Crossed Hearts

By Bethany M. Sefchick

Six people.  One Crosswalk.

On a cold and rainy February evening, six strangers pass each other in a city crosswalk, all of them lonely and searching for love.

Author Brooks Anderson has a failed marriage and an empty life.  Is nearly homeless former museum curator Lily Frampton the one that can complete him or is she just another person passing through his life?  Is he willing to take the risk and find out.

Former photographer Fox Harrison has returned to the place where his life went horribly wrong, ready to indulge in a little self-pity.  That is until he meets Colleen Fitzgerald, an interior designer who just might be the woman to turn his life around in more ways than one.

Sara Price hates her job working for an old man in the city, especially the commute back and forth to the suburb where she lives.  Her dream is to run her own greenhouse, but it, along with a relationship with her sexy neighbor Eli Miller, seems out of reach until an unexpected gift shows her that dreams can come true.

Emma King is in a diner preparing to meet the man she's been chatting with online for over a year, but is chef Charlie LeVallier really the man for her?  And if he is, can both of them overcome their doubts about a relationship born online and moved into reality?

Darcy King has been during a crush on her neighbor Ranger Collins for months now and a burst pipe presents her with an opportunity to take a glance into his world.  But is she prepared for what she finds?  And is Ranger ready to let her in?

Declan Crane has been in love with his assistant Cassandra Shaw for years now, but now, she's hinted that she wants to leave.  She says it's just a vacation, but is it really?  Cassie has devoted her life to Declan and all she wants is some hint that the man she loves cares for her as well.  Is the threat of her leaving enough to force the two of them to take a chance on a relationship?

Luck.  Fate.  Desire.  Passion.  Temptation.  Surrender.  They're all parts of the six short stories that make up Crossed Hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bethany M. Sefchick
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781540174994

Bethany M. Sefchick

Making her home in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, Bethany Sefchick lives with her husband, Ed, and a plethora of Betta fish that she’s constantly finding new ways to entertain. In addition to writing, Bethany owns a jewelry company, Easily Distracted Designs. It should be noted that the owner of the titular Selon Park - one Lord Nicholas Rosemont, the Duke of Candlewood, a.k.a. "The Bloody Duke" - first appeared in her mind when she was eighteen years old and had no idea what to make of him, or of his slightly snarky smile.  She has been attempting to dislodge him ever since - with absolutely no success. When not penning romance novels or creating sparkly treasures, she enjoys cooking, scrapbooking, and lavishing attention on any stray cats who happen to be hanging around. She always enjoys hearing from her fans at: [e-mail]

Book preview

In the winter, we often see the crossroads of life, even if we do not recognize them as such.  The trick is to know when to simply walk on and when to pause and determine if our course in life needs correcting.

- Brooks Anderson

Part One - Luck

Chapter One

Late February

Brooks Anderson pulled his coat tighter around him as he hurried down the sidewalk towards his home, the swirling mist clinging to his overcoat, seeping in through the wool and giving him a damp feeling that made him itchy all over.  It was a rainy, dismal February day and darkness was falling.  What more could he expect?

He knew what he'd like to expect.  Lights on when he returned to his apartment.  The heat turned up to ward off the chill.  Maybe even a fire in the fireplace, giving an inviting warmth to the entire space.  Dinner would at least be started, the scent of something delicious wafting through the air.  Most importantly, there would be someone waiting for him.  And if she was wearing little more than a silky slip or merry widow with kitten heels?  So much the better.  Preferable, really.  He'd had that once or thought he had.  He'd been wrong.  So very, very wrong.

Now, as he waited with a group of people to cross the street, the pink-hued glow of the streetlights reflecting off umbrellas and briefcases, casting reflections on the damp pavement and making it sparkle like it was encrusted with diamonds, he wondered if she'd ever really loved him at all.  Probably not.  He'd only been fooling himself that she had.  Women like her only loved one thing - money.  And he'd never had enough of it.  Not for her.

Feeling a little depressed, Brooks waited impatiently for the light to change so he could continue on his way.  Even though it was only late afternoon, darkness was encroaching quickly, and he wanted to get home.  Still, he couldn't help but notice the people standing next to him at the corner, each of them on their way to their own appointments and their own busy lives.  For a moment, he wondered if any of them were as lonely as he was.  Given the odds, he decided that at least one or two of them probably was.  Trying not to be obvious, he took a moment to study each of them in turn.

Next to him, a woman wearing a tan trench coat and clutching a bright red umbrella checked her phone frantically, as if she was missing the most important meeting of her life.  Maybe she was.  However, Brooks preferred to imagine that she was late for a clandestine meeting with her lover, one that promised to be full of passion and heat.  Her single lover, because he'd had more than enough of married women fooling around on their husbands.

