Reluctant Hearts

By Linda Griffin

Four couples, four stories:
Darien Francis and Richard Li meet during a bank robbery, but she’s afraid to love again.
Shane Kenniston and Beth Parker are reacquainted years after she had a crush on him, but she is a recent widow, and Shane’s life was upended by a false accusation.
David Early and Kate Howard meet in the laundromat, but her life is consumed by the needs of her disabled child, and David isn’t ready for the responsibility.
Realtor Frank Ellison meets Kayla Barnes at an open house, but a mistaken first impression derails any chance of romance.
Can they all overcome the obstacles to love?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509248834

Linda Griffin

Linda Griffin retired as Fiction Librarian for the San Diego Public Library to spend more time on her writing, and her work has been published in numerous journals. In addition to the three R’s—reading ,writing, and research—she enjoys Scrabble, movies, and travel.

Book preview

When she finally stopped, he asked, Do you want to tell me about him?

No. She backed away from him and searched her pockets for a tissue, but of course at this moment, of all times, she didn’t have one. He did, though—a whole box stood on the coffee table—and he gave her one, and she blew her nose. Her mascara was running, and her face must be blotchy and red. This is so humiliating, she said. I never do this. I feel like such an idiot.

Why? It’s perfectly natural. I’m glad to know you’re not so tough.

It’s unprofessional, and it makes me feel ugly. It’s a good thing you’re not attracted to me.

What?

She peered at him, sniffling, and dabbed at her eyes. You’re not, are you?

Which answer will get me in the least trouble? he asked.

She laughed shakily. She felt a lot better. If you were before, you wouldn’t be now. He gave her another tissue, and she managed to get most of the mascara off. He rubbed away a stray smudge with his thumb, and his fingers brushed her cheek. The soft touch was even more comforting than being held in his arms. She closed her eyes.

He kissed her. It was the briefest pressure of his lips against hers, gentle and sweet, but she felt it deep inside. She opened her eyes. His were wide with surprise. I think we just went off the clock, she said.

Praise for Linda Griffin and…

Bridges:

Brilliantly written, this is one of the best books I’ve read this year.

~N.N. Light’s Book Heaven

An engaging and sweet-natured love story featuring an unlikely couple.

~Kirkus Reviews

Thank you, Linda Griffin, for this beautiful and poignant romance.

~Anastasia Abboud, author of Tremors Through Time

~*~

Love, Death, and the Art of Cooking:

…the author has concocted a leading man as sweet and delectable as the meals he cooks.

~InD’Tale Magazine

Reluctant

Hearts

by

Linda Griffin

Four Contemporary Romances

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Reluctant Hearts

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Linda Griffin

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

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Jennifer Greeff

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2023

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4882-7

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4883-4

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my sisters,

first readers and forever friends

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

~Rumi

~*~

Authors’ Note: Since one of these stories concerns a false accusation of sexual assault, I would like to make it clear that I consider that a very rare occurrence and urge readers to believe and support survivors.

Book 1. No Regrets

Chapter One

Monday was a dreadful day from the very beginning. Darien was running late and arrived at the bank later than usual, and of course an armored car was leaving the parking lot and held up traffic exactly long enough to make her miss the light. She sat fuming, tapping her fingers on the wheel. Why was it that when things weren’t going well everything conspired to make them even worse? Why was it so irredeemably Monday?

Finally, the light changed, and she slid into a parking space not too far from the door. She entered Carroll Savings and Loan braced for more frustration. It was the first of the month, so it was more crowded than usual. The security guard, coming from the closed Staff Only door to the right of the lines of waiting customers, gave her a nod and the hint of a smile. He was the younger of the two familiar guards, perhaps thirty, Asian, and attractive in a quiet, conservative way. He took his usual post near the door.

She joined the farthest line from the entrance. It was the shortest, but of course did not move as fast as the other three. Not today. A dense but determined female customer in a garish blue flowered dress was holding things up. Darien willed herself to relax—fretting only wasted energy. She should recite poetry or make a mental list.

