Sweet Jane: An amnesia story about being lost and then found

by Knox, Abby

  Sweet Jane

  An amnesia story about being lost and then found

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2018 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Perfect Pear Cover Creations

  Created with Vellum

  This story is dedicated to The Cowboy Junkies. I will never not want to make out when that song comes on.

  Contents

  Sweet Jane

  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

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Coming in February 2019 from Abby…

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Sweet Jane

  By Abby Knox

  Jane doesn’t know her name, where she is, or why she’s on the street in a flimsy nightgown in broad daylight. As far as her memory is concerned, she is almost a blank slate. Taking a chance on the kindness the handsome owner of a local coffee shop, she gets more than just a few free samples.

  Shepherd is having such a smashing grand opening of his new coffee shop, fate has landed the blonde bombshell of his dreams right in front of him. “Jane” is a lost and confused little lamb who needs his help, but she soon proves to be braver than anyone realizes. His inner possessive beast wants nothing more than to take her home and make sure she never remembers her old life.

  WARNING: This sticky-sweet, smutty amnesia story is so adorable you’ll forget your own name! It has it all: selective memory loss, insta-love, hot phone sex, a protective alpha, a not-so-helpless damsel in distress, and a sunny HEA epilogue that will warm away your seasonal affective disorder. Plus a bonus super-hot second epilogue! ATTENTION: If you are a medical professional and you find yourself saying, “That’s not how any of this works,” listen: I KNOW. Relax. Enjoy. Be like Jane: sit down, have some good coffee and go with the flow. Put on your PJs and cuddle up with Jane and Shep!

  Chapter One

  Jane

  It’s not normal to forget my name, is it?

  I’m not sure, because I can’t remember what normal is.

  I think my name is Jane.

  I like the name Jane. It feels nice to say. Straightforward.

  But that might be explained by the power of suggestion. You know, because that’s how people always refer to unidentifiable women: “Jane Doe.”

  The things I do flash on—like blips of déjà vu —are pretty random. I remember sequins, lots of cheering and champagne, before everything went blank.

  I remember a man, but his face is a forgettable blur.

  When I close my eyes to concentrate, I notice my fingers still seem to know how to knit and crochet. Gee, that’s useful in the current moment.

  What’s my current moment, you ask?

  I’m sitting on a park bench in a frilly pink nightie under a bright and cloudless sky.

  My name, where I live, what year it is, my marital status? Forgotten.

  I think I can still type, but I don’t remember my login for any social media.

  Which doesn’t really matter because I also don’t remember my phone unlock password. The password would be useless anyway, since I don’t seem to have my phone.

  That would be handy right now, seeing as I could use my phone to call emergency.

  But you know what?

  I have this weird feeling that I don’t want to call anyone. My head is saying, “Maybe it’s OK to not know who you are, at least for a little while.”

  Does that make sense?

  I know, it’s counterintuitive. I know what I should do. I should find a police officer. Or a fire department. Or a hospital.

  There’s a problem, though. My brain seems to be exhibiting a hard-wired aversion the word “should.”

  Thinking of the “shoulds” in this situation is making me feel like doing the opposite.

  A subtle spine tingle is telling me to lay low.

  I’m going to go with my gut.

  The time of day must be morning; I see people lined up outside this fancy coffee shop nearby. The name etched into the glass of the shop reads, “Cortex.”

  Oh, sweet irony. The part of the brain that controls memory.

  Wait, is that coincidence or irony? I’m going to say both.

  I look around for clues as to what city I’m in. The street sign over there says Concord Avenue. There’s a Concord in New Hampshire, right?

  Seems too warm to be New Hampshire.

  Oh, but geography hasn’t left me, apparently.

  It’s a good thing I’m warm, because this nightie is not leaving much to the imagination. Even with a satin robe over the top of this thing, my nips are saying “hello, world!” Strange, I don’t feel ashamed to be in public like this. Should I?

  I should be freaking out and looking for something to cover me up, right?

  There’s that word “should” again.

  But some distant voice in my mind is not that worried about it.

  I don’t care.

  Why don’t I care?

  Am I on antidepressants? Hard to tell. I don’t have a handbag on me, so no way to know if prescription pills are my jam.

  No handbag, no phone, that means no wallet. Too bad, because I could use a coffee right now.

  This coffee place looks expensive but damn, it smells good.

  I hate to be that girl that gets her way just by being blonde and half naked, but you have to understand. I don’t know a lot right now, but I do know I need some coffee. I’m not feeling entitled so much as hoping to depend on the kindness of strangers.