Beside her, a man with a cane waited patiently as if he had no place else in the world to be.  Perhaps he didn't, though that thought saddened Brooks quite a bit.  Everyone should have some place to go, someone who needed them and who loved them.  Even this man with his limp and his resigned air, a man who looked as if he was waiting for some terrible, tragic fate.

Brooks knew the man was still lucky to be standing because not moments earlier, a woman with a panicked look on her face had dashed through the intersection nearly knocking him over in the process, clearly not watching where she was going.  However, tears were pricking her eyes, her face awash in misery, and she didn't seem to be a self-absorbed sort of person.  Merely distracted.  Still, if Brooks hadn't reached out to steady the man, he probably would have fallen to the ground, and from the looks of things, that might have done him in completely.  

Another man, tall and thin, stood apart from the rest.  He had jet-black hair and even on a rainy day like this one, wore dark sunglasses, shielding his eyes from everyone.  A hematite cross hung from around the man's neck, and he reached up to stroke it absently, probably not even aware he was doing it.  Diamond stud earrings reflected in his ears, and Brooks thought he could see the edge of a tattoo beneath the man's jacket collar.  He didn't look all that appealing, but Brooks could easily imagine the right kind of woman being tempted by him.  Angie probably would have been for the danger factor alone, if nothing else.

Declan Crane stood to Brooks right, waiting impatiently for the light to change as well, probably on his way to or from a business meeting.  Brooks would have recognized the man anywhere with this striking looks and air of unchallenged authority.  Not to mention his dark, glowering appearance.  Brooks found it hard to imagine a man like that surrendering to anything or anyone.  It simply wasn't in his nature.

The last person in their little group was a mousy woman with blonde, curly hair that was made even frizzier with the rain.  At first glance, she was plain and unremarkable, but upon further inspection, Brooks decided that she looked like a woman a man could desire rather easily.  She had lush lips and eyes the color of whiskey that were fringed in thick, black lashes.  No, not mousy, just not obvious with her beauty.  It was more subtle, something to be savored and appreciated.

In his mind, Brooks created elaborate stories for all of them while they waited for the walk signal, the details falling quickly into place.  The stories he envisioned for them might not be real, but it didn't matter.  Not really.  They were real in his mind and later, maybe he could turn their stories into a short story or a poem.  Maybe even a novella.  Something concrete to capture them as they had been on this day, at least in his imagination.

Huh.

Thoughts like that were what had cost him his marriage, at least partly.  Angie wasn't much of a romantic, and didn't appreciate those kinds of thoughts, even though Brooks was a wealthy and successful writer.  She had hated it when he'd disappeared into his writing, as she termed it, not paying as much attention to her as she'd like.  If there was one thing he had learned quickly, it was that Angie required lots of attention, far more than any woman he'd ever known.

She was also constantly complaining that he wasn't more.  Of everything.  More wealth, fame, power and clout.  She was always grasping, reaching for things that someone else had, simply because she felt that everything she desired should be hers just because she wished it.  She'd relentlessly harangued him about his writing, informing him with great derision that writing a top-ten bestseller twice a year wasn't enough.  That he should strive to be number one with four or five books out a year.  She didn't understand.  There were days when the words simply wouldn't come, when he couldn't figure out motivation and plot.  Two books a year wasn't bad, though it wasn't even close to what a lot of authors these days released.  Then again, most of them didn't write their own works any longer.  Brooks still did.

No, Angie had craved more, had longed for things always just out of her reach.  She was a stockbroker and did well for herself.  That should have been enough to keep her happy, but it wasn't because she spent nearly every cent that she made, and relied on Brooks to give her the rest of the cash she required for things.  And she had expensive tastes.  No trip to Macy's for Angie.  No, it was Prada gowns and Leger coats.  Hermes scarves and Birkin bags.

He'd taken her to a private island in the Caribbean two years ago for their six-month anniversary.  Rented the entire place, flown there via private jet.  Had exotic foods and rich, costly jewels waiting for her.  It hadn't been enough.  She'd demanded to know why he hadn't simply bought the island for her, like his friend Kostas would have.

He'd tried to explain that Kostas was Greek, and the heir to a fortune greater than Croesus himself could ever dream of possessing.  That was family money.  Old money.  That wasn't Brooks and never would be.

It hadn't been enough, not that he'd been surprised.  Write more profitable books, she'd said, and not spend so much time crafting what she termed silly frip, her term for his poetry.

