Barefoot in the Rain

Book 2: Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St. Claire

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

They say you can never go home again . . . When "Life Coach to the Stars" Jocelyn Bloom is embroiled in scandal, the only place she can hide is the one place she wishes she could forget. She left Barefoot Bay-and the boy next door who knew all her secrets-years ago. Now nothing about the tiny island off the coast of Florida is quite how she remembers it, especially Will Palmer. He's even more gorgeous and tempting . . . and still capable of turning her world inside out. But what if someone is waiting for you? To Will Palmer, Guy Bloom is more than the elderly, senile neighbor he looks after-he's the last connection to Jocelyn, the woman Will loved and lost. But the reunion with Jocelyn doesn't go smoothly. Shocked by the change in her father's personality, Jocelyn struggles to reconcile her dark childhood with the sweet, confused man who has grown close to Will. Jocelyn has guided countless clients to happiness-but can she escape the rainy days of her past for a new sunny future with Will?

Release date: October 30, 2012

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 438

Sample

“Barefoot in the Sand—the first in Roxanne St. Claire’s new Barefoot Bay series—is an all-around knockout and soul-satisfying read. I loved everything about this book—the indomitable heroine, the hot hero, the lush tropical setting, and secondary characters I can’t wait to read more about. Roxanne St. Claire writes with warmth and heart, and the community she’s built in Barefoot Bay is one I want to revisit again and again and again.”

—Mariah Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of the Chesapeake Diaries

“Lovely, lush, and layered—this story took my breath away. Rich, believable characters, multilayered plot, gorgeous setting, and a smokin’ hot romance. One of the best books I’ve read all year.”

—Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author

“I enjoyed the typical mother/teen relationship Lacey had with Ashley—so comfortable and believable. Lacey is older than Clay, but the difference never matters. The chemistry between them is scorching hot. I adored her friends and I’m looking forward to their stories as well. Barefoot in the Sand is a wonderful story with plenty of heat, humor, and heart!”

—USAToday.com

“4 ½ stars! St. Claire, as always, brings a scorching tear-up-the-sheets romance combined with a great story: dealing with real issues starring memorable characters in vivid scenes. Best of all, since this is book one in the Barefoot Bay series, there’s more to come.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Roxanne St. Claire hits a homerun with Barefoot in the Sand… It is impossible not to be completely enthralled from page one of this outstanding story… You just have to read this beautiful story to find out why I love these characters so much!… Lacey has some really cool chicks as friends and they each have mysterious pasts that I cannot wait to dig into.”

—JoyfullyReviewed.com

“There is nothing I didn’t love about this book, from the wacky secondary characters to Lacey and Clay themselves… With a cast of zany troubled friends and neighbors, this book will have you dreaming of love all while picturing yourself on a sandy beach with the waves tickling your toes… I cannot wait to return to Barefoot Bay.”

—GoodReads.com

“I loved and adored this book… such a fun, lighthearted, and super sexy read… I just know that St. Claire is going to rock the rest of the series, especially if this first book is any indication… Fans of Jill Shalvis, Carly Phillips, and Susan Mallery will definitely want to check out this series! I give Barefoot in the Sand an A!”

—TheBookPushers.com



August 1997

“I know why they call this a comforter.” Jocelyn pulled the tattered cotton all the way up to her nose, taking a sniff right over the Los Angeles Dodgers logo.

Will didn’t look up from stuffing socks into the corners of his suitcase. “Why’s that, Joss?”

“Because…” She took a noisy, deep inhale. “It smells like Will Palmer.”

Slowly, he lifted his head, a sweet smile pulling at his face, a lock of dark hair falling to his brow. Lucky hair. Jocelyn’s fingers itched to brush it back and linger in the silky strands.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “It stinks of sweat, grass, and a hint of reliability?”

“No.” She sniffed again. “It smells like comfort.”

He straightened, rounding the suitcase to take a few steps closer to the bed, leveling her with eyes the same color as the Dodger-blue blanket. “You’re welcome to take it to Gainesville. My mom bought me a whole new set of that stuff for the apartment.”

“I’m sure it would be the envy of my roommates.” Girls she didn’t even know, except as names on a piece of paper sent to her by a resident adviser named Lacey Armstrong. Would Zoe Tamarin and Tessa Galloway be her friends? Would they make fun of her for bringing the next-door neighbor’s comforter to her dorm room next week?

“Do you want it?” he asked, the question touchingly sincere.

