And that’s the great thing about Mike. He’s always ready. Or not. He’d tried to insert himself into my life in the beginning, but once I’d laid out the rules, he was cool about it. So for the last year, we’ve had great sex with no questions and no commitment. We don’t mix friends, and we don’t spend the night. All I ask is that we keep it monogamous. Because diseases. The nurse in me demands it.
“Breakfast?” Sara asks as she breezes into the break room to collect her things.
“I’m wearing postpartum mesh panties and stolen OR scrubs, anxiously awaiting a Brillo pad scrub down when I get home. What do you think?”
“Fiiiine,” she whines, slamming her locker shut. “I’ll grab donuts for Adam and the kids before crashing at my house. I’ll bring a few over to you when I get home. Can you take time away from your scrub down to answer the door when I bring them?”
“For melt-in-my-mouth, sugary O’s of goodness? I think I can muster it up. And look at you, sleeping at your own house? I’m surprised you haven’t shut off the utilities.”
Sara rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder. Then she shrugs, because she knows it’s true. Sara is a soon-to-be-expiring lease away from cohabitation with her fiancé, Adam, and his kids, Lily and Gage. He’s a tatted, hella sexy super dad, so I get the attraction. Not to mention, his kids are freaking adorable. Twins. Seriously, the whole lot are a Gap ad waiting to happen. Yeah, I totally get the attraction.
The marriage part? Not so much. But Sara and I are hardwired differently, so I keep my mouth shut and hope her happily ever after isn’t just a happy for now. Dreamers don’t take kindly to realists pissing in their Cheerios.
“I don’t want Adam to have to shush the kids all day while I sleep. That’s not fair to any of them. But I need my snuggles before I head to my house.” Her face gets all gooey and sweet, making me the teeniest bit nauseous, but I smile all the same.
Her dream, not mine.
It doesn’t escape my attention that she says “my house” and not “home.” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Sara lately. We’ve been next door neighbors for years, friends since college. I see her at work all the time, but it’s not the same as crossing the yard and hanging out with my friend. I’m being a whiny bitch, but sometimes it feels like she’s moving on without me.
“Don’t forget I like sprinkles,” I call out as we head into the parking lot and go our separate ways.
It’s not quite seven in the morning, and the city of Providence is still sleepy, making my drive home quick and painless. Some mornings, I find myself parked in my driveway with no recollection of how I got there. It scares the hell out me, so I make it a point to chug some Diet Dr. Pepper before hitting the road. Every night nurse has a poison of choice, and DDP is mine. We take our caffeine seriously.
I trudge up my walkway, and tackle each porch step like the mountain it is. Almost. There.
I slide the key into the lock before I notice it.
A folded piece of paper wedged into the frame of the door, just above the knob. It’s probably a flyer of some sort. I pull it out of the door, noticing the weight of the paper feels less like Zippy’s Car Wash and more like a wedding invitation. So I flip it open.
And all the blood drains from my face. My heart pounds in my ears like a thrumming drumbeat. An iron fist clenches my chest, wringing the breath from my lungs mercilessly. Years, years, of looking in the rearview mirror, and I come face to face with my past in a head-on collision—my scarred and blackened heart will certainly be one of the casualties. My fingers tremble uncontrollably as I jam the key into the lock and jingle.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I hiss, releasing a pent-up breath when the knob finally gives way. Once I stumble across the threshold, I throw my full weight into shoving the door closed and engaging the deadbolt. A rush of memories flits through my mind like a high speed highlight reel of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the irreparable.
“Where are you, Ev—” I stop, his name lodging in my throat like a bowling ball.
God…
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My eyes refocus on the note clutched in my hand.
Your lips luscious red,
My balls achingly blue,
Have you any idea
How long I’ve searched for you?
I bend back the window blinds and scan the road, looking for him, knowing he must be here. The street and driveways look peaceful and undisturbed, but I don’t trust my own eyes. In the span of a minute, sixty fucking seconds, all my trust and confidence takes a nosedive into the back seat, then crawls into the trunk.
Wouldn’t I feel him if he were here?
I’m not sure anymore. It’s been so long. It’s been no time at all.
Haven’t I always known it would come to this?
Haven’t I?
J.A. DEROUEN RESIDES IN South Louisiana with her husband, son (aptly nicknamed “The Professor”), and her furry friend, Scout. She has earned bachelor’s degrees in psychology and nursing. When she's not writing or inhaling romance novels by the stack, she works as a women's health nurse. She’s been an avid reader and daydreamer since childhood, and she's never stopped turning the page to get to the next happily ever after.
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Now Available:
HOPE OVER FEAR (Over Series #1)
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WINGS OVER POPPIES (Over Series #2)
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STORMS OVER SECRETS (Over Series #3)
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FIRE OVER FROST
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WITH EACH BOOK, my list of gratitude grows by leaps and bounds. I’ve been blessed with wonderful people along this journey, and the people I recognize below is in no way an exhaustive list.
As always, a big thank you to my husband and my professor for understanding the endless hours spent sitting in front of the computer. Thank you for your patience and enduring my incessant daydreaming and the ever-present stench of coffee permeating from my clothes. A million thanks to my parents for the sleepovers, fishing trips, and swimming so the professor didn’t die of boredom as I typed, typed, typed.
To the wonderful ladies who saw my words before they were ready to be seen. You pushed, you questioned, you challenged, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Casey, Kristy, Tracey, Bianca, and Laura, your help through this process and your words of encouragement mean the world to me.
To my amazing editor, Madison Seidler, proofreader, Alexis Durbin, formatter, Julie Titus, and cover designer, Daniela Conde, I truly appreciate all of your time and dedication. To Kristi from Sassy Savvy Fabulous for your help wrapping my head around all of these moving parts. You’ve all been wonderful resources, and I’m so happy I found such wonderful people to work with. Your professionalism and hard work help me breathe easy when I press publish, and I can’t put a price on that feeling.
To the fabulous Indie Chicks Rock girls—thank you for the advice, the encouragement, and the endless shenanigans. I truly appreciate your friendship and feel blessed to have such a great support system. Indie Chicks Rock!!
To all the amazing bloggers and book clubs who take the time to review and post, thank you fro
m the bottom of my heart. Your kind words and efforts have meant the world to me. You all are the heart of this indie community, and I’m so appreciative of every post, review, and comment.
To the amazing ladies in my Jezebel group, thank you so much for your friendship, encouragement, and support. I love this group so much. We are sassy, sexy, highly inappropriate, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. This fun little group has become my safe place, and I thank you for that.
To all of the wonderful readers out there, I hope Marlo and Ever grab you and won’t let go. I hope you enjoy reading this story half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Every message or comment I receive from a reader is the most amazing gift. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my stories—there is no greater compliment.
Low Over High (The Over Duet #1) Page 24