Only once before could Deuce Monroe remember being
speechless. When he'd met Yaz. He'd shaken the great man's
hand and tried to utter a word, but he'd been rendered
mute in the presence of his hero, Carl Yastrzemski.
But standing in the warm April sunshine on the main drag
in Rockingham, Massachusetts, staring at a building that
had once been as familiar to him as his home field
pitcher's mound, he was damn near dumbstruck.
Where was Monroe's?
He peered at the sign over the door. Well, it said
Monroe's. With no capital M and a sketch of a laptop
computer and a coffee mug next to it. But the whole place
just seemed like Monroe's on steroids. In addition to
taking up way more space than he remembered, the clapboard
had been replaced by a layer of exposed brick covered in
ivy, and three bay windows now jutted into the sidewalk.
At least the old mahogany door hadn't changed. He gripped
the familiar brass handle, yanked it toward him and
stepped inside.
Where he froze and swallowed a curse. Instead of the
familiar comfort of a neighborhood bar, there was a wide-
open area full of sofas and sunlight andβ¦computers?
Where the hell was Monroe's?
The real Monroe's β not thisβ¦this cyber salon.
He scanned the space, aching for something familiar, some
memory, some scent that would embrace him like his long-
lost best friend.
But all he could smell wasβ¦coffee.
They didn't serve coffee at his parents' bar. Ice-cold Bud
on tap, sure. Plenty of whiskey, rum and even tequila, but
not coffee. Not here, where the locals gathered after the
Rock High games to replay every one of Deuce's
unpredictable but deadly knuckleballs. Not here, where all
available wall space was filled with action shots from big
games, framed team jerseys and newspaper clippings touting
his accomplishments and talent. Not here, where β
"Can I help you, sir?"
Deuce blinked, still adjusting to the streaming sunlight
where there shouldn't be any, and focused on a young woman
standing in front of him.
"Would you like a computer station?" she asked.
What he'd like is a Stoli on the rocks. He glanced at the
bar. At least that was still there. But the only person
sitting at it was drinking something out of a cup. With a
saucer.
"Is Seamus Monroe here?" Not that he expected his father
to be anywhere near the bar on a Tuesday morning, but he'd
already tried the house and it was empty. Deserted-
looking, actually. A little wave of guilt threatened, but
he shook it off. "Mr. Monroe isn't here today," the young
lady beamed at him. "Are you the new software vendor?"
As if.
He sneaked a glimpse at the wall where Mom had hung his
first autographed Nevada Snake Eyes jersey at the end of
his rookie season. Instead of the familiar red number two,
a black and white photograph of a snow-covered mountain
hung in a silver frame.
"Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?" She
shook her head. "I couldn't give you that, I'm sorry. Our
manager is in the back. Would you like me to get her?"
Her? Dad had hired a female manager?
Then a little of the tension he'd felt for the past few
weeks subsided. This was the right thing to do. It took a
career-ending injury caused by monumental stupidity, but
coming home to take over the bar was definitely the right
thing to do.
Obviously, someone had already exploited his father's loss
of interest in the place and made one too many changes.
Deuce would set it all straight in no time.
"Yeah, I'll talk to her," he agreed.
She indicated the near-empty bar with a sweep of her hand.
"Feel free to have a cup of coffee while I get Ms. Locke."
Locke?
That was the first familiar sound since he'd arrived in
Rock-ingham. He knew every Locke who had ever lived in
this town.
In fact, Deuce had just had an e-mail from Jackson Locke,
his old high-school buddy. A typical what-a-jerk-you-are
missive laced with just enough sympathy to know Jack felt
Deuce's pain for ending a stellar baseball career at only
thirty-three years old. Jack's parents had moved to
Florida years agoβ¦so that left Jack's sister, Kendra.
Deuce swallowed hard. The last time he'd seen Kendra was
the week he'd come home for his mother's funeral, about
nine years ago. Jack's baby sister had beenβ¦well, she'd
been no baby then.
And Deuce had been a total chicken scumbag and never
called her, not once, afterwards. Even though he'd wanted
to. Really wanted to.
But it couldn't be Kendra, he decided as the hostess
scooted away. Back then Kendra was weeks away from
starting her junior year at Harvard. Surely the Hahvahd
girl with a titanium-trap brain and a slightly smartass
mouth hadn't ended up managing Monroe's. She'd been on
fire with ambition.
And on fire with a few other things, too. His whole body
tightened at the memory, oddly vivid for having taken
place a long time and a lot of women ago.
This Locke must be a cousin, or a coincidence.
He leaned against the hostess stand β another unwelcome
addition to Monroe's β and studied the semi-circle of
computers residing precisely where the pool table used to
be.
Someone had sure as hell messed with this place. "Excuse
me, I understand you need to speak with me?" Turning, the
first thing he saw was a pair of almond-shaped eyes
exactly the color of his favorite Levi's, and just as
inviting.
"Deuce?" The eyes flashed with shock and recognition. He
had to make an effort to keep from registering the same
reaction.
Was it possible he'd slept with this gorgeous woman,
kissed that sexy mouth that now opened into a perfect O
and raked his fingers through that cornsilk-blond hair β
and then left without ever calling her again?