“No, I don’t need it,” she replied. “I need…” The word stuck. Why couldn’t she just say it, tell him, be honest with her best friend in the whole world who was leaving for college—a different college—tomorrow morning? “You.”

He did a double take like he wasn’t sure he’d caught that one-syllable whisper. “That’s a very un-Jocelyn-Bloom-like admission.”

“I’m practicing to be the new me.”

“I hope you don’t change too much up there at UF. I like you just the way you are.”

I like you. I like you.

Lately, those three words were being tossed around like his baseballs during practice. It was almost as if she and Will wanted to say more. But they couldn’t. That would change everything in the delicate tightrope of friendship and attraction they’d walked for all these years.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, “you’re the one who’s going to change. Living off campus, traveling with the University of Miami baseball team, fending off those pro offers.”

“Please, you sound like my dad now.”

“I’m serious. No one will recognize the golden boy of Mimosa Key when he comes home at Thanksgiving.”

“You’re the one with a full academic ride and so many scholarships you’re making money going to school, Miss Four-Point-Six Smartypants.”

“You’re the one who’s going to be on a box of Wheaties someday, Mr. MVP of State Championships.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shit, now you really sound like my dad.” Shaking his hair back, he came a little closer and propped on the side of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. “So what about Thanksgiving?”

“What about it?”

“You coming back home, Bloomerang?”

Her heart did a little roll and dive at the nickname he’d given her years ago.

Jocelyn Bloom-erang, he called her. Because you always come back to me, he’d say after she’d been MIA for a few days. But the truth was, she had no real reason to come back to this barrier island hugging the coast of Florida. Except him, and he was headed for bigger and better things.

In answer to his question she just shrugged, not wanting to lie and really not wanting to ask a question of her own: Would he ever consider taking her with him on his journey to fame and fortune?

“You’re not coming back, are you?” he asked.

“I… might.” She locked her elbow and let her head fall on her shoulder, hiding behind the hair falling over her face. “You know how things are.”

He stroked her cheek and smoothed that fallen hair over her shoulder. “I know how things are.”

They didn’t have to say more than that. Ever since the Palmers had built this addition to their house so their star-athlete son could have a gym attached to his bedroom, he’d also had a front-row, second-story seat to the drama unfolding at the Bloom house next door. The windows behind his power-lifting station let in light—and noise.

He’d heard enough to know what happened next door. That was why he left the door at the bottom of the steps open, so Jocelyn could slip up to the safety and comfort of her best friend’s loft.

And she had, so many, many times.

“Your mom will miss you,” he said, his voice surprisingly tight.

“My mom…” She wanted to say mom would be fine, but they both knew better. “Was born without a spine.”

“Which means she’ll miss you even more.”

“I’m not the parent-pleaser you are, Will. Well, I can’t please him, obviously, and I don’t need to please her. She refuses to leave him and, you know, half the time I think she feels like she deserves what she gets.”

He didn’t respond; what could he possibly say? Jocelyn’s dad was a ticking time bomb and no one ever knew when the fuse would blow. All they knew was that her mother would end up bruised. Or worse. And, honestly, it was only a matter of time until that fist made contact with Jocelyn.

“But I do have a spine,” Jocelyn said, lifting her chin. “And next week can’t come fast enough for me.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Sadness? Pity? Longing? “I wish Miami didn’t start a week earlier than Florida.”

“You’re ready,” she said. “You’ve outgrown the shrine.”

He laughed at her favorite name for his loft. Did he know that when she said that, she meant a different kind of shrine—a sanctuary? That was what it was for her. This second-story suite might be his workout room and bedroom, but it was her safe harbor; the sight of his gazillion trophies and framed newspaper articles always made her feel safe and secure from the mess next door that was her home.

Or maybe it was just the broad, strong shoulders of a boy who always let her lean on him that made her feel so safe and secure here.

She realized he was looking directly at her, his expression serious, his hand still resting against her neck.

“What?” she asked.

Without answering, he tunneled his fingers into her hair, inching her closer. “It’s our last night, Jossie,” he whispered. “And I’m going to miss the hell out of you.”

Warmth curled through her, unholy and unfamiliar—no, it was familiar enough, especially in the last few months They’d been dancing around this all summer, both too scared to tear the safety net of their friendship and do what they were thinking about constantly.

They’d almost talked about it. Almost kissed. Frequently touched. And every time they parted, Jocelyn felt twisted and tortured and achy in places that had never ached.

