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  PAUSE

  KYLIE SCOTT

  Pause, Copyright © 2021 by Kylie Scott All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: By Hang Le

  Cover Photograph: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf

  Interior Book Design: Champagne Book Design

  ISBN: 978-0-6484573-0-5

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PLAYLIST

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  SNEEK PEEK OF FAKE

  PURCHASE KYLIE SCOTT’S OTHER BOOKS

  ABOUT KYLIE SCOTT

  PLAYLIST

  “Bust Your Windows” by Jazmine Sullivan

  “Mad Woman” by Taylor Swift

  “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty

  “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone

  “killing boys” by Halsey

  “Adore You” by Harry Styles

  “Beyond” by Leon Bridges

  “Jackie and Wilson” by Hozier

  PROLOGUE

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Or try to ask. Only my throat is sore and dry, so my voice barely rises above a whisper. Not even swallowing seems to help. “Mom?”

  She wipes away the tears in a rush. “Sweetheart.”

  Everything in the strange white room seems hazy and insubstantial. I blink repeatedly, trying to clear my view. There’s a vase of fading pink roses sitting on a small side table and I’m hooked up to a drip along with an array of machines. My body is one long, dull, horrible ache. What the hell happened?

  “You were in an accident,” says Dad, answering the question I hadn’t yet asked. He rises from a chair in the corner of the room. “Do you remember?”

  Before I can answer, Mom’s there with her tremulous smile. “You’ve woken up before, but never for long. You keep going back to sleep.”

  None of this makes sense. “What . . .”

  “The doctor told us that we have to ask you how you’re feeling and what you can remember,” she says.

  “W-wait,” I stutter. “Where’s Ryan?”

  They share a worried glance.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “What do you remember?” Mom perches on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Can you move your fingers and toes?” asks Dad.

  “I feel confused and frustrated.” I stop to swallow again. Still not helping. “But yes, my fingers and toes are fine.”

  Mom rushes to fetch a plastic cup full of water with a straw sticking out for me. I try to take it slow, try to just sip it, but it tastes so good.

  “I don’t remember an accident,” I admit once I’m finished.

  “Another car hit you and you lost control.”

  They both wait for me to react. For recognition to strike. But I’ve got nothing. “When?”

  “Let’s wait for the doctor,” says Mom, wringing her hands.

  “Just tell me. Please.”

  “It’s the fourteenth of February.” Dad straightens his tie in a rare show of nerves. “That’s the date today.”

  I frown. “No. No, that can’t be.”

  Mom nods, adamant.

  “What?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Seven Months. Yes,” says Dad.

  “It’s a long time to be in a coma. No one thought you’d wake up.” Mom balls up a Kleenex in her hands. “The doctors said . . . it doesn’t matter what they said now. You’re a medical miracle. I knew you’d be okay. My daughter’s a fighter.”

  Holy shit.

  While none of this makes sense, it’s all too real to be a joke. Not that my parents have much of a sense of humor. But there’s nothing false in my mother’s pained eyes. The last thing I can remember was it being July and we were at home planning a barbeque. Only a summer storm hit on my way to the store, the first rain in over a month. Then nothing.

  Seven months of my life just gone. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. Summer, autumn, and winter. A whole half a year. It can’t be. It isn’t possible.

  My brain won’t cooperate and even attempting to lift my hand is a strain. It doesn’t look any different, but I’m so damn weak and locked up. And where’s my engagement ring, my wedding band? Guess they took them off me for security reasons, but still. I don’t like it.

  “Where’s Ryan?” I ask again.

  Dad flinches.

  Mom turns away.

  “Where is my husband?” This time my voice is trembling. There was no one else in the car with me. Ryan stayed home to sweep the deck and clean the grill. To get everything ready. I don’t remember anyone being in the passenger seat. But then I don’t remember an accident either, just some vague shadowy dreams. This is hell.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” says Mom, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

  “He isn’t . . .” I can’t say the word dead. I don’t want to even think it. “What happened?”

