by J. Saman
Start Over
(Start Again Series #2)
J. Saman
Other works by J. Saman
Start Again (Start Again Series #1)
Forward
Love Rewritten
Text copyright © 2016 by J. Saman
All rights reserved. Except for the use in reviews, the reproduction of utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented including xerography, photocopying, digitally copying or recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
EPILOGUE
END OF BOOK NOTE
Chapter 1
Ivy
“No one drinks like that unless they’re in love,” the woman next to me says. I’ve been drinking in the pub for the past hour, and though I noticed the nice pair of legs dangling out of the tiny skirt when she’d sat down next to me half an hour ago, I didn’t do further research.
I ignore her as I take a sip of my Manhattan, which I only drink during dire situations.
“Oh, come on,” she continues, clearly not taking my not-so-subtle hint. “It can’t be that bad.”
I turn my head to her. She’s pretty. Red hair and dark blue eyes, at least that’s how they appear in the dim lighting, attached to petite yet soft features.
I shrug a shoulder, turning back to the mahogany of the bar, hoping the heavy bass beat will serve as enough of a buffer between us.
I’ve never been in this pub before. I guess that really shouldn’t surprise me since I’ve never been much of a boozer—not even in college when you’re supposed to hit the turps.
I only live a few blocks away. Staggering distance. That’s what they call it, isn’t it?
Yes, that’s exactly what they call it. I plan on getting good and drunk tonight. I’m sure I’ll regret it in the morning, but for now, it seems like an ace of an idea.
My drinking neighbor says it can’t be that bad, but she’s wrong.
I lost someone today. Not me per se, and it wasn’t my fault or anything, but still. It’s a life gone. A family devastated. You’d think by this point I’d be used to it and no longer take it personally, but I’m not and I do.
So I’m getting pissed.
I take a sip of my second Manhattan of the night, admiring the fact that the bourbon and sweet vermouth are now flavorless.
“Breakup or unrequited love?” the girl on my right asks again.
“Neither.”
And it’s the truth. I’m not in love and I’m not going through a breakup. Sometimes, life just requires a night of drinking in solitude. I don’t share these moments of somber contemplation with anyone. Not my colleagues or staff. No one. Which is probably why I don’t have a ton of friends. They’re all big on commiserating together. I’m not.
Why does everyone always assume that everything has to do with the opposite sex?
“Okay, fine,” she says a little dramatically as she sips her . . . whatever the hell that is. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it.”
“Sorry, it’s not you.”
“Oh right, the whole it’s not you it’s me line,” she laughs. “Your ex must have been a real bitch.”
I can’t help but laugh with her because this woman is actually a nice distraction—one I could use.
“A bitch?” I turn to face her.
“Yeah, to make you so bitter. Was she whoring around?”
“Whoring around?” I feel like we’re playing dirty Mad Libs here, but I can’t quite get the punchline. And now I’m mixing metaphors, which tells me I should have eaten dinner before I took to the booze.
Wait, did she say she?
Ginger here looks at me equally confused. “The woman you broke up with,” the redhead enunciates each word like I’m a child.
“I’m not gay.” I tilt my head, wondering why she automatically assumes I am. She should meet my sister Sophia, then her gaydar would be off the charts. “And I didn’t break up with anyone.”
She bites her lip, amused as hell. “If you’re not gay, what are you doing in a gay bar?”
Her question catches me completely off guard and I spin on my stool to survey the crowd.
Sure as rain, she’s right.
Judging by all the same-sex female couples, this is very much a lesbian bar. “Oh.” At least I have a good place to take Soph when she comes to visit next month. The drinks are ripper.
She laughs out loud, head tilted back, smacking the bar twice for effect. “It’s fine, I’m not gay either. Well, not really anyway.”
I swivel back, reaching for the stem of my fancy glass.
“Then why are you here?”
She shrugs a shoulder, “They have the best mojitos in town.”
I eye her drink quickly before turning back to my own and finishing it down. “I’m Ivy.”
“Claire.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Ditto.”
Claire downs the rest of her drink in one impressive slurp of the straw before slamming it on the counter and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stands up slowly, adjusting her tiny skirt before slapping a twenty on the bar.
“You ready?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “For what?”
“To get out of here.”
“I thought we already established that we’re not gay?”
She snorts, “I’m not going to screw you, Ivy, though I do think you’re rather babealicious—in a serious, brooding sort of way. I’m headed to a party at a friend’s house and I want you to come with me.”
“A party?” I deadpan. “You don’t even know me.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Now come on, I’m borderline bitchy late instead of fashionably late.”