His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he tried to swallow. Unable to resist, she touched that masculine lump on his throat.

“When I met you, Will, you didn’t have one of these.”

A smile threatened. “I didn’t have a lot of things I have now.”

“Like this manly stubble.” She brushed her hand along the line of his jaw, his soft teenage whiskers ticking her knuckles.

“Or these massive guns.” He grinned and lifted his arm, flexing to show off a very impressive catcher’s bicep.

Then his eyes dropped from her face to her chest. “Speaking of things someone didn’t have.”

She felt her color rise and, oh, Lord, her nipples puckered. There was the ache again.

“Will…” She looked down, directly at the sight of a shockingly big tent in his jeans. He hadn’t had that when he’d moved in seven years ago.

She stared at the bulge, her throat dry, her chest tight, her hands itchy. Dear God, she wanted to touch him.

“Jossie,” he whispered, trailing a finger up her throat and across her bottom lip, sending fireworks from her scalp to her toes and a whole lot of precious places in between. “I don’t want to leave without…”

She looked up at him, his face so near now she could count his sinfully long black lashes. “You think it’s time…” She took a slow breath. “That we…”

“It’s not about time,” he said, a hitch in his voice nearly undoing her. “You have to know how I feel about you.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m your best friend,” she said quickly. “The girl next door. The only person in town who doesn’t swoon at the sight of your number thirty-one on the cover of the Mimosa Gazette.”

She thought he’d smile, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes. “You’re so much more than that.”

Was she? God, she wanted to be. She really, really wanted to be. But if this friendship was ruined, then what?

They’d hugged a million times. They’d kissed on the cheek. They even made out a few times when they were fifteen, but then he started dating some dimwit cheerleader. Everything physical had stopped, but their friendship and his unspoken offer of an escape from the hell of her home kept on going.

But this summer, with college looming and the clock ticking and hormones raging and—

He kissed her. One soft, sweet, gentle kiss and everything in her body just melted.

“Joss,” he murmured into her mouth. “I have to ask you something.”

She backed away, the seriousness of the question scaring her. “What?”

“I need to know how you feel about me.”

She almost laughed. “How I feel about you?” Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he tell? He was everything to her—her rock, her crutch, her soft place to fall. Her hero, her fantasy, her one and only. “Will, I… I…”

“I love you, Joss.” His eyes welled up with the words, making them twenty times more sweet and perfect.

She cupped his jaw, searching eyes the color and depth of the Gulf of Mexico they’d spent so many hours swimming in over the last seven years. The words were on her lips, as warm and sweet as his kiss. But something stopped her. Something deep inside held on to those words and wouldn’t let them out.

“I love you,” he repeated, having no such problem.

Did he? Did he really love her? Love was so tenuous. Hadn’t she heard those very words spoken to her mother and, ten minutes later, the smack of a palm against flesh?

His hand slipped out of her hair, down the column of her neck, over her breastbone. “Jocelyn, I’m dying here.”

For love or…

He eased her back on the bed, covering her with his body.

Sex.

Was he dying for her to say I love you or…

He nuzzled into her neck, kissing her lightly, each touch of his lips like a little firebrand on her skin that made everything tight and hot and needy. The comforter balled up between them, lumpy but not thick enough to block out the pressure of his body.

He rocked his hips slowly first, then a little faster. Colors flashed behind her eyes at the intensity of the pleasure. Fiery ribbons of need and heat curled between her legs as she met each beat of his hips.

Grabbing the comforter, he yanked it away, throwing it to the side so he could get closer to her. All she could hear was the loud huffs of breath, both of them panting already as they found a rhythm. A rhythm of kissing, touching, rubbing, riding.

“Will…”

“Is it okay, Joss? Tell me it’s okay.” He nearly growled the words into her throat, kissing her as one hand—one shaking, large, masculine, beloved hand—slid over her cotton tank and settled on her breast.

She gasped at the shock of the sensation, making him lift his head. “You all right?”

“Yes. That feels good.” She barely mouthed the words, her eyes damn near rolling back into her head it felt so amazing. His hand was so big he covered her whole breast, palming her until her nipple felt like it would pop.

His other hand went under her top, over her stomach, into her bra, touching, touching, touching.

“Oh my God,” he moaned, pumping harder against her. “I can’t believe how amazing you feel.”

