Divorced, Desperate and Dead: Divorced and Desperate, #5

By Christie Craig

After a disastrous marriage and divorce, Detective Cary Stevens vowed he'd never let another woman into his heart. But when his latest investigation puts him in the way of a bullet, his bachelor days--and one-night stands--may be numbered. On the brink of death, he finds himself in Room Six, a waiting room in the hereafter where in-betweeners' fates are truly decided. He resigns himself to dying of boredom, if nothing else, in the lineup of senior citizens with their AARP magazines, when in walks the one woman who could make him want a second chance at life . . . and love.

Chloe Sanders learns the hard way that no good deed goes unpunished when she pushes a little girl out of the way of a moving car and wakes up in some type of purgatory. Or maybe it's heaven, because she couldn't have asked for a hotter guy with whom to await her final judgment. The sweeping glances of his bedroom eyes and sharp-tongued flirtatiousness tell her Cary's certainly no angel, but is he real? When she finally wakes up, Chloe's determined to find out if he's truly a man of magnificent flesh and blood or just a figment of her imagination. But before she can track him down, will the murderer that first put them both in Room Six come back to finish the job?

• Language: English
• Publisher: christie craig
• Release date: May 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386519539

Christie Craig

An Adams Media author.

Book preview

Divorced, Desperate and Delicious

This is an entertaining fast-moving mystery and romance peopled with interesting, likable characters, as well as warm cuddly animals. The main romance, as well as the secondary ones, are delightful, and the suspense is well done. This is an all-around enticing and fun story to read.

—RT Book Reviews

Christie Craig delivers humor, heat, and suspense in addictive doses. She’s the newest addition to my list of have-to-read authors . . . Funny, hot, and suspenseful. Christie Craig’s writing has it all. Warning: definitely addictive.

—New York Times bestselling author Nina Bangs

"Readers who enjoy Jenny Crusie and Janet Evanovich will fall head over heels for Divorced, Desperate and Delicious, a witty romantic adventure by debut author Christie Craig . . . A page-turner filled with humorous wit, sexy romance and just enough danger to keep you up long past midnight."

—RITA Award-winning author Dianna Love Snell

Suspense and romance that keeps you on the edge of your seat . . . until you fall off laughing . . . Christie Craig writes a book you can’t put down.

—RITA finalist Gemma Halliday

Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

"The fun—and action—never stops in the enchanting Divorced, Desperate and Deceived. Christie Craig’s prose practically sparkles with liveliness and charm in the exciting conclusion to her stunning Divorced, Desperate and Delicious Club trilogy."

—Joyfully Reviewed

Divorced, Desperate and Dating

I was simply delighted by this breezy, snappy, goodtime story . . . This book is sure to brighten your day.

—Beyond Her Book Blog, Publishers Weekly

Gotcha!

The mystery and romance plots fit seamlessly into a witty and fast-paced novel that’s easy to read and satisfying to the heart.

—Publishers Weekly

Weddings Can Be Murder

"A story that twines emotions and feelings with sizzle and steam, all wrapped around bits of humor . . . Weddings Can Be Murder combines passionate and intense characters with a plot that’s well balanced and fast moving. It’s edgy and fun."

—Once Upon a Romance

Y ou should do that more often, he said.

Do what? she asked.

Laugh.

She suddenly became aware of having a man in her bed. Imaginary or not, it felt awkward. No, not awkward. Just different. Nice different, a little voice inside her said. It felt . . . less lonely.

He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

How long had it been since someone had touched her?

Crazy how you could miss something as simple as a brush of fingers across your skin.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. His tongue slipped slowly across her lips. His hand came to rest on the curve of her waist. It felt warm, and before she realized what she’d done, she had scooted closer, deepening the kiss.

He pulled back just a bit. Now this is more like how a dream should go.

Table of Contents

Rave Reviews for Christie Craig

Dream Come True

Title Page

Books by Christie Craig

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

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Divorced and Desperate Series

Excerpt from Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

Excerpt from Divorced, Desperate and Daring

Excerpt from Don’t Close Your Eyes

CC Hunter

About the Author

Copyright

Divorced and Desperate Series

Divorced, Desperate and Delicious

Divorced, Desperate and Dating

Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

Divorced, Desperate and Dead

Divorced, Desperate and Daring

Hotter in Texas Series

Only in Texas

Blame It on Texas

Texas Hold ’Em

Texas Justice Series

Don’t Close Your Eyes

Tall, Hot & Texan

Gotcha!

