Reluctantly In Love: What's Love??? Series, #3

By Niecey Roy

White picket fences and fairy tale endings aren't in Roxanna Moss's vocabulary. If she's learned anything at all from her parents' failed relationships, it's to keep a lid on her emotions and the walls secure around her heart. As a PI in training by day and a writer by night, she doesn't have time for a relationship, anyway. 

What she didn't plan on was Dr. Walker…

Chase Walker's piercing blue eyes and sexy smile make it difficult to keep her heart in check. Even solving the biggest case of her career can't distract her from the irresistible man heating up her sheets. Chase has her questioning everything she thought she knew about relationships, and denial can't change the fact that she's falling madly, deeply, and reluctantly in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Niecey Roy
• Release date: Jan 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780692314296

Niecey Roy

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who wrote sappy poetry about every relationship gone wrong. She had her heart broken many times before the man of her dreams stepped off a big Navy ship and swept her off her feet, promising to never hold her shoe obsession against her. From that day forward, she swore she’d never again write sappy poetry of unrequited love. Instead, a sucker for smooches and happily-ever-afters, Niecey Roy now writes contemporary romance inspired by her sailor’s sexy brown eyes and charming sense of humor.

Book preview

ANOTHER SHOT AT LOVE All the elements for a fun, sassy romance: a sexy hero and the unbreakable bond of sisterhood. Delightful!—International Bestselling Author Kate Perry

ANOTHER SHOT AT LOVE Funny, sassy, sexy and brilliant book . . . Absolute Must Read!!!—Amy from Schmexy Girls Book Blog

WHEN HEARTS COLLIDE Classic cars, garden gnomes, and steamy romance? My kind of book!—International Bestselling Author Kate Perry

WHEN HEARTS COLLIDE Reading Niecey Roy’s FENDER BENDER BLUES is like eating Lays Potato chips. Once you start, you can’t stop! It’s just that good! For a new (non-fattening) addiction, read Niecey Roy!!!—NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Robyn Peterman

Reluctantly In Love

18+ adult content and language

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Niecey Roy

RIVER MIST MEDIA

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by RBA Designs

Interior Design and Formatting by Type A Formatting

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher/editor does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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Published in the United States of America

River Mist Media, 2015

ISBN: 978–0-692–31429–6

Published in the United States of America

This one is for YOU

To all the amazing people who wanted the next book in this series.

smooches

Contents

Praise for Niecey Roy's Novel

RELUCTANTLY IN LOVE

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

CHapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

About the Author

Books by Niecey Roy

A note from Niecey

The elevator dinged with each passing floor on the way up to LM Security, the private investigation and security firm where I worked. My uncle started the business twenty years ago, and my cousin Leo was now in charge. Well, mostly in charge. My uncle was in a semi-state of retirement. My aunt kept him busy with house projects and traveling across the States in their RV, but every now and then he managed to sneak away to check in on the firm. He would never have quit if it weren’t for high blood pressure and a short no-bullshit fuse, a dangerous combination in this line of business.

I didn’t pay much attention to the floor numbers lighting up the elevator panel, or to the soft rock music playing from the speakers. My cell phone was pressed to my ear while my agent reminded me of the contingencies in the publishing contract I’d been offered.

You need to get me a couple of chapters so we can make sure you’re on the right track with this next book, Kelsey told me.

While she talked, I was busy trying to pump inspiration into my writer-blocked brain.

You got this, Roxanna Moss. You will own this second book. That’s all there is to it. None of this writer’s block crap. You’re a ROCK STAR!

There. I felt better already.

So what will the plot for this second book be?

And there it was again—a whole lot of white noise.

Coming up with story ideas had never been a problem before. The first book had practically written itself. I’d put my fingers to the keyboard and—whoomp—there it was. Not this second book though. I’d blown half of the first month psyching myself out and writing horrible pages. Lately, I caught myself staring at the looming deadline on my calendar, circled five times with a fat red marker, instead of writing. I’d never been the kind of person who choked under pressure before, but I was now. I got it—I was a newbie and they were protecting their investment. But if I couldn’t get them a first draft of the second book within four months—poof—no more contract.

