mud. “But the only date I’ve got after work is with that batch of cinnamon rolls you’ve got cooling on the rack back there.”
He winked back. “Swing by after five and I’ll send you home with some.”
“Count on it.”
Just then, the door opened.
“Morning, Mable, sit where you’d like.” Jenkins said before focusing back on me. “How old are you now? Thirty? Careful, honey, that you don’t slide right into spinster territory.”
“One, this isn’t the nineteen-fifties, and two, I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much.”
He lifted his palms. “Oh, sorry to offend the modern-day feminist.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You need to settle down with a good man, Rose. All I’m sayin’.”
I busied myself by pulling the milk from the grocery sack, mentally counting the number of times he’d said that exact sentence to me.
“You need someone besides me watching over you.” He paused. “Speaking of watching, have you seen that creep around, anymore? The one that would sit outside your office and wait for you?”
I stilled, a chill snaking my spine. “No. That’s been taken care of. And I’ve told you, you don’t need to worry about me, Mr. Jenkins.”
“I do, and I will. It’s how I was raised. I chased him out of the parking lot a few times. I’ll always keep my eye out for you, you know.”
“Well, it’s not needed, but thank you.”
Jenkins fisted a hand on his hip. “You know, you never did tell me what happened with that last guy you dated.”
“You got anything else that needs to go into the fridge?”
He handed me the butter. “Fine, I understand. Keep your secrets. Want my opinion?”
“Why do I feel like you’re going to give it anyway?” I hollered as I set the milk and butter in the fridge.
“You were too good for him.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “I gotta go. I’m late.”
“Yes, you are. Grab yourself a new cup of coffee. You’re going to need it for your new patient, darlin’.”
“What do you mean?” Hook, line, sinker.
He scowled as he lined bags of flour on the counter. “Gluten free. Never in a million years did I think I’d be buyin’ flour without gluten.” He shook his head. “These damn kids and their kooky health crazes these days. Back in my day, we were lucky if even—”
“Back to my new patient… what do you mean I’ll need coffee?”
A second passed as he appeared to be gathering his thoughts, or choosing his words carefully. I wasn’t sure which. It was the first time the man didn’t vomit gossip and I couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Ever seen that movie Raging Bull?” He finally said.
“No.”
“You’re about to.”
I frowned, blinked. Uh, come again? My attention was pulled to the whispering cowboys by the window.
“Raging Bull? Try One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
“Kid had it comin’ if you ask me. The Mighty King always falls.”
Then, the woman piped up. “That playboy finally found the only thing his billion dollar bank account couldn’t get him out of.”
“You’ve heard of Steele Shadows Security?” Jenkins said, pulling my attention back to him.
I nodded. No one passed through Berry Springs without hearing of the family-owned company that had turned into one of the most prestigious private security firms in the country.
“Your new patient’s one of them. Used to be, anyway.”
Used to be? Huh.
An oven dinged from the back reminding me of how late I already was. As much as I wanted to understand what it was about my new patient had gotten the bakeshop so riled up, I wouldn’t allow myself to be that late for the appointment. Raging Bull or not.
I pecked Mr. Jenkins on the cheek. “I’ll swing back by for those rolls.”
“Sounds good, dear.”
Jumping from under awning to awning, I darted down the sidewalk then pushed open the mirrored door that read Kline and Associates.
“Whoa. Girl… what the… Hang on…” Zoey, our eccentric, hipster office manager jumped out of her seat, her overly lined eyes scanning me from head to toe.
“Oh my God.” She jogged around the desk. “What happened?” She snatched Louis from my arms, her attention shifting to the designer bag.
“He fell.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Ignoring me completely, she spun back to the desk and began yanking tissues from the box, sending a few flying as she wiped down the handbag.
Classic Zoey—dramatic to the core. With fire-red hair and more piercings than I could count, she blew every paycheck on vintage designer pieces—a personal jab at her ex-husband, the senator’s son who’d tried to tame her.
She divorced him and took half his bank account instead.
Zoey had been with Theo from the beginning and, despite her eagle eye for detail, had a reputation for missing the small stuff.
Her age was anyone’s guess. Some days, with glittery eyeshadow and bubblegum lipstick, she looked barely old enough to buy wine.
Other days, she dragged herself in like a stray cat, easily pushing forty—and that’s being generous.
I grabbed a few of the tissues, popped off my heel and dabbed the saturated insole. There wasn’t much worse than wet high heels.
Once satisfied with the bag, Zoey set it on the counter and turned back to me. Her face scrunched in disgust, her nose ring twinkling in the dim lobby lights.
“Girl… you look…”
“I know. It’s been a day. Don’t.” I blew out an exasperated breath, then shook out of my suit jacket, wet, dirty, and smelling of old coffee.
I smoothed my blouse as Zoey squatted and wiped down my skirt like a prelude to a cheesy office porno.
I glanced out the window, as if the cowboys hadn’t gotten enough of a show with my legs split on the sidewalk.
“How did the horse therapy meeting with Theo go?” She asked as she stood.
I sighed. “I don’t know.”
“He didn’t give you a thumbs up?”
“More like the middle finger.”
“Dammit. Well, go flash these mile-long legs to him and try again. If I know anything about you, you’ll find a way to make it work.”
She was right, and those were the exact words I needed to hear at that moment.
“Okay…” Zoey stepped back and surveyed my outfit. “Got most of the mud off. Good day to wear black.”
“Where’s Cameron?”
“Had an appointment…” she lowered her voice and leaned in. “And by appointment, I mean a lunch date that he still hasn’t made it back from.”
“Does Theo know?”
She shrugged. “He left a bit ago.”
“Where to?”
“Not sure.”
My boss had left his door cracked enough to seem accessible to anyone walking in, but closed enough to let us know to stay out.
It was no secret that the boss didn’t care for our new energetic, charismatic therapist, fresh out of college who looked like he’d stepped out of GQ magazine.
Cameron Evans was a trust fund baby with a revolving door of women who rivaled any Sephora store.
“Do we know her name?”
“Do we ever?”
“Good point.” I glanced at the clock. “Crap, I’ve gotta—”
“Yeah, your new client’s been here for forty-five minutes. Got here early.”
I looked around the lobby. “Where is he?”
“I let him in your office. He wasn’t exactly… patient.”
Raging Bull…
I grabbed my purse from the counter and as I started to turn, Zoey grabbed my arm.
“What?”
She plucked a tube of lip gloss from her pocket—because who doesn’t carry a tube of lip gloss in their pocket?—and slathered some on my lips.
I wrinkled my nose, smacking the slimy paste. “Ugh, this tastes like sugar and mint.”
“Yeah. It freshens while it plumps.”
“Do I really look that bad?”
She yanked down the neckline of my blouse and pushed up my breasts, and for the second time, my gaze flickered to the window.
“No. You look fine…” Her grin curled to her ears. “You’re just gonna want to look better.” With a wink, Zoey stepped back and nodded to my closed office door. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Frowning, I turned toward my office, nerves tickling in my stomach. I didn’t know what the heck I was about to walk into, but between Mr. Jenkins’ warning and Zoey’s fondling, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Little did I know, that single meeting was about to change the course of my life.