The Cop Who Stole Christmas

The Junkyard Cowboy

Weddings Can Be Murder

Shut Up and Kiss Me

Murder, Mayhem and Mama

Love, Laughter and a Little Murder: 3 Novels by Christie Craig

(anthology containing Murder, Mayhem and Mama;

Weddings Can Be Murder; and Gotcha!)

For more information: www.Christie-Craig.com

YOUNG ADULT NOVELS BY

CHRISTIE CRAIG WRITING AS C. C. HUNTER

New York Times Bestselling Shadow Falls Series (Young Adult)

Born at Midnight

Turned at Dark (free novella)

Awake at Dawn

Taken at Dusk

Whispers at Moonrise

Saved at Sunrise (novella)

Chosen at Nightfall

Spellbinder (novella)

Almost Midnight: Shadow Falls: The Novella Collection

Shadow Falls: After Dark Series (Young Adult)

Reborn

Unbreakable (novella)

Eternal

Unspoken

Midnight Hour

For more information: www.CCHunterBooks.com

To my support team: Hubby, who tolerates my writing schedule and brings me coffee. My agent, Kim Lionetti, who owns the sharpest word-cutting scissors I know. My copy editor, Shawnna Perigo, who helps me make sense. To my critique buddies: Susan C. Muller, Jody Payne, and my hometown buddy, Judy Hodes. You guys totally rock.

D on’t move or I’ll shoot. I swear I’ll do it.

Detective Cary Stevens had just stepped out onto his sister’s patio when the threat rang low but clear. He could hear his two older sisters, Kelly and Beth, chatting at the poolside, enjoying their Saturday afternoon, oblivious to what was going on.

He turned around and faced the owner of the small voice. She aimed the gun right at his chest. And the dang thing was loaded, he could tell from the drops of water spilling out of the tip. You wouldn’t do that, would you?

I will if you don’t give me what I want. And don’t tell me you don’t have any, because you always do. So reach into your pocket and pull it out.

He tucked two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and brought out the wrapped piece of bubble gum that he’d put in there just for her. Then because he didn’t completely trust his niece, he snatched the water gun. Your mom is going to make me pay for your next dentist appointment, he said.

That’s your problem, his eleven-year-old niece, Bella, said and grinned.

Peewee, his older sister called from the lounge beside the pool.

Yeah, Cary answered reluctantly. But holy hell, he’d give anything if his family would stop calling him that. Supposedly, they’d named him that the day his mom brought him home from the hospital. He’d been premature, and according to them, the name fit. But now, at six feet, three inches and two hundred pounds, he should have outgrown the nickname.

And he had. No one dared to call him that, but his sisters.

What are you doing? If you’re giving my kid gum again, I’m going to kick your butt.

Bella laughed. You know she won’t really do that, don’t you?

Cary smiled at his niece and walked over to his sisters. She held me up at gunpoint. I had to give it to her. He set the gun down on the bottom of his sister’s lounge chair.

Bullshit, Kelly muttered.

Hey, you grounded me for saying that last week, Bella called from the other side of the pool.

Kelly frowned. You’re early. But that’s fine. Where’s your swimsuit?

I didn’t bring it, he said, knowing both his sisters were going to get mad. But they would just have to get over it. Thanks to his brother-in-law, to whom he now owed a beer, he knew what they were up to. No way in hell was he going to let them fix him up with one of their friends. No doubt the girl was beautiful, smart, and witty—all traits he liked. But he was a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy, and he doubted any of their friends were love and leave kind of girls.

Thankfully, due to the call he’d gotten thirty minutes ago from a snitch who had info on the Jones case, he didn’t even have to lie. Good thing, because he sucked at lying to his sisters.

I told you it’s a pool party, Beth said.

I know, but I can’t stay. I have to meet someone. I just wanted to stop by a minute and apologize for missing it.

No, Kelly said. You can’t leave. I’m grilling hamburgers. And . . . I want you to meet someone. She even went out and bought a new swimsuit.

Darn, he said, only mildly regretting that he was going to miss the new swimsuit. Sorry. But seriously, I have to be somewhere.

Is it a date? Beth asked. You going out with someone?

No. It’s work, he answered honestly.

You’ve been divorced over two years, Kelly said, sounding more and more like their mom. It’s time you start dating.

I date.