  I’m just going to get in that line and see what happens.

  Chapter Two

  Shepherd

  The line of customers at my grand opening snakes all the way down the block at eight a.m. and I’m pretty stoked about it.

  Cortex.

  I know. It’s a pretentious name for a coffee shop. But hear me out. I chose the name because my Pops is a world-famous neurologist.

  In fact, he’s phoning right now; I answer it while I’m ringing up a customer. I try to make an apologetic face, but the truth is I’m thrilled to hear from him.

  “You making bank yet, young man?”

  I grin from ear to ear just to hear his voice. He’s the coolest dude I know.

  “Is the investor already getting worried about his ROI?” I ask, nodding to my customer and handing over a double espresso.

  Pops laughs. “I hope so, your investor’s on a fixed income now.”

  I laugh while taking more coffee orders and signaling my staff for a replacement on the re
gister. I shuffle over to man the espresso machine so the customers don’t have to interact with someone talking on the phone.

  “Fixed income. That’s cute, old man. Where are you right now? Teeing off at eight a.m. on a Friday?”

  Pops scoffs. “Golf is for suckers. I’m learning how to kayak. Lot more available young honeys out on the water than at that crusty country club.”

  I hand off an order and rush over to pour some fresh Nicaraguan beans into the commercial burr grinder.

  Ready to change the subject, I say, “Tell the jittery investor that the coffee addicts are here in droves. Can I put your order in?”

  The old man laughs, “No sirree, I got my Sanka right here in my trusty thermos.”

  This gives me a full-body cringe while I’m grinding my precious hand-picked beans. I groan theatrically, which makes Pops laugh. “Pops, you’re killin’ me. Please don’t drink that swill. Come on in after you’re back on land and I’ll make you something that will rock your world.”

  He chuckles. “Nah, son, I’ll be chasing the ladies at the boat house when I’m done here,” he says.

  “Aw, man, it’s too early in the day for you to be putting that image in my head,” I say, while making a sweep through the dining area to wipe down tables.

  “Suit yourself. You might not be such a prude about it if you made time to chase a lady yourself,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “I know, I know. But Shelby and I were on the outs for a while. We’re better as friends, though. Listen, I’m on fire over here. I’ll see you for dinner tonight?”

  We’re running short of Guatemalan brew, so I head back to the storeroom to get more for grinding. One of my cardinal rules is we don’t grind a single bean until we run out of that particular coffee.

  I hope Pops’s chef has something hearty planned for dinner tonight, because I’m going to earn it.

  He and I have a standing dinner date every week to catch up with each other. Maybe it’s not an enviable way for a single, not-terrible-looking dude such as myself to spend a Friday night, but I live for those dinners. The man is my hero.

  “See you then, but feel free to cancel if you meet a lovely lady friend,” he cajoles.

  I shake my head. “Bye, Pops. And don’t say ‘lady friend.’ Lot of women hate that.”

  He likes to bust my chops, but I can take it. He’s been good to me.

  So of course I had to honor him with the name of my shop.

  He’s a classy guy, and this place reflects that in every way. I personally polished every inch of glass, stainless steel and mahogany. I installed every blown glass pendant light from Italy. Most importantly, we roast our own beans, and every bean has a story.

  Coffee beans are my passion, just like studying the brain and helping people are Pops’s main passions in life.

  “Excuse me, but don’t you have any decaf?” I whirl around from cleaning tables to see a middle-aged man in a power suit, looking like he’s in a hurry.

  I smile and explain, “No, sir, we don’t serve decaf coffee.”

  “Why the hell would you not? That’s terrible for business. Don’t you know lots of people have high blood pressure and can’t have caffeine? What about those people?” he huffs.

  I swallow back my urge to clap back at this knucklehead, but instead I patiently explain, “The de-caffeinating process uses chemicals that cause…” But he cuts me off.

  “Look, pal, I don’t give two shits about chemicals, and you’ll be out of business in less than a week,” he says.

  I take a deep breath and continue to smile. “May I interest you in an herbal tea to calm your blood pressure?”

  The man waves me off and marches out the door.

  I walk back behind the counter and my manager, Tamira, says, “What was that about?”

  I shrug. “There’s always somebody who’s not happy.”

  That customer reminded me of my struggle when I had the idea for this shop.

  No mainstream bank would give me a loan. The bankers all said the same thing: I should not offer health benefits, but I just couldn’t budge on that. I will admit, this passion has taken its toll in more ways than financial. I’m so obsessed with coffee that my girlfriend of six months left because I could rarely talk about anything else. Or so she claimed.