More.  It was always about more with her.  Craving.  Grasping.  Reaching.  Never enough.  Brooks himself had never been enough.  He had no idea why she'd even married him in the first place.  In the end, neither had she.

She'd left him the moment their plane had touched back down in New York, running straight to Kostas, something, he'd soon learned, she'd been doing all along, going all the way back to the day after Brooks had proposed to her.

Even in the beginning, Brooks had never been enough.

Around him, the traffic roared and horns honked.  Cabbies bellowed and street vendors beckoned, many of them getting ready to pack up for the night but still trying to eek out a few more dollars from the day.  He'd been one of them once, had known that hunger.  It had only been a lucky break - a hand-written page from his first novel fluttering from his pocket as he'd given a man change - that had changed his life.  Otherwise, he might still be out there pedaling his wares just like they were.

Luck.  That was the only difference.  Angie had never understood that.  Never cared to.

He'd reached home now, the dark and imposing old factory that he called home anyway.  He'd purchased it and converted it into apartments, his way of making certain that if his books failed, he'd still have a source of income.  He was careful in that regard, much to Angie's annoyance.  He didn't take chances, at least not in general.  The chances that he did take were almost sure things.  He didn't like leaving things up to fate.  That wasn't his style and never would be.

Looking up now, he could see his apartment, still just as dark and cold and he'd expected it to be.  He'd chosen the top floor, the penthouse, for his apartment and had knocked out the walls to create a massive loft for himself.  There were twelve other tenants in the building, each renting half of a floor.  It was a nearly unheard of luxury in a city like this one, but Brooks simply thought of it as home.

Reaching up to key in the code for the lock, a tug in his gut made him look back and into the park across the way.  He wasn't certain why he'd looked, but he'd long ago learned to trust his instincts and they'd served him well over the years.  There was no reason not to do so now.

A figure huddled on a bench, small and wrapped in a coat not much different than his.  Given the way the person's shoulders shook, they were crying.  Then he saw the hair.  Tangled chestnut curls.  Thick and beautiful.  It was a woman.  And the poet in Brooks took over.  He'd always been accused of having much too romantic of a soul.

Crossing the street, he approached the woman slowly.  As he drew closer, he could see that her wool coat was worn and a little threadbare.  There was a small hole in one of her knit gloves.  She was not someone he'd likely come across in his every day life, but she wasn't exactly poor, either.  There was something in the way she held herself that indicated she had pride.  Honor.  Even if her circumstances weren't exactly the best at the moment.  So Brooks did the one thing he never did.  He took a chance and prayed that he wouldn't regret it later.

Do you need help?  He asked the question softly, trying not to scare her.  He knew his voice could be low and rough sometimes, but that was the result of throat surgery years ago.  Nothing could change it, yet another thing that had annoyed Angie about him, but he could make it smoother if he tried.  With his ex, he had never felt the need.  For some reason, with this woman, he wanted to try.

When she looked up, her lovely brown eyes glistened with tears.  She didn't run away, much to his surprise, but instead she gave him a sad smile that nearly broke his heart.  No.  Thank you, though.  Her voice was soft and sweet, a perfect compliment to his rougher one, even though he knew he had no business thinking that way.

She was beautiful, but not in the way Angie had been, Brooks decided surreptitiously studying her.  Angie had been cool, sophisticated, and above all gleaming.  Polished.  Like a diamond that did nothing but sparkle, reflecting all that was brittle and hard.  This woman was softer, her features less striking but every bit as lovely.  She was real in a way that his ex-wife never had been.

Are you certain? he questioned, looking at the wad of tissues clutched in her gloved hands.  It doesn't seem to me like you're fine.  Then he shrugged in the self-depreciating way that he had long ago perfected.  Not that I'm an expert on women.  Just ask my ex-wife.

That made her laugh, a rusty sound as if she didn't do it often enough.  That was truly a pity, Brooks decided.  She should laugh more and immediately, he was overcome by the idea that he should make her laugh.  Somehow.  Someway.  He'd like that, he decided.  More than he'd liked any idea he'd had in a very long time.

I'm sure, she replied with that same sad smile, only this time there was a trace of humor mixed in, giving her face an entirely new appeal.  Not that he should find this stranger appealing.  He shouldn't.  But he did.  It's just been a very long, very bad week.  Then she tore at a well-used tissue with her gloved hand, the one with the small hole, and Brooks' heart, the one Angie had accused him of not having, broke.