No. Kelly looked to see where her daughter was. When she was sure the girl wasn’t in earshot, she said, You have sex. That’s not dating.

He frowned. I thought that counted. All of a sudden, he felt something tug at his jean leg. He looked down, expecting to see his sister’s toy poodle, Bucko, who for some ungodly reason, thought his leg was a pissing post. But no, this thing was . . . was . . .

What the hell is that? he asked, as the thing stood on its back legs.

That’s Pooch, my new foster dog, Kelly said and studied the animal trying to climb up his leg. Wow, he must like you.

After his sister’s second miscarriage, she’d started fostering dogs, and she tried to push each and every one on him. She knew damn well he wasn’t going to take in a dog, but it was her way of guilting him into making a donation to the Canine Foster program. It worked each and every time, too.

That’s a dog? he asked. He’d figured his donations had amounted to the cost of feeding each of the dogs for six months. He was going to get off cheap this time. It couldn’t have a stomach any bigger than a tablespoon.

Yes it’s a dog. Don’t make fun of him. He has a Napoleon complex.

He? Cary asked.

Yes.

Maybe his complex has to do with the pink ribbons.

Dogs are color blind. And he was like that when I got him. His name is Pooch, his sister offered and studied the animal. "This is odd. He doesn’t like anybody."

The thing kept trying to climb up his leg, so Cary reached down, and with one hand scooped it up and held it a foot from his face.

Be careful, Kelly said.

Of what? he asked. I’ve seen mosquitoes that scared me more. The animal had black eyes. He brought the thing closer and a pink tongue came out and lapped him on his nose.

Oh, my God. He really does like you, Kelly said. You should adopt him.

No. He studied the animal closer. You sure it’s a dog?

It growled, almost as if insulted by Cary’s comment.

Yes. And he might be small but he has the attitude of a pit bull. He bit Bucko.

Bucko probably pissed on him.

Are you going to let him get away with this? Beth jumped in. Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s using Pooch to change the subject.

What subject? He pretended to be innocent and set the creature down.

Kelly groaned. You’re right, she said to Beth, and then glared at him. Don’t you want someone real? Someone you can actually have a conversation with? Someone you could share more than a few bodily fluids with?

I have conversations, he said, but damn it if he hadn’t thought that same thing three nights ago when Paula, the flight attendant, jumped out of bed five minutes after she’d been screaming out his name, and took off because she had a plane to catch.

I mean more than heavy panting.

Cary grinned, ignoring that his sisters’ comments resonated a little too much. I kind of like heavy panting. And he did, but . . .

The animal started yanking at his jeans again.

You won’t even have a relationship with an animal, Beth said. Why are we wasting our breath?

Because we love him, Kelly said, glaring up at him from her lounge chair. Because underneath all of that playboy attitude is a decent guy who deserves to be happy—with a dog. Not all women are like Korine. You have to give love another shot.

Cary frowned. No, I don’t. And I’m . . . fine. He was going to say ‘happy,’ but it wouldn’t slip off his tongue.

Then, because he refused to have this conversation with his two sisters—especially when it involved his ex-wife—he grabbed his phone and looked at the time. It was almost five. I have to go. See ya. He turned to leave and almost tripped over the pint-sized dog at his feet. He picked him up and passed him to Beth. Hold this before I accidentally step on him and make it into a smear on the patio.

Oh, hell, Kelly seethed and snagged her daughter’s water gun.

Cary took off, but right before he made the door, he felt the spray of water on his back. He stopped and turned. I’ll get you for that. The spray got him right in the face this time. As he stopped to wipe the water from his face, he saw Bucko at his feet lifting a leg.

Damn it, he muttered.

Five minutes later, he drove windows-down, to dry his shirt and pissed-on jeans, toward Mason Road and the abandoned warehouse. He’d met Tommy Fincher, a snitch, here before, but for some reason today, Cary got a bad feeling. He slowed down and looked left to right. If the guy wasn’t exaggerating, he had info on who’d killed Marc Jones, a sixteen-year-old kid, who, after resisting joining the local gang, had taken a bullet in the head.

Cary could still hear the kid’s mother sobbing when he’d knocked on her door with the news last week. She’d already lost Marc’s brother to a gang. And now, if she was right in her suspicions, and he thought she was, Marc had been killed because he refused to get involved. How unfair was that?

While he couldn’t do anything to help Marc, or take away his mother’s grief, he could find the idiot who’d killed him to give the family a little peace.

