Sycamore Circle (eBook)

CHAPTER 1

They’d been standing in line for five minutes and likely had another ten minutes to go before they could get out of there. Considering he hadn’t wanted to go to Sacred Grounds in the first place, Bo was irritated. After a three-year stint in Madisonville, he didn’t like to spend his time standing in line for much.

Waiting this long for a cup of overpriced coffee just seemed wrong.

“I can’t believe you come here all the time, Mason,” he muttered.

Mason shrugged. “This coffee is worth the wait. You’re going to love it. I promise.”

“Doubt it.”

As usual, his longtime buddy paid him no mind. “Whatever. Look at your phone or something and chill.”

Mason went back to doing exactly that, but Bo was in no hurry to pull his phone out of his back pocket. If he did, he knew he’d see another four emails and twice as many texts from the guys who reported to him. He liked his job, but sometimes he needed a break.

Instead, he listened to the woman at the head of the line order some kind of complicated latte with almond milk and gritted his teeth. Why did everybody try to make simple things so difficult? Coffee was coffee. There was no need to add whatever kind of “milk” came out of an almond to it.

Mason sure had fancy tastes in his beverage choices, considering he’d come out of prison not too long ago.

At last, the almond milk gal had her drink and scone. They stepped forward in the line. Bo started to smile—until he heard the teenage girl at the front of the line announce she was ordering four drinks to go.

“Lord have mercy,” he murmured. He meant it too. He absolutely was going to need some divine help in order to not pull Mason out of Sacred Grounds and drive to the nearest convenience store. There, he could get sixteen ounces of Maxwell House for two bucks, and even pick up a Slim Jim or two.

Mason looked up from his phone. “I’m telling you, it’s worth it. Settle down.” Lowering his voice, he added, “and try, for once, to look a little less like you’re itching to wring somebody’s neck. You’re gonna make everyone around us nervous.”

Realizing Mason probably had a point, Bo pulled his attitude down a notch. He wasn’t a small man, and his sleeve of tattoos didn’t always generate warm and cozy feelings either.

He knew that too. Shoot, it seemed like he spent half his life telling the men he was in charge of—fresh-out-of-prison guys in need of a hand—to remember that the regular population was real different than the one they’d been accustomed to in Madisonville.

It was obviously time to concentrate on something else. He looked around hoping to find something to capture his attention.

The coffee shop was a converted church in the middle of the square in their tiny downtown. Whoever had done the remodeling had kept the basic structure but had removed anything that might have religious connotations. He never would tell Mason this, but he remembered when the owners had bought the old place. They’d donated the sixty-year-old stained glass to a local church and replaced it with stained glass featuring a sun, a cup of coffee, and the shop’s name.

Mason was obviously not the only fan of the café either. There were eight tables and six of them were filled. At least a dozen people stood in line, and three people worked behind the counter.

When they moved forward again, he heard the prettiest voice he ever heard. It was smooth, melodic, and kind. So kind.

Something inside of him stilled.

“Good job, Anthony,” the woman said in a gentle way. It wasn’t condescending or the slightest bit flirtatious. It was just plain nice. Nice in a way that clean laundry or breathing fresh air in the early morning was.

Her perfect, oh-so-nice voice caught his attention like nobody’s business.

So much so, Samuel Beauman—called Bo by everyone who wanted to live—couldn’t stop himself from turning his head to see who that voice belonged to.

It didn’t take long to find her . . . and then, there she was, at a table next to the window across from a large middle-aged man. She was a pretty thing. So pretty, he almost wished he hadn’t looked.

The man she was with—Anthony, Bo supposed—looked embarrassed and mumbled something under his breath.

She laughed. “Nope, I’m not going to let you go there. I’m proud of you.”

The words, combined with the sound of her voice, so clear and melodic, rang out over the piped music playing on the speakers overhead. When the Anthony guy smiled at her, she laughed. Drawing him in even further.