Maybe you need to get laid, Kelsey said.

I paused with my latte cup to my lips. What did you say?

Sex, Kelsey said in a serious tone. You told me you haven’t had sex in months.

Kelsey and I hit it off after my in-person pitch session at my first writer’s conference. I hadn’t planned on doing a pitch, so I wasn’t prepared. A group of us unpublished and wide-eyed writers had taken a couple of shots of tequila in the hotel bar and goaded each other into it. With liquid courage on my side, I’d walked into the room like I owned the place—and bombed. Instead of kicking me out, Kelsey took the notecards I’d drafted at the bar. She did a lot of brow-knitting, glancing up at me every few seconds as she flipped notecards. I met her for dinner on the last day of the conference, where we consumed too many vodka martinis and ended the night with a couple rounds of karaoke. And now that she was my agent, we talked about sex.

I took a drink of coffee. You sound like Gen.

Gen was my best friend. Well, one of my best friends. Gen, her twin sister Lexie, and I were like the Three Musketeers. That’s what our parents called us growing up.

Maybe because Gen is right, Kelsey said.

I grimaced. "I’m pretty sure Gen is not right. She’s been trying to hook me up with her boyfriend’s best friend."

"Uh, no, that sounds complicated. I’m talking about hot, uncomplicated sex."

I don’t think sex is my problem.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to LM Security’s lobby. Lindsey, the receptionist, sat behind an imposing mahogany desk. I lifted my hand wrapped around the latte in greeting and stepped from the elevator into the lobby. The office smelled of sugar cookies—I liked this new scent. She’d been experimenting with scented wax the last couple of weeks. The smell of sugar cookies was much better than the strange spice scent she’d chosen last week.

Sex is always the issue, Kelsey said. Whether you haven’t had it yet, or you’re having too much of it, or you’re having it with the wrong person, or you’re not having it at all. It screws with your chakras. You need a man in your life. A hot piece of ass inspires creativity. Get laid.

I refuse to believe my relationship status has anything to do with my writer’s block. My high heels clicked against the granite tile until I stepped onto the throw rug leading to the reception desk.

"Not a man, but his penis," Kelsey said.

Laughing, I shook my head. Yeah, okay. A penis fixes everything.

Amen, Lindsey said.

Don’t encourage her, I told Lindsey. Setting my purse on the reception desk, I told Kelsey, I’ll think about it, but I really don’t think getting laid is the cure to writer’s block.

Or is it? It’d been a long time since I’d had sexy-time; so long that counting down the numbers in months made me cringe.

"Don’t think, do, Kelsey said. Three chapters in two weeks. That’s your deadline. Don’t blow it."

She hung up before I could respond.

I dropped my cell phone into my purse with a heavy sigh, my temples throbbing with frustration. Everything I’d plotted out in the last week was crap. Crap, crap, crap. Every idea had been tossed out.

Was that Kelsey? Lindsey asked.

I nodded. Yes. I think she’s getting worried.

Sounds like she’s got a cure. Lindsey grinned and gave me an exaggerated wink.

Ha, funny. It would have been if I weren’t so worried. I sucked in a deep breath. Get your shit together already.

Maybe this will help. She pointed to a fat manila file on her desk. Those X-files you asked me to dig out.

Thank God. I set my latte down and reached for the file.

LM Security was known as THE private security firm in Nebraska. The investigative side of the business had been solid from the beginning.

There’s some weird stuff in those.

I flipped the file open with a smile. Yup. It’s my favorite part about working in this joint.

LM Security had its share of . . . strange walk-ins. Most of the notes from those encounters ended up in what the firm’s first secretary labeled the X-files. She was a fan of the show. Last night while I was hunkered down in the front seat of my SUV across the street from a client’s house, I dictated ideas into my cell phone’s voice recorder. Stake-outs of the infidelity sort are boring. I sometimes waited weeks for the money shot that would screw the cheater out of a large wad of cash. Just so happened, last night I got the money shot and the idea to comb through the X-files for inspiration on a new story plot. I wasn’t sure why the idea didn’t come to me sooner, I was just glad it did now.