Cary suspected it was gang related, but couldn’t prove they had been involved—not yet. But damn if he’d stop trying.

The hair on the back of Cary’s neck prickled. He slowed his car down, debating if he should call anyone for backup, like his partner, Danny, at Glencoe Police.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tommy, the snitch, but he had a big problem with a lot of the guy’s friends.

He turned down another row of warehouses and spotted a couple of teens skateboarding. They shouldn’t be here. Too many bad people hung out here. And on the way out, he’d tell them to take their boards elsewhere.

The next row, he saw Tommy’s old Honda parked at the side of building fifty-six. He stopped thinking about danger to himself and thought of Marc’s mother. The woman deserved peace of mind.

He stopped his SUV and looked around. Only when he didn’t see anyone did he get out of his car. The big metal door to the building stood ajar. He unhooked his holster, so he’d have fast access to his gun. He’d started for the door when he noticed a spray of red on the passenger side window of Tommy’s car.

Shit, he seethed, knowing what it was before he glanced down to the see Tommy, a fifty-year-old full-time alcoholic and part-time drug addict, slumped over the wheel of his car, part of his head missing.

Cary’s gut knotted. He drew his gun, and reached for his phone to call it in. Before he got the words out, he heard the roar of an engine. He looked up and saw the black pickup coming right at him. The vehicle had no front license plate, and the driver wore a black ski mask.

Cary dove over Tommy’s car. The pickup missed him, but the bullet didn’t.

No. Chloe Sanders said without looking at her friend, Sheri Thompson, who power-walked beside her. The view of the quaint storefronts of Old Town Hoke’s Bluff, Texas—one of which belonged to her—lining the streets usually made her regular Sunday morning, five-mile exercising regiment enjoyable. But not with Sheri beside her, trying to interfere in her life.

Chloe didn’t need interference. She could make a mess of her life all by herself. She’d proven that when she’d let Jerry slip an engagement ring on her finger. Oh, it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea at the time, but a year later, a week before the wedding and . . .

Look, Dan’s good-looking and a nice guy. A cop. Detective Dan Henderson. Even his name’s hot. He might even be willing to help you out with a couple of those parking tickets.

No.

Why not? Sheri asked. What’s wrong with him?

Chloe looked up at the flashing sign attached to the street corner light pole as it started counting down the seconds. Ten, nine, eight . . .

Time was ticking. She picked up the pace, swinging her elbows and feeling her blood zing.

It’s not him, it’s me, Chloe said, attempting to make the street before the Do not walk message appeared.

Sheri moved in step beside her. You must be confused. That’s a break-up line. I’m trying to fix you up.

Sometimes Chloe was certain Sheri had gone into the wrong career. The job of graphic designer/PR specialist didn’t require bullheadedness, and if her friend excelled at anything, it was being headstrong. And I’m telling you no.

It’s been a year.

Blast it! The sign flashed red a foot before she reached it. Time was ticking. A year, and sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Heck, she still had two wedding gifts to mail back—not that it was her fault. Her mother’s old neighbor and Jerry’s great aunt hadn’t answered her email request for the return addresses.

I know exactly how long it’s been, Chloe said, frowning at the Do Not Walk sign. Had Sheri, Amber, her assistant manager, and her mom held some kind of intervention and forgotten to invite her? Why was everyone suddenly worried about Chloe’s non-dating status? Trying to keep up her heart rate—though this conversation was getting it up all on its own—she commenced to walking in place.

Sheri did the same, her feet tapping against the sidewalk. I know you’re still hurting but—

Hurting? Chloe stopped moving and stared at her best friend, who she loved more than books—and she really loved her books—but at times the girl could drive her bat-shit crazy. What I am is pissed. And I’m getting this close to being super pissed at everyone else who thinks I need a man in my life. I’m happy.

You’re not happy. I see it in your eyes. You’re twenty-eight, Chloe. You should be dating, having sex, enjoying life.

I’m enjoying myself just fine. I have the Sweet Tooth Bakery, my friends, my family, my cat, my writing when I get back to it, and a fine piece of machinery that gives me better orgasms than Jerry ever did. And the reason she could name them off so quickly was because she’d had this same talk with herself just that morning.

Sheri stopped walking, stared, and proceeded to burst out laughing.

What’s so funny? Chloe asked.

You’ve got a Bob?

A Bob?

A battery operated boyfriend?