She couldn’t answer, too lost in the newness, the strangeness, the complete wonder of Will’s calloused, strong hand on her skin. His whole body quivered, and she knew he was as overcome as she was.

“Take it off,” he pleaded, struggling with the top. “Take it off.”

He pulled the T-shirt over her head, pushing up the bra without bothering to unsnap it, her breasts so small they popped right out.

He stared at her, searing her skin with the intensity of his focus. “Just like I imagined.”

“You imagined?”

“Jocelyn, seriously? Do you not think I—”

“Don’t.” She put her hand on his mouth. “Don’t tell me. Just… keep going.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, driven by the need that burned low in her belly and deep in her chest.

This was inevitable, really.

All these hours in this room, together. She’d go home and kiss her pillow, touch herself, imagine Will’s fingers and mouth and his…

She slid her hand between them, closing over the hard shaft in his jeans, making him grunt with surprise and pleasure. He kissed her chest again, moving from one breast to the other, fumbling with her shorts.

“I have a condom,” he whispered between ragged breaths. “Want me to get it?”

“In a minute, yeah.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Are you a virgin, Will?”

Still for a second, he finally admitted, “Um, not exactly.”

“I am.”

She heard him swallow hard. “I figured that. I won’t hurt you, Jocelyn. I love you.”

He loved her.

“Tell me,” he urged, tugging at her zipper. “Tell me you love me.”

“I will.” When he was inside her. When they were one. Then she would tell him. “Just don’t stop.”

“Not a chance.” He slipped his hand into her panties and she almost screamed when his finger touched her. “I love you so much, Jossie.” Inside. “I love you.” Deeper. “I love you. You have no idea how much… oh, damn, you feel good.”

Heat coursed through her as she rolled into his palm, lost in his words, his hands, his beautiful, beautiful—

“You goddamn fucking bastard!”

The whole room vibrated with the shout as Jocelyn screamed and Will leaped off her, both turning to meet the blazing gray eyes of Guy Bloom.

“Get off her!” Guy’s barrel chest heaved with fury, stretching his sheriff’s uniform as he marched closer, already lifting his arm to a position she knew all too well.

“No, Dad, no!” Jocelyn screamed, jumping up, grabbing at her bra to pull it down.

But it was too late. Her father glowered at her, his face red, spittle at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“No!” She got the cups over her breasts just as Will stepped in front of her, arms outstretched.

“Deputy Bloom, please, I’m really sorry—”

Guy shoved him to the side to get to Jocelyn. “You whore! You cheap, trashy whore!”

“No, Dad, I’m not—” The crack of his palm snapped her head back.

“Stop it!” Will pushed him, hard enough to make the older man stumble.

He dropped his head, nostrils flaring like a bull as he stared at Will. “You touching an officer of the law, young man?”

“Don’t hit her.”

Guy wiped some sweat from his upper lip, his attention fully on Will now as they stared each other down. Will’s fists pumped, his jaw clenched.

Oh, God. Oh, God. “Don’t, Will, please.”

He never even looked at her. “Don’t you touch her.” Will’s voice was little more than a growl.

“You want to take me, boy?”

Will just stared.

Guy took a step closer, highlighting the fact that he was a good four inches shorter and thirty years older than his enemy. Will could kill him.

“Please, Will.” She started to stand and Guy shoved her back on the bed.

It was all Will needed. He lunged at Guy, who ducked fast and whipped out his pistol.

Jocelyn screamed. “No, no!”

Thick fingers curled around the trigger of a gun she’d seen a million times on the counter. A gun even he never had the nerve to pull out when he lost his temper.

Will froze.

“There will be no skin off my back if I shoot the boy who attacked my daughter.”

“He didn’t—”

“Shut up, you little whore!” The words echoed through the loft, so wrong in this place of safety, like a curse screamed in a church.

“Or better yet, why don’t I just put an end to that superstar baseball career of yours? One phone call.” He snorted as if he liked the idea. “One phone call from the sheriff’s office to the University of Miami and you can hang up your cleats, you little prick.” Guy broke into an evil, ugly smile. “Rapists don’t get scholarships. Rapists don’t get drafted to the big leagues. Rapists go to jail.”

Will still didn’t move. Not even his eyes. Only his chest rose and fell with slow, pained breaths as he surely realized who had the real power in this room.

That was something Jocelyn had known since the first time her dad had what she and her mother called “an episode.” But they learned that the only thing to do, the only thing, was to stay calm until it ended. And take what he dished out.