  What spurred her on to leave may have also been the meathead she met at the gym. I shielded Pops from that detail. No hard feelings, though. I wish her well; we were not a good match.

  I’m so obsessed I am probably not fit for any relationship at the moment anyway.

  Still, it might be nice to take a breather, sit down and have a real conversation with a woman. I glance around at loving couples sitting together at my tables, drinking my coffee. I wonder if that’s ever going to be on the menu for me.

  “Shep, we got a live one.”

  I look up from my espresso machine and ask Tamira what’s up.

  She nods to the line of customers.

  I follow Tamira’s gaze and that’s when I see her.

  Holy. Shit.

  A blonde bombshell just exploded everything I thought I knew into smithereens. A vision of pink with legs for days. Haunted, serious eyes.

  The world stands still as I watch her. She’s biting her lip and straining her eyes, trying to make sense of the menu on the wall. There’s a story behind those eyes and by the end of the day, she’s going to tell it to me.

  I hear Tamira’s voice ask, “You know her?”

  I shake my head no. “But I’m going to marry that girl.”

  “I’m sorry, what now?” Tamira replies. I can tell from the tone of her voice she thinks I’ve just lost my marbles.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Maybe.”

  As I approach the woman with some free espresso samples, I notice the frilly pink nightie and matching satin robe that barely falls mid-thigh on her. Does she know she’s wearing pajamas out in public, or is she a model trying to pass off this flimsy outfit as a dress?

  Technically, she’s covered—all the very important secrets are covered anyway, but the satiny material accentuates every curve, highlighting every dip and mound of her breasts so thoroughly that it should be illegal.

  It should be illegal how badly I want to do things to her in that nightie.

  People around the shop are glancing over and smirking at her and I don’t like it.

  I’m normally a “live and let live” kind of guy, but something has just flipped a switch I never knew existed.

  That switch is on, and it can’t be turned off.

  Whoever she is, she belongs to me now.

  Chapter Three

  Jane

  People in line behind me are snickering a bit.

  I know why, but it’s not like I chose to be half naked in public.

  Well, maybe I did. I can’t remember.

  I’m more worried that I don’t know how I’m going to get coffee.

  Also, as I inch up closer to the counter, I realize I don’t even remember what my favorite coffee drink is. Is it a latte? Espresso? None of that sounds good.

  Do I like those multi-colored drinks with the chocolate syrup that looks like it was made of unicorn shit? Yes. That’s what I like. I like stripes and sugar and whipped cream.

  How is it that I remember drinking corporate unicorn sugar buzz drinks but I can’t remember my name?

  I must be a sugar addict.

  Something about this place tells me I have no chance of finding a beverage with chocolate syrup and two pumps of whatever plus whipped cream.

  This place is hardcore.

  There might be coffee fairies in the back giving every single bean a name before hand-roasting it over a tiny open flame.

  Oh lord. Maybe I should go find one of those mermaid places. What’s the name? I don’t remember, but I’m sure there was a mermaid on the sign.

  Or maybe none of this is real and I am a mermaid? I can’t remember anything because I just got my legs and Ursula took my brain cells
as well as my vocal chords?

  Great. Geography, knitting, coffee shakes and Disney movies. This mental inventory should help me build a new identity from scratch.

  Standing there biting my lip and squinting at the coffee menu, I feel someone’s eyes on me.

  I know there are about a dozen pairs of eyes on me right now, ogling my boobs in this nightie.

  But I sense another pair of eyes that are not doing anything close to that.

  I look over. Standing at the espresso machine is…him.

  Do I know him? I can’t remember.

  But whether I know him or not feels irrelevant.

  His are the first pair of kind eyes I’ve seen all morning. They are piercing, brown and locked on me and me alone. The stare is so definite, I don’t need to turn around to make sure he’s not making eyes at someone behind me.

  He’s got shoulders for days, a strong jaw, and brown skin that glows from within. He’s so beautiful I have to control myself from audibly sucking in my breath.

  I do not feel ogled by this man. I feel warmed.

  He’s wearing a gray tee-shirt with the name of the place, Cortex, across the chest in minimalist lettering, and a black mini apron. He’s got two full sleeves of tattoos. His arms are sinewy and muscled. My heart races.

  He looks like he wants to talk to me, but I wouldn’t know what to say if a fine man such as this ever came close to me.

  And now, he’s approaching. He’s carrying little ceramic cups in his hands.

  I freeze in place under his thrall.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”