Chloe made a face. Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have told Sheri everything. There’s nothing wrong with a Bob, she spouted in self-defense.

I agree, Sheri said, still chuckling. I just never thought you, Miss I-write-children’s-books-and-bake-cupcakes-for-a-living would get one, and if you did, I never thought you’d tell anyone.

Chloe made a face. First, she hadn’t been able to write in over a year. Second . . . I didn’t tell anyone. I told you. And if you repeat it to a soul, I’ll tell everyone you . . . She paused trying to think of something Sheri didn’t want leaked out. And it wasn’t easy. Sheri, a preacher’s daughter, her dark hair sporting streaks of pink for about three months, was pretty much an open book. Chloe had to mentally go back twelve years before finding one of Sheri’s secrets. I’ll tell everyone you and Harry Bucklesmith went skinny dipping in the baptism tank.

Oh, that’s low, Sheri said, but laughed. You already vowed to never tell that.

And that shows you how serious I am, Chloe said. Bob is my secret.

The green sign beeped and they crossed the street, picking up their pace.

I’m serious, too, Sheri said. You need to start dating. Bobs aren’t as good as the real thing.

Then you haven’t met my Bob, Chloe said and giggled. They zipped past a mom with a baby in a stroller and a five- or six-year-old girl wearing all pink, holding the woman’s hand.

Chloe couldn’t help but think that not so long ago, she’d wanted that. Marriage. Two kids. A home. But Jerry had killed those dreams.

What about cuddling? Bobs don’t cuddle. And they suck at pillow talk.

Chloe couldn’t deny it. She missed cuddling and pillow talk. I told you I’m fine. They almost got to another crosswalk. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven . . .

If you believe that, then you’re lying to yourself. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t written a new book.

Six. Five. Four . . . I’m not lying to anyone. And I’m plotting a book right now, she said, and inwardly recoiled when the words tasted bitter on her lips. She was trying to plot. The fact that it wasn’t getting anywhere was another thing. Oh, hell! Maybe she wasn’t fine. But she was better. She’d stopped blaming herself. And started blaming Jerry.

How could she have been about to marry a man she knew so little about? Easy, she’d trusted her heart. The dang thing had let her down. She wouldn’t trust it again.

Three. Two. One . . .

They got to the street one second too late to make the light. Chloe stopped and drew in a deep breath.

Lucy, wait! The scream came behind them.

Suddenly, the little girl in pink shot past Chloe, jumped off the curb and ran into the street.

The sound of an engine roared. Chloe’s gaze shot to the black pickup racing forward. The truck’s driver was looking down as if messing with his phone.

Stop! she screamed and darted out in the street to catch the little girl.

Chloe caught the child’s hand and looked up. It felt like time slowed to a crawl. She saw the truck barreling toward them. She saw the blond, pale-skinned driver glance up, shocked. She heard the sound of breaks.

But the truck kept coming.

Chloe pushed the little girl out of the way at the same time the truck swerved, fishtailed. Suddenly, the air felt sucked out of her lungs.

Chloe knew she’d been hit, but oddly it didn’t hurt. She felt herself being propelled into the air and everything went black.

M other fucker! J.D. ground out, barely stopping before he hit a parked car. Burnt rubber flavored his quick intake of air. As if seeing it in slow motion, he watched the woman land face down on the street. Why the hell had she run out? Then he saw the dazed looking little girl standing a few feet from his truck.

At least he hadn’t hit the kid. But he had hit the woman. His gaze shot back to the body, lying so still. Oh, shit! Was she dead?

Another woman stood at the curb screaming.

He looked at the beer in his cup holder. At his gun on the floorboard beside what was left of his white powder. Panic churned in his stomach. This one wasn’t his fault. But he couldn’t hang around to be proven innocent when he was so damn guilty of other stuff.

Guilty. It was his fault. His fault that other dude died. He had to open his mouth and tell Jax what he knew. He’d wanted to fit in. Thought by sharing the info, Jax would accept him more. But look at the price. J.D. could still see the fear in that ol’ dude’s eyes right before the bullet took off most of his head.

The cop hadn’t been part of that plan. Why had the cop shown up? He’d seen the guy’s gun, and fired his own weapon before he recognized him. It was the same cop who’d arrested him a few months back. J.D. hadn’t meant to shoot anyone, just to make sure he didn’t get shot. J.D. couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That cop was just unlucky. Now J.D. was gonna be unlucky. Everyone knew what cops did to people who shot one of their own.