The X-files were plum full of conspiracy theories, disgruntled spirits, and all sorts of great material to fuel a writer’s imagination. Just a few weeks ago a man claimed to have spotted Bigfoot up by Valentine and wanted to hire some of Leo’s men to help hunt him down. He promised payment in the form of everlasting fame and the fortune they’d receive for the movie rights. Leo didn’t take the case, but I personally thought the hunt for Bigfoot promised more excitement than catching a cheating husband with a hooker.

Story of a lifetime kind of thing.

I stayed up front in the lobby, perched on the edge of Lindsey’s desk while I flipped through the mess of notes in the X-files. They weren’t the easiest to read. Some of the notes were handwritten, some typed and printed out, others on the back of coffee-stained napkins or scribbled onto sticky-notes.

I divided my attention between the notes and Lindsey. She was in the middle of describing the worst date of her life with an old college crush who took her to a taco vending truck in a sketchy neighborhood serving a suspicious secret sauce.

I didn’t have a squeamish stomach—paranormal movies had gotten pretty graphic over the years—but talk of bowel movements gave me the heebie-jeebies in the worst way.

She seemed like she needed to vent so I didn’t interrupt. I gave the appropriate grunts of acknowledgement and tried not to let my imagination take over. It was hard, though. She painted a detailed picture.

Lindsey described how she’d shoved her way through a crowded bowling alley, desperate to reach the women’s restroom before the food poisoning hit in embarrassingly-epic proportions. Her college crush had been caught downwind of her awkward retreat. He took her home and she hadn’t heard from him since. It was now a week later. Lindsey was a talker, so I wasn’t sure how she’d bottled up all the angst for an entire week. I could tell she was more hurt and embarrassed than anything—which ticked me off. We’d grown close in the four months she’d been at LM Security. Lindsey had a big heart and all she really wanted was true love and a belly full of baby.

She’d just wrapped up her story when the elevator doors dinged open and out stepped two women; I guessed them both to be in their seventies. The short and plump woman on the left gazed around the lobby, devouring every detail. I’d seen the look before—she was intrigued by the idea of being inside a PI firm. I was familiar with the wide-eyed stare of awe on her face—growing up I wore one just like it every time I got to tag along to the office.

After my dad left, my Uncle Leone sort of stepped in as a father figure. Both were robust, full-blooded Italian men. Uncle Leone had opted for a career in private investigation and security, and my dad chose to become a chef. While working as a personal chef in California, he met my mother, a mouthy Filipino lady who had an eye for the tall and handsome man who could afford to shower her with gifts. My dad was big time in the food industry these days—he had his own cooking show and restaurants all over the States. I was proud of him, but the PI firm was the only place I’d ever seen myself working, even as a kid. Everything about this place fascinated me—the people, the mystery, the feeling of accomplishment when we helped someone.

The hot pink visor the woman wore matched her bright jumpsuit, and her snow white hair curled over the top of her visor, as if she’d teased it up that way. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just climbed a flight of stairs, but it was more likely due to a healthy dose of rouge. The purse hanging over her shoulder looked more like an overnight bag with its size, and I had to hold back an amused smirk. I couldn’t help but wonder what she kept in it.

The woman beside her was tall and thin, the elegant powder blue pantsuit a startling contrast to the other woman’s fuchsia outfit. The light caught the huge rock on her ring finger—it was the largest I’d ever seen. Every lock of dove-grey hair was as meticulous as the pants suit she wore. The scent of hairspray followed her in. While she crossed the lobby, I studied the tension in her gait and her pinched lips. She wasn’t happy to be here.

Good morning, ladies. Lindsey smiled—all traces of her disastrous date gone. How can I help you?

The woman in the pink jumpsuit dropped her purse to the floor by her feet. I’m Linda Tomlinson. She nodded to her friend. This here is my friend Beverly Potter.

Hello, Lindsey and I said in unison.

Linda propped a hand on her rounded hip and turned her full attention on me, giving me a thorough once-over. My sister said you were a plucky one.