  “He’s on his way.” Dad slips his cell phone back into his pants pocket, all while avoiding my eyes. “Just try and stay calm, Anna. Getting all upset about the situation won’t help anything.”

  Despite my father’s words, my breath comes faster. A full-on panic attack all of about two seconds away. Not easy to do from a prone position, but I’m giving it my best damn shot. “What the hell is going on?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THREE MONTHS LATER . . .

  Leif Larsen lives in a big old brown brick building with a sprawling dogwood out front in a cool urban neighborhood. No one answers when I press the buzzer. But according to the details on the scrap of paper the nurse gave me, I’ve got the right place.

  What to do?

  The rational response would be to give up and go home. Because hiding out in my childhood bedroom has worked out great so far (and this would be sarcasm). It’s been months since I left the house for anything other than a medical appointment. Weeks since I’ve heard from any friends. Right on cue, my cell buzzes inside my tan Coach purse. I don’t bother to look. Mom requests proof of life every hour on the hour. Not even dinner at the country club can distract her, apparently. Her parental concern for me is well past claustrophobic.

  My hand clenches the iron railing against a gust of unseasonably warm evening wind. It’s been a while since I stopped using a mobility aid, but things can still feel tricky. The whole damn world does, if I’m being honest. So many things I took for granted have now been turned upside down.

  This is the problem with living the supposed dream. With having an airtight plan for your life. Meet Prince Charming and marry him. Find the perfect job. Only problem is, if something goes wrong, when reality smacks you upside the head and sends you reeling, then there’s no system for putting the pieces back together. There’s no Plan B because it never occurred to you that you’d need one. A lack of imagination on my part, perhaps.

  A motorcycle pulls up to the curb and it’s like everything happens in slow motion. Something about this long, lean man just makes time want to stand still. A denim-clad leg is swung over the back of the iron beast. A helmet is removed and shoulder-length hair tumbles free. High cheekbones and perfect lips are framed by stubble and all I can do is st
are.

  I don’t know if I’m intimidated or turned on or what.

  “Can I help y . . .” he begins. There’s the faintest spark of recognition in his eyes.

  I continue to stand there frozen.

  “Fuck me,” he mutters, stalking closer. His gaze slides over me from top to toe, lingering on the small scars on my left cheek from the glass. There’s no attempt made to hide his curiosity. “It’s really you.”

  Nichelle the nurse described him as being a nice young man. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that would prepare me for this. And I dispute “nice.” Ripped denim, battered leather, and a Harley-Davidson motorbike are not nice.

  “Never seen you conscious before,” he says, getting even closer.

  I just blink.

  From beneath the collar and cuffs of his leather jacket emerge colorful tattoos. Lots of them. Blue waves and black letters. Red flames and white flowers. The man is a walking, talking piece of art. My parents would be horrified. Ryan too, for that matter. Not that any of their opinions matter. I need to forge my own path. Go my own way.

  “How did you find me?” he asks with a faint frown.

  “Oh. Ah.” I smooth down the front of my pale blue midi-length linen summer dress. My dark hair is slicked back in a low ponytail and my makeup is simple but perfect. It’s nice having some things I can control. “One of the nurses from the ICU told me about you and I wanted to come say thank you. But maybe an apology would be more in order?”

  For a moment he pauses, then he asks, “Do you want to come in?”

  Good question. The fact is, I don’t know. Nor do I know how to do this. Something made obvious when my mouth opens, but nothing comes out. So much nothing for such a length of time that it’s beyond embarrassing. Dammit. Whatever it is I came here looking for, it wasn’t this. Him. Whatever.

  “We’ve never properly met, have we?” He holds out his big hand. “Hi, I’m Leif.”

  “Anna.”

  While I’m tentative, he shows no such reserve. Strong, warm fingers enfold my own stiff and cold ones. There’s no attempt at a dominating handshake or groping. He gives my hand a squeeze, just the one gentle squeeze, before setting me free.

