Fight From The Heart: a small town romance (Heart Collection Book 4) Read online

  www.lbdunbar.com

  Originally published as Fragrance Free © 2014 Laura Dunbar

  Fight from the Heart © 2020 Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  www.lbdunbar.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore/Shanoff Designs

  Editor: Kimberly Dallaire

  Editor: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Jenny Sims - Editing4Indies

  Proofread: Karen Fischer

  Table of Contents

  Other books by L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  More books from L.B. Dunbar

  Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar

  Excerpt of View With Your Heart

  Playlist

  (L)ittle (B)its of Gratitude

  About the Author

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Silver Fox Former Rock Stars

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge

  Silver Brewer

  Silver Player

  Silver Mayor

  Silver Biker

  Collision novellas

  Collide

  Caught – a short story

  Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)

  Love in Due Time

  Love in Deed

  Love in a Pickle (2021)

  Standalone over 40 Romance

  The Sex Education of M.E.

  The Heart Collection

  Speak from the Heart

  Read with your Heart

  Look with your Heart

  Fight from the Heart

  View with your Heart

  A Heart Collection Spin-off

  The Heart Remembers

  The Legendary Rock Star Series

  The Legend of Arturo King

  The Story of Lansing Lotte

  The Quest of Perkins Vale

  The Truth of Tristan Lyons

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  Paradise Stories

  Abel

  Cain

  The Island Duet

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  Dedication

  To my father, whose words of advice have always stuck with me.

  “He says, ‘When you gonna make up your mind,

  When you gonna love you as much as I do

  When you gonna make up your mind,

  ‘Cause things are gonna change so fast…’”

  ©Tori Amos, “Winter” from Little Earthquakes

  Prologue

  Something In The Way

  [Pam]

  My tears are nearly blinding my eyes as I peel onto the highway.

  Damn the chief. Just damn him and the entire crew. I can’t believe he wouldn’t let me near him—my own father. I have no idea yet what happened other than an accident. As an EMT, I’m trained to respond and wired to help others. I wanted to be there, but everything you’re taught in training demands that you don’t take care of family. The position is too personal, and by my initial reaction, it’s warranted that the fire chief tried to hold me back.

  “Pam, you can’t handle this.” His stern voice had commanded me to back down, but I’d struggled with the man larger than me in height and girth.

  “That’s my dad, Joe.”

  When the call came through, I’d been on duty.

  Possible hit and run.

  There was no possible about it. My father laid sprawled on the side of the road in our small town, and no additional vehicles were present. The sheriff was in hot pursuit of a suspect, but it made no difference to me. Innocently walking home, only two blocks from the local favorite Town Tavern, my father was down.

  Joe Carpenter, my boss, did everything he could to block me from the scene.

  “You don’t want to see this,” he warned.

  I swipe at my eyes as I accelerate south on the highway, hoping to catch up to the ambulance. I’m not athletic, but I ran as fast as my short legs could take me back to the fire department a block away and hopped into my Jeep. At this time of night, the highway is relatively clear minus the slowest moving vehicle ever in front of me. I swerve left in hopes of passing it but can’t estimate the oncoming traffic of the two-lane highway.

  “What the fuck!” I scream, cursing the car ahead of me while willing it to move faster. I bang on the steering wheel for emphasis. I need to get to the hospital. As we continue moving slower than the speed limit, my blurry vision shifts right as the car in front of me decelerates. Another string of profanity fills my Jeep until I notice a car off the side of the road, down in the ditch near the treeline.

  Don’t look, I tell myself, begging the car before me to move it. But inside me, my training kicks in. Pull over and help.

  But my dad, I argue, and in my head, I hear his voice.

  You’ve been trained for this. It’s your calling to assist. It’s because of your generous heart.

  “Fuck,” I yell again, slapping the steering wheel one more time as I pass the accident and then pull over.

  Forgive me, Daddy. The prayer might be contrition for passing an accident. It might be hope that he’ll hang on until I get to the hospital. Please, Daddy.

  Slamming off the ignition, I exit my Jeep and race down the gravel shoulder. A bright red Corvette plastered into a tree isn’t hard to see despite the dark night. The windshield is shattered. The driver’s door is wedged shut. The air bag deployed. With the driver’s window down, I’m able to call out to the driver.

  “Hey buddy, are you alright?” I don’t want to be here. I need to get to my dad, but this scene doesn’t look good. I reach through the open window to feel for a pulse. He’s alive.