It was almost a shame when it was his turn at the counter.

“What will you have?”

“Large coffee. Black.”

The barista pointed to the bakery case. “Would you like something to go with it? Everything was baked this morning.”

“Nope.” Remembering Mason’s warning about his resting expression, he smiled. “Thanks, though.”

She smiled back. “Anytime.”

He paid for his coffee. When he noticed Mason was talking on his phone, he stood off to the side, over by a table of napkins. And then he looked at the woman again.

She was pointing to something in a workbook.

Barely able to stop staring at her, Bo tried to figure out why she was affecting him the way she did. The woman wasn’t flashy, she wasn’t wearing much makeup, and her clothes were nondescript. Just jeans, a soft-looking sweater, and brown suede boots.

The women he dated tended to show a lot more skin, had more of an attitude, and were still in their twenties. This lady was likely older than him.

But maybe that was her appeal. There was something about her that made him want to linger a while, just to hear her speak. Needing something to do, he pulled off the plastic lid to his cup, grabbed a wooden swizzle stick, and stirred his coffee that didn’t need to be stirred. All so he wouldn’t look like he was doing what he was doing—loitering nearby.

The man mumbled something again, stumbled over a word, then corrected himself.

“That’s right,” she said. “Now you’ve got it. Look at you!”

He’d been thinking that very same thing. Look at you, lady. So sweet, so kind, so blessed with the kind of long brown hair that only God could give a person. It was thick, slightly wavy, and nearly reached her waist.

He’d never been one to stare at hair, but again, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was yet another thing about her that was beautiful.

As she and Anthony spoke softly to each other, a woman walked over to where he stood. Bo realized she wanted one of the stirring sticks too.

“Excuse me.”

He stepped to the left.

“It sure is cold out,” the woman said.

After an awkward pause, he realized she was speaking to him. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it is.”

She smiled, her extremely red lipstick catching his attention. “And you don’t even have a coat on.” She stepped closer. Lifted her hand a couple of inches, like she was thinking about touching his arm. “Aren’t you cold?”

She was flirting with him.

He bit back a sigh. He’d been blessed with what his Mama had called good genes. He had blond hair that he liked a little on the long side, light blue eyes, and good bone structure. One woman in a bar had once said he was a ringer for Brad Pitt in the nineties. He wasn’t sure if that was the case or not.

What he was sure about was that his good looks weren’t so much a source of pride with him as an inconvenience. Some people didn’t take him seriously and some women couldn’t seem to refrain from touching him. He really, really didn’t like uninvited hands touching his skin.

The other guys in prison had commented on his looks, too—which was why he’d spent a good portion of his first month in the pen in solitary. The prison guards hadn’t seen fit to step in when some of the lifers had wondered how he’d swung.

Realizing that he needed to say something, he tried to recall what she’d been talking about. Ah, yes. His coat. “I run hot.”

She giggled. Tossed her head back, bringing with it a chunk of carefully highlighted blond hair. “I bet you do.”

“Bo, you coming or what?” Mason called out from the door.

“In a minute.” Turning to the woman, he nodded. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

And just like that, all the heat slipped away. The frosty look the blond directed his way before sauntering out almost made him smile.

Glancing at the seated woman again, he realized that she was looking directly at him. The spark of amusement in her expression practically made his breath catch. When their eyes met, he knew he had no choice. He might not always believe in fate, but he sure believed in divine intervention. Given his past, Bo knew it was only because of God that he was standing on two feet instead of lying in a box six feet under.

He worked in mysterious ways, and Bo had long ago given up trying to understand the why’s and the how’s. All he knew was that there were times to pay attention.

This was one of those times.

As far as he was concerned, the big guy up in the clouds had put him in this place to meet this woman. He wasn’t going to pass that up. After all, wasn’t all of this taking place in a former church? There was something special going on and he intended to see it through.

Walking toward the door, where Mason was standing...