He released his foot off the brake and hit the gas. Doing what he’d done since he was fourteen and his stepfather had beaten the shit of out of him for the third time. He ran away.

Room Six, a voice said. But Chloe couldn’t see who said it. Everything was all black. Then the blackness started to fade. Replaced by a blinding light. Slowly, things started to come into focus.

Excuse me? Chloe asked, feeling lost and completely out of it. Where the heck was she? She eyed the walls, all white. The ceiling. All white. The floors. All white. Then a guy—obviously the owner of the voice—dressed in . . . all white . . . standing beside a big white desk, staring at a computer screen.

Room Six. It’s to your left.

But, I don’t understand. Where—?

Chop. Chop, he said, smiling, exposing . . . extra white teeth. It’ll be peachy, young lady. He pointed down the hall.

Peachy? Who the hell said peachy anymore? Questions sat on the tip of her tongue. She frowned at the guy, and then decided not to argue. Maybe someone in Room Six would be a tad more cooperative.

She started down the hall to the left. The doors were clearly marked. She found the door with a big six on it and cautiously pushed it open and took a tiny step inside.

She started at one end of the room and let her gaze shift around the chairs lining the wall. Most of them were occupied. Her gaze shifted from one elderly person to the next. Where the heck was she? The place reminded her of Denny’s at four in the afternoon. Or her grandmother’s retirement condo in Florida.

Chloe had just come back from there three weeks ago. She loved her Nana, but if she didn’t have to play another game of pinochle for a year, she’d be happy.

Just as her complete circle around the room was almost done, her gaze lit on a man. And not an elderly man. Brown hair that flipped up on its ends and a chiseled face that reminded her of . . . Wow. Johnny Depp. Only bigger. She’d heard that Johnny was actually a small guy. Even sitting this man towered a head above all the little old people in the room. Wearing jeans that fit his long legs and a navy short-sleeve button-down shirt—left open with a T-shirt under it—he sat with one ankle thrown over the other. Cowboy boots covered his feet. In his lap was an AARP magazine, and he flipped pages like a bored kid.

The sight of him, amongst everyone else, reminded her of the kid’s workbooks where you picked out what didn’t belong. He didn’t fit here.

Neither did she. The thought ran around her addled brain, but she wasn’t sure what it meant.

Unlike all the senior citizens, he hadn’t looked up. She could almost hear him muttering something under his breath. The chair next to him stood empty.

Another young one, an elderly man said.

A shame, said a woman.

What was a shame?

Chloe felt her stomach knot.

The young, didn’t-belong-here man stopped flipping through the magazine and lifted his gaze. Dark brown, piercing eyes studied her. Yup, Johnny Depp all right.

In the traditional male way, his gaze shifted down and then up her body. Chloe suddenly realized she was wearing her exercise clothes. Short yoga pants and a sports bra. Not that it was indecent, and considering most of the females in the room wore muumuus or nightgowns, she probably shouldn’t feel self-conscious.

She still did.

When those eyes focused back on her face, his right eyebrow arched ever so slightly, and he offered her a slight nod. A smile pulled at his lips. She got a crazy feeling he was happy to have someone his own age joining him. She took the seat next to him—not because of her silly crush on Johnny Depp—but because . . . well, just because.

She sat straight, aware of everyone’s eyes on her.

He shifted and his shoulder almost touched hers. Her heart jumped a few beats. You okay? he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she voiced her question. Where are we? Chloe waited for dark-haired hottie to answer, trying not to squirm in her chair, feeling as if every elderly person in the room had her in a locked gaze.

He leaned in. That depends on who you believe, he said, his voice low as he motioned to a very unhappy elderly man sitting right across from them. Sylvania over there says it’s hell, ’cause that woman wearing curlers and the blue nightgown next to him is his ex-wife. Don’t ask why they got divorced, it gets nasty. He smiled but quickly ran a hand over his face as if to hide his expression. He motioned to another woman wearing a bright purple housedress. Gertrude Talbot says it’s heaven ’cause her bad hip isn’t hurting. And Mr. Jefferson, he pointed to an African American gentleman sitting still with his hands folded in his lap, says it’s purgatory. He’s Catholic, by the way.

When he finished talking, a memory flashed across Chloe’s mind. The little girl in pink. Lucy. Lucy running into the street. A black truck racing forward.