A sudden flurry of activity arose to her left, at first too chaotic for her to understand, and then a tall, angular young man was waving a gun—she didn’t know anything about firearms, but it was a big one—and he yelled, This is a stickup! A second man with an even bigger gun stood beyond him. She was aware of a brief, confused moment when the security guard could have taken out one or both robbers, and she glanced back at him. His right hand was on his holstered weapon. "I want all the bank employees on the ground right now, the first robber shouted. The guard hesitated and took his hand off the gun. The lobby was too crowded—too many people were in the way—and now the second robber had him in his sights. Face down! Hands behind your backs! If any alarms go off, somebody is going to die." Darien put her driver’s license, checks, and deposit slip back in her purse. She wanted to be ready to run. Her leg muscles were already tensed with the instinct for flight.

A blonde in a tailored black suit opened the Staff Only door. She had heard the shouting, but not grasped the situation. You! Out here! the tall robber commanded. The tellers disappeared behind the counter, and he climbed on a chair to make sure they followed instructions. The loan officer left his desk on command and awkwardly lay almost at Darien’s feet. The blonde woman glanced around uncertainly and stretched out beside him. A few mutters could be heard, but shocked silence was the norm.

"Customers! Sorry to inconvenience you folks. We are the ninety-nine per cent. I want all of you on your knees right now. Hands on your heads—I need to see all those hands. This is not a good time to reach out and text someone." As several people hurried to comply, he stepped down from the chair, gun pointed toward those still standing.

Darien knelt quickly, her heart pounding even though she was strangely calm. Most of the women dropped their purses, but hers was a shoulder bag, and she was able to keep it close while she interlaced her fingers on top of her head.

While the tall robber was making sure everyone was down and helping an elderly woman with arthritic knees to a chair, the second man advanced threateningly toward the security guard. The guard’s hands were out away from his gun, but he made no effort to get down. Drop your weapon, the second robber ordered. His speech was odd, as if he had an impediment, but his meaning was clear enough. The guard took his gun out of the holster with two fingers and bent to lay it on the ground. The robber kicked it away from him in the direction of the staff door, pulled the guard’s walkie-talkie from his belt, and threw it against the wall. "Get down!" The guard got down, but he didn’t hurry.

Okay, the tall robber said. Good job, everybody. Nobody does anything stupid, nobody gets hurt. Mr. Jones will keep you all company for a few minutes, and I’ll need one volunteer to help me in the vault.

The loan officer opened his mouth, and the robber shouted, SHUT UP! I know she left the door open. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. The woman in the suit started to sniffle. You shut up, too. If any bank employee moves a muscle or opens his or her mouth, Mr. Jones has my permission to shoot. He’s not as patient as I am. Okay, I want a customer—an actual human being—to help me out. How about it, folks? Any volunteers?

Complete silence followed. The robber shook his head and then, moving very quickly, grabbed Darien’s right arm and jerked her to her feet. Her calm disappeared. She flushed with heat, and her head was so light it could have floated away. She looked at the security guard. He was on his stomach like the rest, with his hands behind his back, but his head was turned toward her, watching. She wanted to be sure he understood that she hadn’t volunteered and could testify that she wasn’t a willing accomplice. If she survived this, she didn’t want to go to jail.

The robber kept an iron grip on her arm and pulled her through the staff door. Inside were two open office doors and a short corridor leading to the vault. It was not as large or imposing as bank vaults in caper movies always were. The door was open. The robber checked inside the offices before he shoved her into the vault and let go of her arm. Neither criminal was wearing a mask. They could be identified by many witnesses. Did that mean they were all going to die? It was a surreal thought—I might die today.

One wall held a bank of locked safe deposit boxes, and another had large metal drawers. Her escort gestured with his gun toward two large canvas bags in the corner. Put them right here, he directed. Open up—yeah, like that. You’re quick.

Darien said, Thank you, as if it was a genuine compliment. Her mouth was dry, and her own voice was unfamiliar. Was it always this deep?

The robber opened two of the drawers, pulled out paper-banded stacks of bills, and put them in one of the bags. He gestured with the gun, and she started filling the second one. Large bills only, he said. She took fifties and hundred-dollar bills, the newer ones with distinctive watermarks and a smooth, crisp feel. This will be over in a few minutes, she promised herself. One way or the other. She let her shoulder bag drop to the floor so she could work more quickly. She hoped he wouldn’t take her credit card or her car keys. Replacing them would be such a hassle.