What the hell.
I toss down some money and follow my new friend, Claire, out into the cool misty night. She turns right, immediately setting off at a good clip and crossing her arms over her chest to stave off the cold.
“I like your accent. Australian?”
I nod. “Yes, but I’ve lived in the States for nearly sixteen years now.”
“That explains why you have a slight accent, but don’t sound over the top Aussi.”
I snicker. “Over the top Aussi?”
“Yup. I would know. I lived in Australia for six months when I was a k
id.”
I turn to her, taken a back. “Oh, yeah? Where abouts?”
“Sydney. Army brat. My dad was there for training or something.”
I can’t imagine moving around like that for short stints at a time. Probably explains why she’s so affable and outgoing. How else do you meet people or make friends in that sort of situation?
“What about you?”
“Just outside of Melbourne.”
“Is your family still there?”
I shake my head, stepping around a couple who decided that the middle of the sidewalk was the perfect place to make-out. “My mum and dad are here in Seattle now, and my sister lives in California.”
“Nice.” Claire stops at the foot of a large craftsman style home. “This is us.”
I angle to her, my eyebrows raised, because the house is completely dark.
There are no lights on and no cars on the street or in the driveway.
“It’s a surprise engagement party for my boss and my best friend,” she explains, climbing the few cement steps up to the door. “They’re getting married in a couple of months, but the ceremony is going to be super small, so one of Kate’s work friends set this up so they could celebrate with her.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely thing to do.”
“It is.” She looks at me as she opens the front door like she lives there. “But if you say lovely again we can’t hang out.”
I snicker, grinning for the first time all day as I wearily follow her in.
“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Claire calls out, clearly not wanting a houseful of people to yell surprise at her.
“About damn time, Claire,” an enticing male voice bellows out from the dark.
“Suck it, Luke,” Claire says as she grabs hold of my wrist, seeming to know the way. I allow her to lead me, wondering what the hell I’m doing in a strange house with a strange girl. Around us people are giggling and shushing one another.
Stumbling over someone, I mutter out an apology as Claire jerks me down to the ground behind a heavy, solid piece of furniture that can only be a sofa or chair.
“If you had gotten here on time I wouldn’t have to give you shit,” the same male voice whispers in my ear.
“Sorry?” I whisper back, a little unsettled by his proximity. Our hands are essentially touching as the warmth of his body cascades over mine, his breath brushing my face. He smells like the rain, fabric softener, and some woodsy cologne. It’s fantastic, and I practically breathe him in before I can stop myself. It’s the sort of scent that women all over the world fantasize about because it’s just that good.
“You’re not Claire,” he says, and I feel his fingers skimming my own in what can only be a purposeful motion. I jerk my hand back to my lap.
“No, I’m not.” I don’t offer more of an explanation than that. Suddenly I’m embarrassed to be here, practically sitting against a strange man in the dark. His body and face somehow seem closer, though all I can make out are shadows without specific features.
“That’s a good thing,” he whispers. His breath blowing at a wisp of hair near my neck, sending chills across my skin.
What the bloody hell was that?
It’s the alcohol. It’s making me dizzy and not myself.
He must not realize how close he is to me, so I shift to the other side, abutting Claire’s small frame.
As I look around, s-quinting my eyes against the black, I realize that this isn’t just a house party—it’s an intimate gathering of friends, and I met the only person I know here twenty minutes ago.
I’ve never done anything like this, and I have no excuse for my behavior now except that it was a real bastard of a day and I needed the mental diversion.
“Luke,” Claire whispers, leaning across me.
She must have bloody night vision goggles or cat eyes or something because she seems to have no difficulty seeing in the dark.
“This is Ivy. I picked her up at Cello’s, even though she’s straight. Ironic, huh? I meet the only other non-lesbian there and talk her into leaving with me.”
“That’s fucking hilarious,” Luke deadpans. “Now can you shut up so we don’t blow the lame ass surprise? They just pulled in the driveway.”
I’m about to ask how he even knows that when I hear car doors slamming shut and a man and a woman talking and laughing.
Keys jiggle in the lock, and I can feel Claire—at least I hope it’s her—grab my hand in excited anticipation. The door flies open and someone flips the switch on the lights and suddenly everyone jumps up, including me, and yells surprise.
I’m temporarily blinded by the sudden transition in lighting, and as my pupils constrict and accommodate, I’m being pulled into the rushing crowd of well-wishers.
Somehow I manage to pry myself away from Claire’s ninja grip and maneuver myself to the back of the heap.