She gasped and placed a trembling hand over her mouth. Had the little girl lived? Please let her be alive. "Oh, God."

Where? said one of the little ol’ ladies, rousing as if she’d been half asleep. Where’s God?

Chloe looked at the woman. No, I just . . . sorry. Then she looked back at the guy, heart still pounding. What do you believe? she asked.

I was leaning toward believing Edward’s hell theory until you walked in. He grinned and Chloe couldn’t believe he was flirting with her. Now, I’m thinking maybe Susie’s on to something. It could be heaven. His smile widened.

Oh, fiddlesticks, said another gray-haired old lady pointing her cane at the man sitting next to her.

That’s Beatrice Bacon, the guy next to her whispered. Don’t say anything about the name.

This ain’t heaven, hell, or purgatory, Beatrice continued. This is the waiting room.

The waiting room to what? asked an old man, whose bald head was so shiny that Chloe could see the whirling fan above reflecting on it.

She leaned forward to make sure she heard the woman’s answer.

The waiting room to the other side, the little old lady said. And if it ain’t your time, you go back. Right now you all are on hold.

And you’re not? the woman wearing purple asked.

Beatrice just shrugged.

So I’m not dead, but I may be dying? Chloe’s breath caught and she leaned back in her chair and looked at the guy sitting next to her. I’m dreaming, aren’t I? she asked ‘Johnny,’ wanting and needing him to say it was true.

I’ve considered that a possibility, too.

She recalled again running out in front of the truck to get the little girl. She didn’t regret it, but she fought the emotion swelling in her chest at the thought of what this might mean.

Was this really the end? Was this just a crazy dream? Was she really in a waiting room to see if she lived or died?

A knot formed in her throat and she tried swallowing it.

Hey, the Depp-looking character said. It’s gonna be okay. He leaned over and bumped her with his shoulder.

The touch, his touch, sent a jolt of raw emotion right to her heart. And bam, she was watching this man standing in an alley. A black pickup came hurtling right at him, he dove over a car, and then popping sounds echoed, and bits and pieces of asphalt started flying around.

She saw him land on the other side of the car and pull his leg up to his chest. Blood, lots and lots of blood, squirted from the wound.

She gasped and jerked. As soon as his shoulder shifted from her, the vision stopped and she was staring right at him.

Friggin’ hell, he said, shaking his head as if he’d experienced something as well.

Watch your mouth, young man, the elderly lady on the right said. If this is the end, I don’t want your bad language tainting my passage to heaven. Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. She held her hands up and closed her eyes.

Chloe blinked and stared at the Johnny Depp lookalike, who appeared as puzzled as she felt. You were shot, she whispered, somehow not questioning what she’d seen as the truth.

You were hit by a truck. He exhaled. A black Chevy just like . . .

This is crazy, she said.

No shit, he agreed and then laughed as if he just remembered something.

What? she asked.

He hesitated, shrugged, and then leaned closer and whispered, Bob? You’ve got a Bob?

Cary watched her eyes widen. Don’t, she seethed.

What? he asked, still grinning. When she glared at him, he pushed a hand over his face to wipe the smile away. But damn it, he preferred focusing on sex to all the other craziness.

Sex he understood. Sex he liked. And he liked her—whoever she was. This, this place, whatever this was, was crazy, and he didn’t understand it. And yet he felt as if he could understand her. Why was that? Why did a stranger feel so . . . familiar?

How did that happen? she asked.

What? he asked, still stuck on the strange feeling when he glanced up and saw her standing in the middle of the room.

That? she said. Me seeing you and you seeing me? Is it because you touched me?

Good question, he said and reached for her hand.

She pulled away.

Don’t you want to know?

She frowned. But, then hesitantly, she slipped her palm in his.

Her soft palm melted against his. A current of electrical emotion stirred in his chest. The stirring, the feel of her hand, had him back to wondering why she felt familiar. The next thing he knew, he saw her sitting at a table with a man. She was laughing at something the man said. She was happy. He studied the smile on her lips, so perfect, so . . . innocent, it almost hurt to look at it.

Then the guy dropped to his knee and pulled a little black ring box from his coat pocket.

Cary studied the look of sheer joy in her eyes. She loved the guy. Tears, not bad tears, but happy tears, filled her eyes and she said something to the guy on his knees. Cary couldn’t hear what she said, but he could tell from her expression, she was going to say yes.

Suddenly, the image started to fade. And he realized she’d pulled her hand