Idiot took on a whole new meaning. "Kendra." He had
absolutely no willpower over his gaze, which took a long,
slow trip over alabaster skin, straight down to the scoop
neck of a tight white T-shirt and the rolling letters of
Monroe's across her chest. All lower-case.
The letters, that was. The chest was definitely upper-
case. A rosy tone deepened her pale complexion. Her chin
tilted upward, and those blue eyes turned icy with
distrust. "What are you doing here?"
"I came home," he said. The words must have sounded
unbelievable to her, too, based on the slanted eyebrow of
incredulity he got in response. He took another quick trip
over the logo, and this time let his gaze continue down to
a tiny waist and skin-tight jeans hugging some seriously
sweet hips.
He gave her his most dazzling smile. Maybe she'd forgiven
him for not calling. Maybe she'd stay on and work for him
after he took over the bar. Maybe she'dβ¦
But, first things first. "I'm looking for my dad."
She tucked a strand of sunny blond hair behind her
ear. "Why don't you try Diana Lynn's house?"
Diana Lynn's house? What the hell was that? Had he gone to
assisted living or something? "Is she taking care of Dad?"
That earned him a caustic laugh. "I'll say. Diana Lynn
Turner is your father's fiancΓ©e."
"His what?" Men who'd had pacemakers put in a year ago
didn't have fiancΓ©es. Widowed men with pacemakers,
especially.
"His fiancΓ©e. It's French for bride-to-be, Deuce." She put
a hand on her hip like a little punctuation mark to
underscore her sarcasm. "Your dad spends most of his days β
and all of his nights β at her house. But they're leaving
tomorrow morning for a trip, so if you want to see him,
you better hustle over there."
Deuce had been scarce for a lot of years, no doubt about
it. But would his father really get engaged and not tell
him?
Of course he would. He'd think Deuce would hate the idea
of Seamus Monroe remarrying. And he'd be right.
"So, where does this Diana Lynn live?"
She waved her hand to the left. "At the old Swain mansion."
He frowned. "That run-down dump on the beach?"
"Not so run-down since Diana Lynn worked her magic." She
reached into the hostess stand and pulled out some plastic
menus, tapping them on the wood to line them up. "She has
a way of livening everything up."
Oh, so that's what was going down; some kind of gold
digger had got her teeth into the old man. Deuce hadn't
gotten home a moment too soon.
"Don't tell me," he said with a quick glance toward the
pit of computers to his right. "She's the mastermind
behind the extreme makeover of the bar."
"The bar?" Kendra slid the menus back into their slot and
looked in the opposite direction β toward the bar that
lined one whole wall. "Well, we haven't been able to close
long enough to rip the bar out yet."
He didn't know what word to seize. We or rip or yet. "Why
would you do that?"
She shrugged and appeared to study the bank of cherry-wood
that had been in Deuce's life as long as he'd lived. He'd
bet any amount of money that the notches that marked his
height as a toddler were still carved into the wood under
the keg station. "The bar's not really a money-maker for
us."
Us, was it? "That's funny," he said, purposely giving her
the stare he saved for scared rookies at the plate. "Most
times the bar is the most profitable part of a bar."
His intimidating glare didn't seem to work. In fact, he
could have sworn he saw that spark of true grit he'd come
to recognize right before some jerk slammed his curve ball
into another county.
"I'm sure that's true in other business models," she said
slowly, a bemused frown somehow just making her prettier.
"But the fact is, the bar's not the most profitable part
of an Internet cafΓ©."
He choked a laugh of disbelief. "Since when is Monroe's an
Internet cafΓ©?"
"Since I bought it."
He could practically hear the ball zing straight over the
left-field fence, followed by a way-too familiar sinking
sensation in his gut.
"Since you what?"
He didn't know. Kendra realized by the genuine shock in
those espresso-colored eyes that Deuce had no idea that
she and his father shared a two-year-old business
arrangement. She'd never had the nerve to ask Seamus if
he'd told his son. In fact, she and Seamus Senior had
politely danced around the subject of Seamus Junior for a
long, long time.
But it looked like the dance was about to end. "I bought
Monroe's a while ago. Well, half of it. And I run it,
although your dad still owns fifty percent." All right,
fifty-one. Did Deuce need to know that little detail?
"Really," he said, thoughtfully rubbing a cheek that
hadn't seen a razor in, oh, maybe twenty-nine hours.
Giving him the ideal amount of Hollywood stubble on his
chiseled, handsome features. It even formed the most
alluring little shadow in the cleft on his chin.
She'd dipped her tongue into that shadow. Once. "Yes,
really." She pulled the menus out again just to keep her
hands busy. Otherwise, they might betray her and reach out
for a quick feel of that nice Hollywood stubble.
"And you turned it into β" He sent a disdainful glare
toward the main floor " β the Twilight Zone."
She couldn't help laughing. He'd always made her laugh.
Even when she was eleven and he'd teased her. He'd made
her giggle, and then she'd run upstairs and throw herself
on her bed and cry for the sheer love of him. "We call it
the twenty-first century, Deuce, and you're welcome to log
on anytime."
© 2003-2026