  Everything tells me I can’t get the driver's door open. The front of the car is like an accordion, pinning the door in the closed position, but somehow, strength find
s me, and I pop the door. I puncture the airbag with a small pocket knife I grabbed before exiting my Jeep. This guy’s head has a gash on it and lolls to the side when the airbag deflates. I catch him as he tips toward me.

  “Whoa, pal.”

  It’s then that eyes red-rimmed and glassy gaze up at me.

  “Are you an angel?” he whispers, and I stare down into the darkest, most haunted eyes I’ve ever seen. My heart hammers, and I attribute it to my anger. This man is on something. Drunk, high, it doesn’t matter to me. Is he possibly the suspect who hit my father? How could I save him when I want to strangle him for hurting the man most precious to me?

  “I’m the devil,” I hiss in warning because if this man hit my father and flee, I’ll never forgive him. “Or maybe you are.”

  The man gags, and then he turns his head to vomit at my feet.

  Gross. Definitely the devil himself.

  As my blood races and adrenaline courses through my veins, my father’s voice comes back to me again.

  Fight through the pain. Fight from the heart. Love hurts, but it also heals.

  For the first time ever, I don’t know that I can take my father’s advice.

  Chapter 1

  Must Be The Flu

  Two and a half years later.

  [Pam]

  I hate that I’m in love with my boss.

  I actually have two jobs, so it’s not my day-job boss. It’s my other boss—an annoyingly needy grown-ass forty-year-old man. I’ve worked for him for over two years and still wonder most days why I do it.

  Because you think he’s hot, and he pays you well for your time.

  Yes, but should it be about money and looks? I’m literally arguing with myself while I massage my pounding temple. As a single woman, I’d survived the dreaded Valentine’s Day only to come down with your classic flu. Stuffy nose. Sore throat. Cough. Aches. Chills. All I want to do is curl up in bed—my bed—in my apartment.

  Not here. Not at selfish Jacob Vincent’s house while I wait to let the house cleaner in.

  You live alone. It’s not even dirty in here. My chest pinches as I cough. It’s almost as if by cursing Jacob in my head, my body wants to punish me.

  His home on the shore of Lake Michigan is just outside our small town of Elk Lake City. Boasting floor-to-ceiling windows along the wall facing the water, this contemporary mansion strangely reminds me of how Edward Cullen’s residence was depicted in Twilight, the books, not the movies.

  Jacob likes to argue with me that the movies never get it right. It’s all about the written word. Books do it best.

  And he isn’t wrong. As a fiction author himself, his writing was what first attracted me to him. To his books, not him personally.

  It was not love at first sight when we finally met in person.

  Jacob Vincent is nothing short of edgy and rugged in a boxer kind of way. He’s lean but muscular. Feisty and jumpy with deep, dark eyes like midnight and a head of short hair to match. He doesn’t have a scruffy beard so much as a jaw covered with artful stubble unless he’s in writer mode. Then he might go days without shaving, giving him the lumberjack effect. Either way, he’s a good-looking man in the way a man can be when he’s had his nose broken a few times, scars on his forehead and cheek that mar his perfection, and several tattoos on his body. From his physical appearance, you’d never imagine words are how he fights best.

  And right now, I’d like to throat punch him for requesting I be here to let the house cleaning service in.

  Just give her a key, I'd argued before he left on a ten-day holiday with his girlfriend.

  That’s right. The man I’m in love with also has a picture-perfect girlfriend, tall and lean with big boobs and a tight ass. Not like me, who is curvy in all the right places but just not the right places for a man like Jacob Vincent. She’s Malibu Barbie, and I’m just the shape of Michigan. I’m not horrible to look at, but I’m no model like his woman.

  Jacob refuses to give a key to anyone other than me and his stepsister, Ella. Though she lived here for a while, she’s in New York now, so I’m the one who feels like I’m on my deathbed as I wait for a service to clean a house that isn’t even dirty.

  Am I bitter? Of course not.

  Lying on one of two leather couches in his great room, I try to focus on the large glass panes overlooking the lake in the distance. The trees are brown and barren this time of year. The world outside seems Medieval-ancient, and I’m starting to feel the same way even though I’m only thirty-six. I’m so grateful Valentine’s smalentines is over because I hate the reminder that I’m still alone at my age—lonely and in love with a man I can’t have.

  The doorbell rings, and I push myself upright, the pounding in my head accelerating as I try to stand. Bending at the waist, I cough uncontrollably again and kick the leg of the square coffee table. Shit, that freaking hurt. As I hobble to the door, the throbbing in my toe matches the pulsing rhythm in my head. My brain feels like it’s hosting at a club dance party—thump, thump, thump—but I’m not enjoying myself. My hunched position makes me look old, and I feel as ancient as the bare trees behind Jacob’s house.

