A Kiss in the Dark: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance

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Mia frowned at the unfamiliar noise outside the B&B. She peeked through the white lace curtains framing the inn’s bay window and watched a man in leather ride by on a (MOTORCYCLE). He parked the bike a few feet away from the entrance, and when he lifted off his helmet, Mia gasped. He was devastatingly handsome, with a thick stock of unruly dark hair, a bold nose, and the kind of lips that could make a woman think about wicked, wicked things. His muscular thighs flexed as he dismounted the bike, and her heartbeat galloped, the blood racing through her veins suddenly a whole lot warmer.

Grace cocked her head to the side, smiling as she read over what she’d written. It was amazing how easy the words came when she was writing about Seth. She was a slow writer by nature and often struggled over every word, but his appearance seemed to flow with a rhythm all on its own. And it was fun writing about him—fun like it had been in the beginning, before she was caught up in word counts and deadlines and marketing strategies. Writing about him brought back the pure joy of simply writing. It was a welcome change—one she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing.

She went back to work, the scene playing out in her head as she typed. Seth crossing the spacious front porch, the chime of the bell as he opened the door, the fluttering of Mia’s stomach when he approached the reception desk. She gave Mia the warmth she had felt in her own chest when Ryan first smiled at her, that first pulse of instant attraction. Their handshake went on a little longer than normal, and Mia’s breath caught as the heat of his palm warmed hers, a wild flush on her cheeks. It was all so clear in her mind, and the words flowed effortlessly, the tension between Mia and Seth building with every new paragraph.

Her phone buzzed, rudely breaking the spell, and Grace lunged for it, her heart thudding in her ears. There was time when she’d keep her phone off for days, lost in the worlds of her own creation, but now the phone was never far from her hand and every buzz made her cringe and jump. A knot formed in her stomach when she saw who was calling, the dread and fear and worry making her physically ill. She slid the bar across the screen and braced herself for whatever bad news the voice on the other end would deliver. “Hello?”

“Ms. Betancourt?” a coolly professional female voice asked.

Grace closed her eyes. Please don’t be bad. “Yes?”

“This is Andrea Wilcox from Westview Gardens. Your father has had a very minor accident.”

Her stomach lurched, and she clenched her teeth. This could be the nightmare she was always dreading. “Is he hurt?”

“No, not badly. He bumped his head on the way to the bathroom, and he is understandably upset. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” The woman paused. “Of course we were concerned by this incident and we ran some tests. Before you visit him, we’d like to speak with you about altering his level of care. Would you mind stopping by the administrative building when you arrive?”

Grace knew all too well that “altering his level of care” was fancy code for upping the bill. This was the second time since her father had been admitted to the long-term care facility that they’d needed to alter his level of care. Alzheimer's had taken his memory and now it seemed to be taking his basic motor skills as well. When she’d admitted him, she’d wanted to believe they would be able to perform some kind of miracle, maybe help slow down the progression of the disease. Westview Gardens was famous for their recuperative therapies, their brochures boasting they were voted the best residential care facility in the country for five years in a row. If there was any hope for him, it was to be found there. Of course, everything had a price, and in this case, a price no health insurance plan was ever going to pay.

She took a deep breath and rubbed her hand over her forehead in an attempt to soothe away some of the tension. It didn’t work, but it was a nice try. Nowadays, she was made of tension. She glanced at the clock on her computer. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“That’s excellent,” Andrea Wilcox said. “We’ll look forward to your arrival.”

Grace ended the call and instantly went online to the largest car sharing site to see if they had a vehicle free. If not, she’d try somewhere else. She had memberships with all the services and rental agencies. This was not the first phone call she’d received, and she’d learned the hard way that relying on mass transit to get out to Long Island on a moment’s notice was not the way to go. With delays and transfers, it had taken her three hours one day to get to her father’s side. That was totally unacceptable.