A loud popping noise erupted from the lobby, followed by shouts of protest. The sound resembled the bang of firecrackers, but Darien knew in her gut what it was. What happened? the robber yelled. His voice made her jump, but she kept filling the bag as fast as she could.

Nothing, the one he called Mr. Jones shouted back. I had to shoot the cop.

Shit! This is the last time I do a job with that trigger-happy moron.

She didn’t remind him he had given Jones permission to shoot. Her stomach hurt. The nice, young security guard?

Can you move a little faster, honey?

She worked as fast as she could, and instead of helping he stood back and watched her. She packed the bills in tight, neat stacks so he wouldn’t think she was stinting him, but her fingers were clumsy. Bad days were always like that—nothing worked right.

A woman was sobbing out in the lobby. The robber shook his head. I am having a terrible day, he said. Darien almost laughed. She hoped it wasn’t hysterics. You’re cool, though, aren’t you, honey? She didn’t answer, grabbing stacks of bills and laying them in the bag. She hated being called honey. Hunh? he said. You’re cool, right? Know why I picked you? His tone was insistent, and he added emphasis by shifting the gun closer to her. She knew from countless TV shows that the police would ask her what kind of gun it was. She had no idea. Maybe she could draw a picture. Hey, I’m talking to you.

I’m just trying to—

He shoved the gun under her chin and pushed her against the wall. Darien spread her hands in a gesture of conciliation. Let me finish putting the money in the bags, she said. I want this to be over. Be calm, she told herself. It was what the police always advised, wasn’t it? Be calm, cooperate, humor him. He was very close to her now, and he was sweating, and his eyes had an odd, glassy look. Was he on drugs?

Yeah, okay, he said. She didn’t like the way he was smiling. He kept the gun close to her chin and put his other hand on her breast. She did not like the feeling at all.

Oh, please, she said, and again her own voice surprised her. She sounded bored and disgusted. How original.

I like girls with a little spirit, he said. These are real, hunh? The real deal. He pressed his long, lean body against hers. If she survived, the police would want to know what he looked like, but she couldn’t focus on any distinctive feature. His lips were about an inch from her face. She did not want him to kiss her.

Put down the gun, said a voice from the vault doorway, a calm, controlled, unfamiliar voice. Darien was almost afraid to look. It was the security guard. His left arm hung at his side, and a sickening amount of blood soaked his shirt, but he held his right arm straight out, his pistol pointed at the robber’s back. The gun shifted away from under her chin, and the robber turned, gripping Darien’s arm as if he was about to pull her across in front of him. Her body went rigid with resistance. She did not want to be a hostage.

A loud bang assaulted her ears, and now her clothes had blood on them, and the robber was slumped against her. The gun slid from his grasp with a metallic clatter. Harry? a voice called from the lobby. I mean—Smith? What happened? She shoved Harry away, and he fell on his side on the floor. His body jerked and then was still. She looked up, trembling and sick, at the security guard. Hey! Jones yelled. What happened? Oh, shit, where— His speech impediment was getting worse.

The guard faced the door, gun ready, as if he expected Jones to come in. She took in his short haircut, the shape of his eyes, the cut of his uniform—had she really seen him before? His left sleeve was covered with blood, and it dripped on the floor. Does it hurt? she asked stupidly.

Like a son of a bitch, he said. I hope you have a cell phone.

****

The day didn’t get much better, and she still hadn’t done her banking. The police asked a million questions, and the paramedics insisted on taking her to the hospital to be checked out. She was fine, except for a slight queasiness from the smell of the blood splattered on her clothes, but they wanted to be sure she wasn’t suffering from shock. She did feel a little chilly, but she was almost too calm, evenly balanced between euphoria and survivor guilt. They wanted her to talk to a psychiatrist, too, but let her get away with a referral card so she could follow up on her own. She was questioned again, this time by an FBI agent, a young African-American woman who spoke in a hurried, nervous whisper, as if she’d had too much caffeine. Darien had already repeated her story several times in the same words, but the details were blurring in her mind. She had a few questions of her own, but except for telling her Jones had surrendered peacefully, the agent didn’t have much to say.

When the official interview was over, Darien asked where the security guard was, and the agent directed her to an