True Colors: Cupid's Cafe, #4

By Landra Graf

An invitation to Cupid's Café will change your life.

Five years ago, Rose Roberts won a Pulitzer prize—and nearly lost her life at the hands of a stalker. After severe anxiety derailed everything, she is about to lose her career and her stalker is on the loose.

Following the murders of his wife and daughter, ex-cop, Jeffrey Dixon, finds himself in need of a windfall to save his home from foreclosure. Searching for a solution, he doesn't expect to run into the woman who made his loved ones' killer an overnight celebrity. Or to be offered a job.

Rose, now desperate, is willing to pay whatever price, if he'll agree to act as her bodyguard and be the subject of her next article. Without any other prospects, Jeff accepts her job offer and moves in.

Becoming emotionally entangled with a woman who wrecked his grieving process is the last thing he wants, but as weeks drag on and the threat from Rose's stalker becomes very real, Jeff finds his protective instincts triggered. He won't lose someone again.

As their attraction grows and their barriers drop the exposure will leave them questioning everything they hold on to.

Sometimes, the only way to see someone's truth is to expose the things they fear most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Dec 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781949931365

Landra Graf

Landra Graf consumes at least one book a day, and has always been a sucker for stories where true love conquers all. She believes in the power of the written word, and the joy such words can bring. In between spending time with her family and having book adventures, she writes romance with the goal of giving everyone, fictional or not, their own happily ever after.

Book preview

True Colors

Cupid’s Café #4

Landra Graf

THE CHARACTERS AND events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

IF YOU PURCHASE THIS book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

TRUE COLORS

Cupid’s Café #4

Copyright © 2019 Landra Graf

All rights reserved.

ISBN: (EBOOK) 978-1-949931-36-5

INKSPELL PUBLISHING

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

EDITED BY AUDREY BOBAK

Cover art By Najla Qamber

THIS BOOK, OR PARTS thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication

To Grandma Sally, for the books, the memories, and every adventure we ever had.

Chapter One

AT MIDNIGHT, ROSE ROBERTS picked up her cell and did the best thing she could to soothe her frantic mind. She called her boss, Robbie. She didn’t expect an answer but to roll on to voicemail and leave one of her typical rambling messages.

Following the second ring, she heard his growly voice. Rose, what do you want?

Except, she should have remembered he’d always answer. They’d agreed, after her big situation, he’d be available to her any time day or night. She didn‘t have too many friends in Louisville, and her mother long ago gave up the idea of living in the Appalachians for a fancy high rise in Manhattan with an even fancier husband. Had a stroke of genius sitting here. Water quality, fresh water in America. That’s something. You can send me to Flint, and I’ll work into other places from there. Get brutally honest about the crappy job the government, local, state, and federal are doing to secure a basic freedom of the American people. First-world countries shouldn’t have to deal with this.

So, you want to attack the government now?

She took a deep breath and then continued. I want to get back into it, the job. On the road, meaty interviews, letting my creativity fly across the keyboard. What better way than to attack another institution that’s hurting rather than helping.

At least then she couldn’t think, couldn’t sit alone in her apartment and let anxiety get the better of her. Contemplation turning to the worry of someone out there watching her. There were five more excuses or ideas she could come up with. No doubt they wouldn’t get her any closer to feeling comfortable.

What’s really going on, Rose?

No clue what you are talking about. You mentioned in our last meeting I should get a new project going, start thinking of topics. This is me. Thinking. She twirled in her office chair once more before staring around at the room. Everything white, white curtains, white desk, white leather swivel chair, white Mac... She liked it clean, pristine, and so unlike her muddy, rapid-fire thoughts.

Robbie sighed. She could picture him scratching his head, internally cursing her to perdition. He probably regretted ever agreeing to Dr. Solare’s suggestion that he be her person, outside of therapy. She appreciated talking to the doctor, but she’d already called the damn woman twice today. It didn’t change things and barely calmed her down. Queue option two.

Then tell me what you’re really thinking about, not this crazy idea of flying out to somewhere for a story.

He’s out.

YMCA?

Yes. They’d developed the code, something innocuous she could say without saying it, without evoking horrible memories. A form of word association without the direct engagement.

Another sigh. How did you find out?

The arresting officer called me. Thought I should be made aware or maybe he had to make me aware... I don’t really remember. She took a few deep breaths, the tightness in her chest overwhelming. Maybe it was time to take the Xanax her therapist suggested, time to check the locks on the windows behind her. Facing them, looking out into the street, dark corners. Places where someone could hide. Lord, this isn’t helping.

She stood up and peeked out the curtain into the courtyard of her apartment complex. Shadows loomed everywhere, perfect hiding spots for stalkers hell-bent on getting revenge.