Uninvited, he sank down onto the bench beside her, a bit surprised when she slid down a bit to make room for him.  Almost as if she wanted his company.  That was novel, and it touched the still-frozen part of him, the very part that swore repeatedly he'd never let another woman back into his heart.  He shouldn't now, but his gut tugged at him again, and he found himself following his impulse.

He'd thought briefly about leaving the woman here alone in the park to nurse whatever wound was hurting her, but then he'd remembered his dark, empty apartment.  He also remembered his mother's admonishment to never leave a woman in distress alone in a strange place.  Not to mention that he'd felt his heart tug, just a little, but enough to remind him that he wasn't like Angie.  He cared about other people.  He even cared about this woman that he didn't know.  At that thought, going home no longer seemed as appealing as it had earlier.  Sitting here with her in the misty rain held far greater appeal.

Want to tell me?  He produced a new tissue from his coat pocket and handed it to her, a bit surprised again when she took it with only a nod of thanks.  She truly must be hurting more than he'd realized.  Otherwise, she probably would have had enough sense to send a stranger away, even a well-meaning one.  This was modern day American after all, and everyone had an angle and an agenda, especially in this city.  But not him.  Not today, anyway.  I'm Brooks, by the way.  He looked behind him, and he was pleased when her gaze followed his to the apartment building.  I live in the building across the street.  I was on my way home and, well...  

How did he finish that sentence?  What did he say?  That he saw her and was drawn to her for no logical reason?  That would make him sound either insane or like a stalker, even though it was the truth.  Neither option was very flattering.  Instead, he decided on something more neutral.  I was about to go inside and then I saw you.  I thought you might need a friend.

He thought she might leave then as her eyes studied him, as if taking his measure.  He would have done the same, had the roles been reversed.  Apparently, however, she decided that he wasn't a threat, or, if he was, he was one she would accept, at least for now.  

I'm Lilliana.  Lilliana Frampton.  She laughed again, this time the sound coming out more naturally, as if she were getting used to the feeling.  But most people call me Lily, for short.  It's a family name.

It's a nice name, he told her, meaning it.  He no longer said things that he didn't mean, even if it was just an empty compliment, another change brought about by his ex-wife.  Unusual.  Pretty.

Different, she countered, a spark of humor in her tone, and he was surprised to find that he was relieved at the change in her, however slight.  Like me in a lot of ways.  She twisted her lips for a moment before she spoke again, as if uncertain exactly how much to confide to a stranger.  He didn't blame her, really.  Unless she had seen one of his book jackets, it was doubtful that she recognized him.  Even if she had, that didn't mean she could trust him.  Even though she could.  Brooks did not hurt women.  Ever.

I'm also stupid, she finally said with a sound that was a mix of a sigh and a groan.  Just like thousands of other women before me.  I trusted the wrong man, and now I'm paying for it.

For a moment, Brooks took in the whole of her, every inch, from head to toe.  There was a feeling of shabby elegance to her, as if she'd once lived a better life than she currently was, and his writer's mind filled in the rest.  It was habit.  He couldn't stop himself.  Your boss.  It was a statement and not a question.

She didn't appear at all surprised that he'd figured it out so quickly.  I came to New York from Ohio about six years ago.  I was a museum curator.  Supposed to be this wonder-kid, you know?  So young but so much talent?  She snorted in derision as if she was disgusted with herself.  Small exhibits at first, but I was working my way up.  Doing events, planning displays.  Anything they wanted.  Then my job was downsized, and I lost my apartment.  I went to work for an insurance agent.  She shrugged and pushed a damp lock of hair out of her face as the rain began to fall a little harder now.  It wasn't great, but it paid the bills.

And he took advantage of you because he saw you as an easy mark.  It was an age-old story, one Brooks knew all too well.  He'd seen it more times than he could count and had read about it even more.  He'd even written about it a time or two.  He told you he'd take care of you.  Bought you pretty things and gave you back the life you'd had so you would let him into your bed.

She looked at him then, her eyes darker now than they had been.  Brown to black, like the deepest midnight he could ever imagine.  Angie's had been crystal blue and had never changed.  He found that he liked the change of this woman's eyes far better.  She had a depth of character Angie had lacked, and he found that he was inexplicably drawn to her.  It made no sense, but tonight he wasn't about to question.  He simply wanted to feel.  This woman did that for him.

The thing is, I didn't want that life.  I told him that.  I didn't need furs or jewelry or trips.  I just wanted...  She trailed off and looked down, embarrassed now.

Something in Brooks' heart panged.  In only a few minutes this woman had touched a part of him that Angie had never been able to reach.  Hell, she probably hadn't even known that part of him had existed.  And if she had, she wouldn't have cared.  It wasn't bright enough or rich