“Get out, Joss,” her father ordered.

She looked down for her T-shirt and suddenly his big hand was on her arm.

“Never mind clothes, just get out.” He yanked her off the bed.

“Hey!” Will stepped closer, inches from the gun still aimed at her. “Don’t hurt her.”

“I could say the same thing to you, Palmer.” He gave Jocelyn a solid push, still looking at Will. “And believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure than to take you off the fucking pedestal this town has you on and see you rot in jail for raping my daughter.”

“He didn’t rape me!”

The back of Guy’s hand cracked across Jocelyn’s face, his wedding ring making contact with her tooth.

Jocelyn slammed her hand over her mouth to fight a sob.

“Stop it!” Will cried. “You’re a goddamn animal!”

Guy shoved the gun right into Will’s gut, making him double forward with a grunt, his eyes popping in horror.

“No one’s gonna blame a sheriff for killing the kid who dragged his daughter into his room and forced himself on her!”

Another sob escaped Jocelyn’s mouth. “Dad, please, please.” She wept the words, her whole body trembling. “Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

Guy’s shoulders slumped a little as he angled his head to the door. “Go. I’ll take care of you at home.”

“Please,” she cried, grabbing his arm, her near nakedness forgotten. “Don’t shoot him.”

“Go!” he bellowed.

Frightened, she stumbled to the door, turning to take one look at Will when she reached the top of the stairs. His eyes were red-rimmed in fear, his face white, his big, healthy, athletic body at the mercy of a gun six inches from his heart.

She’d done this to him. Her father could destroy Will’s life, everything he’d worked for, all his plans, his future. She loved Will—really, truly loved him—far too much for this.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered before running down the stairs, pausing halfway to grip the railing and listen.

“If you ever, ever go within five feet of my daughter again, I will ruin your name, your face, and your precious fucking arm. You get that?”

Silence.

Squeezing the rail until her knuckles turned white, Jocelyn waited, bracing for a shot, a word, anything.

But there was just silence. Of course Will couldn’t fight for her. Couldn’t risk his life for her. No girl was worth that kind of love.

As long as Guy Bloom was alive, he had the power to ruin Will’s life. The mean, miserable bastard always had the power. So there was only one thing she could do. Let Will go, forever.

She heard Guy’s footsteps and she scrambled to beat him outside, wanting to run across the lawn to their house, hoping to lock herself in the—

He caught up with her at the pool.

“Get in the goddamn house.”

What would he do to her? What did it matter? Nothing could hurt as much as the decision she’d just made. Nothing could hurt as much as losing Will, but she had no other choice. She loved him that much.



Fifteen Years Later

The situation had gone way past dire.

Will stood in the living room of his next-door neighbor’s house and surveyed the mess, the low, dull throbbing that had pounded at the base of his skull since he’d stopped by at lunchtime rapidly escalating into a screaming mother humper of a headache.

Son of a bitch, it was like a pack of wild dogs lived here instead of one confused, pathetic, and forgotten old man who couldn’t remember his own name.

“William!”

But he knew Will’s name and used it often, in that shaky, feeble voice that threaded down the hall right now.

“William, is that you?”

“It’s me, Guy.” On a sigh that shuddered through his whole body, Will stepped over a pile of magazines that had been torn into a million pieces—the new scrapbooking project, no doubt—and picked up a basket of yarn with threads and spools stuffed inside. He put it on a table next to the remnants of the sandwich Will had made Guy for lunch, then headed down the hall.

“I decided to clean out this old closet,” Guy called from one of the extra bedrooms.

This couldn’t be good.

Shit. Clothes were strewn everywhere: men’s suit jackets, women’s dresses, kids’ shorts, and a small mountain of worn shoes. Where the hell did he get all this crap? His wife had been dead ten years now. Hadn’t he cleaned out anything?

“Guy, what are you doing?” Will fought to keep any anger out of his tone. If he so much as raised his voice by one decibel, Guy cried like a baby, and that ripped Will’s heart into pieces.

“I saw a show called Clean House and got this idea.” Guy stood in a walk-in closet holding a pile of what looked to be old blue jeans. His glasses were crooked, his white hair tufted and messy, his blue knit pullover stained from something red. Punch or Red Zinger tea, probably.

He’d made tea? “Did you remember to turn the stove off?”