The group of about thirty people are laughing and talking animatedly with a woman I cannot see, but her fiancé is towering over the rest with dark, nearly black hair, a thick beard and glasses.
Not a bad-looking bloke.
My eyes scan the room, debating if I should make a run for it out the back when a small blonde woman with an angelic face and light blue eyes approaches me. She looks familiar, but for the life of me I can’t place her.
“Ivy Green?”
“Um . . . Yes?” Why does that sound like a question?
“Welcome,” she says warmly and I smile, feeling horrible for not knowing her name when she clearly knows mine. “I’m Kate Taylor. I work at the hospital with you. I’m a nurse in the ICU, but float to the ED sometimes.”
And then it all clicks into place.
“Yes, of course,” I beam, relieved that I know a second person here, again, sort of. “I apologize for not realizing who you were straight off.”
She waves me away like its nothing. “Claire said you were her date for the night. She’s my maid-of-honor.”
That relief from moments ago crashes to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. I’m mortified, because this is clearly her engagement party that I’m crashing and I didn’t even know her name.
“Yes, sorry. I hope that’s all right?” I look around helplessly. “I realize I’m intruding.”
“Not at all. I’m glad you’re here. The more people I know at the hospital, the better.”
I can relate to that.
Though I’ve been working there since the start of my residency, I haven’t really clicked with many people. But that’s all on me. I’ve been consumed with work and thought of little else.
Scanning around, I see a slew of other familiar faces, including Craig Stanton, who mercifully has yet to notice me.
“It’s a bit unexpected that I’m crashing the surprise party of a work colleague.”
“I know, right?” Kate laughs out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Claire hops over to us. Literally, she’s hopping across the room. “You macking my date?”
“No, but I definitely knew her before you did.”
“No way,” Claire half yells, pouting with a disappointed jut of her lip.
“It’s true, mate,” I say, patting her shoulder like she’s a small child. “I work at the hospital with her.”
“Figity fuck, Kate. How is it you’ve met everyone I know before me?”
“Not Luke. You definitely knew him first.”
“True, but that dickwad doesn’t count.”
“Get over it,” Kate laughs, before giving a pouting Claire a kiss on the cheek. “I have to mingle, but I’m glad you came, Ivy. I hope we can talk more later.”
“Thanks. Me too.” I mean that as well. Kate is as sweet as her face.
“Come on, Ivy, let’s go hit up the bar and look for unattached men. Something tells me it’s slim pickings in that department.”
Claire leads me toward the back of the house and into a gorgeous gigantic kitchen where there is a bar set up on the center island and a few people I don’t recognize
milling about.
“What’s your poison? Another Manhattan?” Claire asks, pulling two red plastic cups off the stack.
“Uh, sure. Why not? I don’t have to be on shift until ten tomorrow.”
“Atta girl.” She pours a lot of whiskey and a splash of sweet vermouth into the cup and hands it to me. No ice. Not even slightly chilled. Just straight up alcohol.
“You’re joking, right?” I ask, eyeing the warm, no doubt overly strong, beverage.
“Not at all. This party is lame. We need to get our drink on if we’re going to last.”
“I can’t drink like this. You’ll be holding my hair above the toilet in no time.”
“Don’t tell me I picked up a pussy of a drinker?” she snorts. “Get it? Pussy of a drinker? I picked you up at gay bar.”
I really have no words for that one.
I shrug, “Sorry mate, but yeah.”
“At least have a few sips.” She drops a couple of ice cubes from the bucket into my cup with a splash. “There, better now?”
“Fine, but if I get sick and make a total mess of myself, you better not think less of me.”
“Never. Cross my wicked, black heart.” She makes an X over her heart with her finger.
“I’m not sure if that lends itself to trust, but I’ll go with it for now.”
“Good.” She smiles brightly, holding up her own cup filled with some crazy concoction. “To new friends.”
“To new friends,” I repeat as we crash our plastic cups against each other with a crinkling sound before I take far too large a sip. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat, but for the first time in days, I’m relaxed and happy.
Chapter 2
Ivy
“Dr. Green,” Craig Stanton’s unwelcome voice interrupts my mini-drinking session with Claire.
“Dr. Stanton,” I reply dryly, rolling my eyes at Claire who is smiling like the Cheshire cat.
His long, lithe body slides in next to me against the counter, leaning much closer than I’d like. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, Ivy.”
“I didn’t expect to be here tonight.” I wave a hand in Claire’s direction. “Craig meet Claire, my date.” I bring my hand back to Craig. “Claire, meet Craig.”
“Nice to meet you, Claire.” He smiles that charming smile that can only be the product of years of good breading and money. “How do you know Ivy?”