Your sister? I bit back a smile, because Linda’s lips were pressed into a serious line. I wouldn’t call her heavy; a better description would be pleasantly plump. As if she’d spent many years eating apple pie and homemade mashed potatoes. She looked like somebody’s spunky grandma.

Linda nodded. My sister hired you to catch my niece’s deadbeat husband with his pants down.

"Aahhh. Now I knew who she spoke of. Linda looked a lot like her sister, minus the jumpsuit. That case had been one of the easier ones to close. I’d snapped the damning photo the first day I was hired while the cheating husband got down and dirty with his secretary in the front seat of her minivan. What brings you to LM Security?"

Linda cleared her throat. We think an alien abducted Beverly’s cat.

I cocked my head, studying Linda’s deadpan expression. Pardon me?

Yes, Beverly said. She fingered the pearls at her neck and worry creased her brow. An alien.

Why don’t you give me the details?

They did. And the story they told left me speechless. Most people might have written them off as two old ladies off their rockers—like, way off their rockers. If I hadn’t been up front at this exact moment, Lindsey would’ve sent them on their way. Their names and a short summary of the visit would have ended up in the X-files.

The wheels in my head spun in overdrive.

It was possible my interest was due to my desperation for inspiration—the topic was right up my alley. I doubted it, though. I considered myself a good judge of character. These women were sincere.

And possibly insane . . .

I placed a hand on Beverly’s sleeve. Mrs. Potter—

Please, call me Beverly. Her fingers again played with her string of pearls. The story had her rattled. Can you help me find my cat?

I hesitated in answering. Regardless whether Beverly could pay the investigative bill, I doubted Leo would take her case. I was a stickler for a mystery, though—a lover of all things peculiar—and I couldn’t shake the intense need to help this woman.

You’ve come to the right place, I said, and Beverly let out a sigh of relief.

Lindsey cleared her throat. She wasn’t as open-minded as I.

Lindsey. I shot her a glance, warning her to zip it. Do you need a glass of water? She raised her brows. For your cough.

Uh, no. She fake-coughed, as if trying to clear her throat. I’m fine.

This is great. Linda beamed. I looked you up on the Internet first to make sure you’d be right for our team.

You did? I pressed my lips together to keep the smile from engulfing them. The emphasis she put on ‘Internet’ made the act itself sound as foreign as an alien.

Her head bobbed up and down. Yup, we did. That boss of yours is a fine looking—

Linda. Beverly gave her friend an impatient stare.

Unfazed, Linda said, Also, I thought you might have an easy recipe for egg rolls. I love those things.

"Linda," Beverly said again.

I’m Filipino, I said, smiling. My Italian side was a little less prominent. All I inherited from my dad was a long nose with a light spattering of freckles, and height. At five foot eight inches, I towered over my mom. "Our rolls are called lumpia. I can give you a recipe, if you’d like."

Lumpia. Linda’s eyes flashed with interest. That sounds exotic.

They’re very good. I’ll get you a bottle of banana sauce too. For dipping. I looked down to the notes I’d written on the legal pad I took from Lindsey’s desk. Beverly, I’d like to get more information from you. The details are important.

Of course. Beverly nodded, her gaze hopeful.

I handed the pad to Lindsey. Add to my notes, please.

Right, notes. On it. Lindsey placed the tablet in front of her, pen poised to write.

Three words from their recount of the cat’s disappearance kept flashing through my mind.

So what you’re telling me— I nodded over to Lindsey, whose lips were screwed up into a grimace, —telling us, I clarified, Is that an alien, dressed in a thong, has been lurking around outside your house. I paused, mostly for dramatic effect, and because what I was about to say made my hands quiver with excitement. And this alien has abducted your cat.

Beverly nodded. Yes. Pretzels.

Right. Your cat, Pretzels. I perched on the edge of Lindsey’s desk. Beverly, can you tell me why this alien would want your cat?

Pretzels, Linda corrected.

Yes, Pretzels, I said. "Why does the alien want Pretzels?

Because that alien is a vindictive son of a bitch, that’s why. Linda’s matter-of-fact tone made Beverly grimace.

I wasn’t an alien expert, and I didn’t know if aliens were vindictive by nature, so it seemed an important point to note. I nodded to Lindsey, Write that down.