“I might have. I was really enjoying this show on that decorating channel. Big black woman gettin’ all in your face about cleaning up stuff.” He grinned, his lemony teeth a testament to years of stinking up the local sheriff’s office with the stench of Marlboros. And yet he lived while his wife had been the one buried by cancer. And his daughter…

Will pushed that thought out of his head.

“I think she was named Nicey. Smart lady.”

Will just stared at him. “Who are you talking about?

“The lady on TV,” Guy said. “She says the secret to happiness is a clean house.”

Will glanced around at the piles of crap. “Looks like you’re a long way from happiness in this house.”

“That’s the thing, Will! That’s the thing about the show. This crew comes in and takes your house apart, sells your stuff in a yard sale, and cleans it so everything is perfect.”

“Everything was perfect,” Will said, picking up a bright-yellow dress sized for a young girl. Had he ever even seen Jocelyn in this dress? “Why do you still have this stuff?”

Guy gave him his blankest stare, and God knew he had a shitload of different blank stares. “I don’t know, son.”

Son.

Will had long ago stopped trying to convince the old man that was a misnomer. “C’mon, bud. Let’s make you some dinner and get you situated for the night.”

But Guy didn’t move, just kept looking into the closet wistfully. “Funny, I couldn’t find any of your old clothes. Just girl stuff. Your mother must have thrown them out before she died.”

His mother had moved to Bend, Oregon, with his dad. “Yeah, she must have,” he agreed.

“Do you think they’d come here, Will?”

“Who?”

“The Clean House people. They say if you want to be on the show, you just have to call them and tell them you want a clean house.” He dragged out the words, mimicking an announcer. “Would you do that for me?”

“I’ll look into it,” he said vaguely, reaching to guide Guy away from the mess. “How ’bout I heat up that leftover spaghetti for you?”

“Will you call them?”

“Like I said—”

“Will you?” Eyes the steel gray of a cloudy sky narrowed behind crooked glasses on a bulbous nose.

“Why is it so important?”

“Because.” Guy let out a long, sad sigh. “It’s like starting over, and when I look through this stuff it just… makes me feel sad.”

“Some memories do that,” he said.

“Oh, William, I don’t have any memories. I don’t know what half this stuff is.” He picked up a rose-patterned sweater that Will remembered seeing Mary Jo Bloom wear many years ago. “It all just reminds me that I don’t remember. I want a fresh start. A clean house.”

“I understand.” He managed to get Guy down the hall with a gentle nudge.

As he sat down in his favorite recliner, Guy reached for Will’s hand. “You’ll call those people.”

“Sure, buddy.”

In the fridge Will found the Tupperware container of spaghetti, but his mind went back to the yellow dress upstairs.

The thought of Jocelyn pulled at his heart, making him twist the burner knob too hard. He dumped the lump of cold noodles into a pan, splattering the Ragu on his T-shirt.

“Where’s the clicker?” Guy called, panic making his voice rise. “I can’t find the clicker, William! What did you do with it?”

Will pulled open the dishwasher and rolled out the top rack, spying the remote instantly. At least it wasn’t at the bottom of the trash, like last week.

“I’ve got it.” He checked the pan of noodles and took the remote out to Guy, who’d given up and turned on the TV manually, stabbing at the volume button so the strains of Entertainment Tonight blared through the living room.

Again with the crap TV? Alzheimer’s didn’t just rob him of his memories, it changed every aspect of his personality. The bastard county sheriff had turned into a little old lady obsessed with celebrities and home crafts.

Will gently set the remote on Guy’s armrest, getting a grateful smile and a pat on his hand.

“You’re a good son, Will.” Guy thumbed up the volume and the announcer’s voice shook the speaker.

“… with more on this shocking breakup of Hollywood’s happiest couple.”

God help him, couldn’t they watch ESPN for just one lousy dinner? But the trash TV blared with an excited announcer’s voice, hammering at his headache.

“TMZ has identified the ‘other woman’ in the stunning divorce of Miles Thayer and Coco Kirkman as a life coach by the name of Jocelyn Bloom.”

Will froze, then spun around to see the TV, with a “What the hell?” of disbelief trapped in his throat.

“Known as a ‘life coach to the stars,’ Jocelyn Bloom has been working for Coco Kirkman for over a year, giving her daily access and, evidently, much more, to Coco’s movie-star husband, Miles Thayer.”

Will just stared, blinked, then took a step closer. The picture was grainy, taken by a powerful lens at a long distance, but not blurry enough to cast any doubt that he