Rose? Are you there? Robbie’s voice got through.

It’s a little hard to breathe. After grabbing her pill bottle from the top desk drawer, she wrestled the cap open, slipped two fingers around one milky white capsule, and popped it into her mouth. A couple gulps of water and it was down.

Are you popping pills?

Just a prescribed Xanax.

Get away from the windows, out of the office. Go lie down. The words were said with that clear, concise, and no-nonsense boss voice.

This isn’t going to get me back in the office, is it? she asked as she lay down on her giant white comforter-covered bed, sinking into her feather pillows.

We’re not talking about work right now. Let’s talk about who the hell told you about YMCA.

Funny how he changed the topic. I told you, the cop on my case, he called...a courtesy thing or something. Called me a little after dinner and said YMCA is out of the psychiatric facility. I already reached out to Dr. Solare, but I couldn’t...

Damn, and he couldn’t have called in the morning? It’s okay, I’m glad you called me.

Ooh, she doubted it. Who wanted to hear from a once-prized investigative journalist turned paranoid freak? You say that every time and I know it’s a lie.

The truth is I’m glad you called somebody and as your closest friend, I did volunteer as tribute. Besides, you getting better only equals more success for me.

She inevitably knew what came next. I already took my pills and all that jazz, but I don’t want to be alone. How do I fix that? Can’t go another night staring out my windows and shit. Maybe I should ask for a sleeping pill prescription.

If you think that’s wise. But, maybe, instead of another prescription, you should get a roommate or some security?

She chuckled. Funny, ha ha. Let’s team up someone with my crazy self. I don’t think anyone would last ten minutes with my book-hoarding, hermit-like tendencies, or my need for medication. Living with her own with anxiety was one thing, sharing the freak show she’d become with other people was an entirely different story.

I’m serious. There’s a bunch of security companies in the area. I can screen a few, see if they have someone to fit what you need.

Robbie, shit. Going above and beyond the call. If the bastard wasn’t already severely hung up on his ex-wife, she’d have laid claim to him. Besides getting her a therapist recommendation, he’d made sure she got full leave of absence benefits and a host of other help. He was too good to her, and she didn’t need to burden him. She took a deep breath, hesitating for a second to see if her chest would tighten. It didn’t. I can find my own security. You’ve done enough.

I said I would be there for you.

She exhaled slowly. The pill was working. Yes, and being there for me is for shit like this when I’m freaking out. You help calm me down. Now what about that article? The water quality piece?

How about you try to sleep, keep the lights on, and call me tomorrow?

Tomorrow being Monday, only a few more days before her LOA ran out, before she’d have to either get an assignment or start digging into her savings...or worse, the murder trust fund.

Fine, boss. Sleep tight.

She scrunched her eyes shut after she hung up and tossed her phone on the bed next to her. All the lights were on, lamps in the living room, office, kitchen, her bedroom lamps. Glancing over at her bathroom door, she jumped up and turned the light on in there too. Just in case. Lights deterred people. At least in her anxious brain that made sense. Lying back down, she took a few more measured breaths, slow and steady, before putting a pillow over her face.

Her therapist had recommended multiple calming exercises; ways to quiet the mind, and only one worked for her...put the files away. Her mind was a giant filing room, and in the center, she sat on a pillow, all those files, papers swirling in the air above her, and as she breathed, they would find their place all on their own, disappearing into the cabinets. As the files dissipated, so did her stress, her bad thoughts, worries, everything.

Then her bed vibrated as her phone let loose a chime. The combination had Rose launching up to a standing position, heart pounding in her chest all over again. Stupid, stupid. It’s nothing. A look down the hall, and she froze, half-bent at the waist as she tried to see out into her living room. Two steps backward got her an eye on the kitchen entrance. Seconds, maybe minutes, passed before she dared to move. Enough time for her phone to chime a second time and get her attention again.

Marching over to the other side of the bed, she grabbed the phone off the comforter and took a deep breath. She needed to quit fearing inanimate objects and dumb things like a phone alert. Her home screen showed an email with the subject line: Join a friend at Cupid’s Café. Creepsome and odd. She had to open it, even if just to make sure YMCA hadn’t already broken the rules.

An acquaintance seeks to renew their connection.

Come sip a cold beverage, taste the Mediterranean, and be inspired at Cupid’s Café.

No special attire is required. Come as you are two days from now at noon. Our establishment sits on the corner of Bardstown Rd. and Eastern. A once-in-a-life, second-chance opportunity you won’t want to miss.