She had luck on her first try and found there was a car available about two blocks away on Riverside Drive. Grace quickly reserved it, grabbed her house keys, and left her apartment. She didn’t have time to mess around with makeup or change into better clothing. Appearances did not matter.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon, bright sunny skies, a warm breeze, no clouds, low humidity. The scent of damp earth carried on the wind from Riverside Park, the trees verdant in her peripheral vision. She marched toward the garage, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. All around her, people were smiling and strolling, enjoying the day and one another. It was the perfect day for a walk, a picnic, a bottle of wine. Sadly, that was not her day.

She got the car—something small and foreign and blue that hadn’t been cleaned out by the previous renter. It even lacked a GPS unit, but that hardly mattered. She didn’t need one. She knew where she was going. All too well. She brushed ashes off the seat, climbed in, and put the car in drive.

The trip out of the city was uneventful, the traffic sparse. In under an hour, she was pulling into the tree-lined drive of the Westview Gardens Guest Homes and selecting a spot in the visitors’ area of the parking lot. A gentle breeze stirred the leafy trees on the campus, birds sang, and elderly people in hospital gowns and robes strolled the winding paths with partners and staff. It was a peaceful place, tranquil, and despite his difficulties, she still felt it was the right place for her father to be. Along with the beautiful setting, they had a nurse practitioner on premises twenty-four hours a day. The staff to patient ratio was outstanding. Everyone had private rooms. If there was a place where he could get better, it would have been here. But despite all the perks, he’d shown no signs of improvement. In fact, everything pointed the opposite way. A lump formed in her throat, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to get herself under control. She could not walk in there on the verge of tears. She had to get it together.

She took a deep breath, exited her car, and entered the administrative building. A puff of air conditioning chilled the sweat she didn’t realize she’d had on her brow. Her shoes squeaked on the waxed linoleum floor as she walked down the short, wood-paneled corridor. She told the young woman at the reception desk her name and then sat on one of the plush, floral-printed sofas to wait for Andrea Wilcox to retrieve her.

She picked up a random women’s magazine and had barely gotten through a thought-provoking article on the proper way to apply eye shadow when a familiar voice interrupted her reading.

“Hello, Ms. Betancourt,” Andrea Wilcox said, standing over her. She was an efficient woman in a sensible pants suit, her light-brown hair pulled back in a tight, non-nonsense bun. She looked exactly the same as she had the first time Grace met her, almost two years ago when she’d admitted her father.

Grace stood up and took her hand. “Hello, Ms. Wilcox. How is he doing?”

“He’s fine. Of course, we’re monitoring him closely, but there’s no need for concern. It was just a minor bump.” The woman smiled. “Let’s go to my office and we’ll discuss some of the changes we’d like to implement for your father in the future.”

Grace nodded, and Ms. Wilcox led the way past reception, into the right wing of the building. They entered an office at the end of the hallway, featuring a view of the grounds. Certificates and commendations lined one wall, family photos on the other. Grace did not look at any of them closely, her gaze was focused on the center of the large wooden desk, and her father’s chart sitting in the middle.

Ms. Wilcox sat in her executive leather chair, put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and opened the folder. She studied whatever was written in there for a few seconds and then looked up at Grace. “I’m afraid your father’s condition is deteriorating faster than we’d hoped. We are concerned, but optimistic. However, some aspects of his care will have to change.”

“How did he fall?” Condition. Deteriorating. She couldn’t process the words, didn’t want to. It was easier to focus on something small, something she could handle.

“Unfortunately, he is showing signs of apraxia. He was on his way to the bathroom, and it appears he momentarily forgot how to walk.” She glanced at the file again. “Your father is going to require additional assistance in his daily living. His bathing routine for instance must change drastically in order to fit his current needs.”

Grace’s heart hurt. This disease was the worst thing ever—far worse than even death. “What do you need me to do?”

Ms. Wilcox met Grace’s gaze, her expression sympathetic. “I know this is disheartening, but have hope. Your father is in the best care possible, Ms. Betancourt. We will do everything we can to keep him comfortable and safe.” She removed a stapled pile of papers from the file and placed them on the desk in front of Grace. “Here are our revised plans. Look them over. We just need your signature to begin implementation.” She stood up and walked to Grace’s side. “I’ll give you a few minutes to review them. Would you like coffee or anything?”