  “Miss Pam, you no look so good,” Mrs. Kewadin says in broken English. The Native American woman enters along with a rush of cold Midwestern winter air, and my shivering causes my teeth to chatter.

  “I’m not feeling so great,” I tell her, slowly returning to my perch on the uncomfortable leather couch.

  Why can’t he have normal furniture like my mother’s old sofa? Something where you can sink into the cushions and feel the warmth in the worn fabric.

  “I’m going to just lie here for a bit,” I say over my shoulder, limping because of my toe and holding my head so my brain doesn’t move too much.

  Stop thinking about stupid stuff, and it might not ache.

  Collapsing on the couch, I bring my knees up to my chest and try to get comfortable, allowing Mrs. Kewadin to do whatever needs to be done now that she’s in the house.

  I don’t know how much time passes as I drift into that weight-pressing sleep when you can’t move a muscle, but you’re cognizant of your surroundings. The vacuum drones. The glass squeaks from cleaning. The furniture is sprayed with polish. My body melts into the cool, crackling couch while I shiver, drawing my knees tighter to my chest.

  My thoughts drift to when I first met Jacob. A memory of my deceased dad.

  It’s all a jumble, and then I sense a presence before me.

  Daddy? I’m hallucinating if I think my father has come to visit me from beyond the grave. It’s the kind of fictional story I like to read. Fantasy, thriller, sci-fi, and horror are my jam. However, in real life, I don’t need a ghost haunting me.

  Lilac? The masculine voice drifts to me as if I’m underwater. Definitely not my father as only one man calls me that name.

  “Are you an angel?” he asked me when we first met. The next day, he decided I was more of a woodland nymph with a distinct fragrance—syringa vulgaris, the lilac.

  Perhaps it was love at second sight for me then.

  Lilac. The manly voice grows louder, sensual even with a raspy, low tenor. Again, not my father. It almost sounds like Jacob, but he’s not due home until tomorrow morning, thus the need for my presence today. I wonder if Mrs. Kewadin is almost done. I really want to go home, but I’m not certain I can move from this spot. I’m not comfortable, but the thought of getting in my Jeep and driving to my apartment in town does not sound like a wise idea despite the temptation of my bed.

  “Lilac, what’s the matter?” The depth of the concerned tone surprises me.

  I moan Jacob’s name as if he’s standing before me. I can’t open my eyes. They burn behind my heavy lids like my throat, which doesn’t want to work other than to groan. A fever has taken over, and I shake despite the aches in my body.

  Something wraps me, shifting me, and I cry out at the movement.

  No, don’t move me. I’d just found a warm spot on that damn cold couch.


  “Hang on, Lilac.” The voice becomes more distinct.

  “Jacob?” Is it really him? My head rests against a hard shoulder, and I’m cradled into a warm chest. This is nice. So nice. My nose presses into skin, and I inhale. Cloves. The sweet fragrance of tobacco tickles my nose, and I can’t help myself when I mutter, “You smell delicious.”

  A deep chuckle rumbles the chest at my side, and I sense us ascending.

  Where are we going?

  Within minutes, I’m lying on something more comfortable than a leather couch, sinking into the depths of what’s under me. I miss the strong arms holding me and the comfort of nestling against a warm body, but layers of fresh-scented clouds of softness cover me, pressing down on my sore body. This is nice, too. Heat slowly seeps into my skin, and I melt into a sweet abyss without ever opening my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I mumble to the imaginary Jacob. Lost in my pulsing head, I have no idea where I am, but a smile curls my lips as I drift into sleep with thoughts of my hot boss.

  Chapter 2

  Deliriousness

  [Pam]

  Slowly, I open my eyes to the light behind my lids. Taking in the dim room, I notice the vaulted ceiling. The starkness of the wall. The dark windowpane, and the comfort of an unfamiliar bed. I roll my head to the other side of me and push myself upward on a shaky arm. My head screams in pain, but I’m focused on the man beside me.

  Please tell me I’m dreaming.

  “That must be some hangover you’re nursing, Lilac.” The raspy tenor ripples over my skin, and my arm bends, collapsing me back to the bed. I look up at him with fearful eyes.

  This is not happening.

  “I’m not hungover.” I don’t recognize my own voice, rough from disuse and dehydration. My throat is killing me.

  “I’m just teasing,” Jacob says, blowing out a breath. With his legs stretched out before him, he sits with his laptop on his thighs and glasses perched on the end of his nose. He almost looks studious, but once those glasses are removed, his appearance will shift to tough, edgy, and almost hostile.