Beverly was more sensible. I know how crazy this must sound, Ms. Moss.

You can call me Roxanna.

Roxanna, Beverly repeated. She lifted her chin in defiance. I’ve gone over all of it in my head, so many times since Pretzels disappeared two nights ago. None of it makes sense. But I know what I saw outside my patio door a few nights ago, and now Pretzels is gone.

Okay, then, I said with a nod.

Linda narrowed her eyes. Those damn grey aliens—

Grey? I perked up.

Now this was the kind of detail that was important. Last year, when Gen caught her weasel boyfriend cheating, she exchanged him for alien documentaries. Gen became a little obsessed with all things extraterrestrial while she mended her broken heart.

Who knew all those hours spent with extraterrestrial information piercing my optical nerves to the point of television migraines would ever come in handy in real life?

I cut my hand through the air, gesturing to Lindsey. Write that down.

Write what down? Lindsey stared at the paper already filled with unbelievable notes.

Grey aliens, I said.

Okay. Lindsey drew out the word.

Lindsey, every detail is important, I insisted. I turned my attention back to Linda and Beverly. Don’t mind her. I put my hand beside my mouth and whispered, loud enough for Lindsey to hear, She’s not a believer. Also, she can’t parallel park.

Parallel parking had nothing to do with this conversation, but I’d been teasing her ever since a recent twenty-minute attempt to parallel park at her niece’s school.

"Oh, one of those, Linda said, leveling a sympathetic gaze on Lindsey. She turned her attention to me. Greys are the worst kind, you know. We’ve been doing research."

Yes, I’ve heard that. I wondered if they’d seen Gen’s favorite show, Aliens Lurking in Your Backyard. Why are these grey aliens out for revenge, Beverly?

Because she refuses to be their sex experiment. Linda’s eyes narrowed. She’s too old for that crap. At our age, we’ve got bad joints.

Beverly didn’t look so sure. I don’t know if that’s what they wanted. They took my cat.

If those sickos aren’t doing sex experiments, they’re dissecting animals, Linda insisted, and Beverly’s face paled.

Holy shit, I breathed, and picked up my cell phone off Lindsey’s desk. Excuse me for a moment, ladies.

I hurried from the lobby. Turning the corner into the hallway so I would be out of sight, I swiped at the cell phone screen then pressed the phone to my ear.

When Gen picked up, I said, Get your ass down here. We have a sighting.

What? In a whisper, Gen said, I’m at work.

I scrunched up my nose, confused why she hadn’t jumped all over what I’d said.

Some things are more important than work, I insisted, pacing the hallway. I was a pacer.

Rox, Gen said on a sigh, I love you, but I can’t ditch work to go shopping or day drinking, or whatever it is that you’ve decided we should go do in the middle of the week.

Imogen Mae, I’m insulted. Though I wasn’t. I loved to do all of those things. But this was serious. She needed to get with it. I paced the hallway. "This is serious shit. Like an alien sighting encounter kind of serious."

She drew in a breath and it whistled through the phone’s speaker.

An alien encounter, she repeated. What kind?

I slowed mid-step and cocked my head. Are you serious right now?

"Yes, she said, exasperated. What kind?"

"Of the fourth kind." I would never forget the last movie Gen made me watch, apparently based on real life events—I had nightmares for a week, which said a lot since I write paranormal fiction. I never planned to visit Nome, Alaska, not after all the research I’d done on the area. Apparently there were hundreds of unexplained disappearances—alien abductions—in that town.

In Gen’s silence, I scrunched up my nose. "Or maybe it’s the third kind. I don’t know. That’s why I need you. Why aren’t you saying anything? "

Sorry. I was in shock. Holy shit. This is big.

"I know. Why aren’t you in your car already?"

I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to come up with a good excuse.

You’re quitting anyway so just tell them the truth, no matter how crazy it sounds. I paused for dramatic effect. "We’re solving an alien mystery."

She mumbled something about using a dentist appointment excuse and then hung up on me.

I stepped back into the lobby where Lindsey entertained Linda with her parallel parking story.

"Would you ladies like a nice cup