Sincerely, Mr. Heart

Her eyes scanned the message two more times, pulse increasing with each read. Who needed cardio when she could get herself into a blood-pounding frenzy by reading? An acquaintance could be anyone, including her stalker. Fuck the extra pill, the phone calls; she would be up all night.

JEFFERY DIXON PULLED into his driveway and sighed as he put the truck in park before resting his head against his hands on the steering wheel. Another night at a local club. How these people—so many of them assholes—could party on Sunday nights always amazed him. He’d be facing a bitch-out session in the morning from his boss for sure.

I can’t keep doing this, Darcy. It gets harder and harder each day not to bust someone’s face in. The words were lost on the empty cab, reminding him his wife would never be able to respond again. But she would have reminded him that alcohol made those people act weird, to be empathic and patient...like a parent. But thanks to his poor choices, he wasn’t a parent anymore either.

He got out of the truck and walked down the long driveway. His detached garage was closed, the lock in place. Naturally, he scanned for other signs of mischief, disruption to the flowers in the bed at the front of the house, the autumnal wreath hanging on the door. He searched for anything out of place.

The light coming from the kitchen window hit his red alert button.

Slowing his steps, he moved closer to the outside of the house and crept along until he reached the back corner. A quick pivot and he stood in front of the back door. He opened the screen, crouched down to keep himself from being seen in the double-paned window. The door opened without a key. Launching from the squat, he came up, gun drawn and pointed at the perp cooking breakfast on his center-island, kitchen stovetop.

Morning, douchebag. His brother Adam didn’t even bother looking at him, one hand in an egg carton. Holster the gun and get in here for some breakfast. I got steak finishing off in the oven and some eggs. Scrambled or over easy?

Jeff rolled his eyes, the effect wasted on his big brother. Scrambled with steak, always.

The gun went back into its holster, and Jeff removed his duty belt as he came fully into the house. After the funeral, he’d given Adam a key in case anything went wrong so he could check on the house when Jeff wasn’t around. The door got shut, locked, and the belt hung on the wall coat rack beside it, at least for now. The belt would eventually get moved to his bedroom when it was time to crash.

How was work?

Jeff decided to grab a beer before he answered that. The clock blinked two am. The power went off at some point.

Adam glanced at him and then went back to cracking eggs. Thunderstorm. Happened around eight. We had a bunch of calls. Grab me one of those beers too. And not one of those craft things you get like a hipster, just some plain ol’ piss water.

Fine. Piss water it is. He grabbed two Millers and checked a few items like the cheese and milk, making sure they were still cold. Closing the door, he caught sight of the last art project his daughter had given him, a detailed drawing of the deer they’d spotted while on a hike. Next to the image was the booth photo slide of Darcy and Jolene, both hugging him tight. They were all grins, all giggles. All ridiculous and relaxed and without a clue that their time together was only a week away from ending.

Brother, I’m thirsty, open the beer. Adam’s words jogged Jeff’s brain back to working order.

The cap came off with an easy twist, and he passed the bottle to his brother. Eggs sizzled in the pan, and Jeff guzzled down half the bottle with ease. The malted beverage failed to do anything beyond quench thirst.

You’re probably wondering why I’m here? Adam paused.

Jeff looked from the kitchen entrance, down the hall, and straight at the front door. The locks were in place, the curtains drawn over the big living room windows. Darcy’s afghan blanket was still draped over the back of their tan microfiber couch. You’re here to check on me.

Well...yeah, it’s been like a week. No phone calls. Not even a text.

I don’t like texting. He found the new age-y, shortened words with letters silly crap, a reminder of Jolene he didn’t want. She’d just gotten a phone before everything fell apart. He and Darcy had been encouraging their daughter to communicate in full sentences.

Adam grabbed the knob on the stove and turned it off. You can’t go incommunicado for more than five days and not expect a surprise visit.

Out of habit, Jeff set his beer on the table and grabbed a pair of plates from the off-white, eggshell-colored cabinet with the pink glass knobs to the right of the sink. The kitchen he and his wife had re-done together. The island was a new feature to free up more space, with lots of beautiful wooden cabinets, painted with the new knobs. The white plates matched with pink scrolling lines around the outer edge. He grabbed forks too, the old kind, reliable and built to last centuries. These pieces were from Darcy’s mother, a gift when they’d got married. Every day was like this, filled with memories of his dead wife and daughter.

The plates were set there across from the stovetop, the other half of the island a breakfast bar with two stools. Adam dished out the eggs and the steak and got the hot sauce out of the fridge. It was a requirement to have hot sauce at every meal.

As he liberally added it to his eggs, Adam stared at him. His brother’s eyes, judging and evaluating and using those cop senses to make sure his brother wasn’t in a bad place. Those first weeks,