  “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but that would be weird.” He grins conspiratorially and oh my God. Everything low in my stomach wakes up and takes notice. Shame on my lady parts, but the chemical pull of the man is ridiculous. It takes me a minute to remember that I’m a married woman. Mostly. Well, somewhat anyway. I certainly have no business smiling at him like I am. My life is messed up enough without adding a crush. Perhaps it’s in reaction to me, I don’t know, but the mirth disappears and his gaze becomes serious. A little bleak even. “I still have nightmares about that day, you know?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Don’t, Anna. Don’t look like that. I didn’t tell you to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. I was just . . . sharing.” His expression changes again, a more subdued smile taking the place of the brief hint of trauma. Then he suddenly winks at me all flirty like. I don’t know how to react. I can barely keep up. The man is a whirlwind. “Want to come in and have a beer with me?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just . . . I don’t want to remind you of things you’d rather—”

  “I want you to come inside. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  A drink with a pretty wild man that I have a strange sort of history with or a swift return to safety and boredom? I don’t overthink it. I don’t even hesitate. “Then yes, Leif. I’d love to.”

  The police report states that when I lost control of my car, a man on a motorcycle was forced off the road to avoid impact. This was after I was hit by the other vehicle, but before I hit the tree. While the other driver fled the scene, the man on the motorcycle sustained a compound fracture to his right arm and was transported to the same hospital as me for treatment. The man who sat by my hospital bed every night reading to me. Until he stopped showing up.

  None of this explains, however, why he doesn’t own a single piece of furniture in his condo, besides a king-size mattress. Not a single thing hangs on the blank white walls. And the mattress is just lying there, in the center of the open kitchen/dining/living space. There are two small bedrooms, but he’s not bothering to use either one of them. The mattress is covered with rumpled sheets and discarded pillows. My brain is far too happy to imagine all the obscene acts he might have participated in on that bed. It’s disturbing to say the least. Porn thoughts aren’t my usual go-to.

  “You’re probably more of a white wine drinker, huh?” He pops the top on a can of Swish Bissell Brothers beer and passes it to me.

  “This is fine. Thank you.”

  After downing a mouthful of his own IPA, he gives the mostly empty room a glance. “Only got the place a couple of months back. Still working on furniture and stuff.”

  I nod in acknowledgment, my grip on my purse strap tightening. It’s kind of my safety blanket. But he’s had months to get organized. Good Lord. Medical bills would have done their damage, but still. The place is all but empty. A hollow shell. Not a home.

  “Maybe we should have gone out,” he says.

  “It’s fine.”

  He lifts himself up onto the kitchen counter and looks down at me, swinging his legs like a child. “You know, you keep saying the word ‘fine.’ But I can basically see the tic in your eye from my lack of a sofa and ottoman.”

  I am not amused.

  “An armoire and a side table too, maybe. A couple of lamps for some mood lighting.” He shrugs off his leather jacket. The short sleeves of his gray tee reveal even more ink along with the ripple of a whole lot of lean muscles. I don’t let my gaze linger on the gnarled and jagged pink scar on his upper arm. And meanwhile there’s a gleam in Leif’s amber eyes, one that suggests he’s enjoying himself way too much. “Don’t even get me started on the lack of suitable glassware and drinks coasters. Probably for the best that I don’t have any furniture or we’d be leaving water marks everywhere. I don’t even have a linen napkin to my name. I’m really not prepared for guests at all, am I?”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “You’re judging me.”

  Shit. “I don’t mean to,” I say, subdued. Horrified at being called out.

  Coming here was such a bad idea. He’s a veritable stranger and we have nothing in common. Nothing good, at any rate. Then there’s the part where I’ve been standing for too long. I hate the lingering weakness. My therapist says feelings of frustration and anger are to be expected. The accident has changed me. But mostly I’d just like to stop falling on my ass sometime soon.

  “Come here,” he says, jumping down with ease.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to lift you up onto the counter so you can get off your feet.”

  I just look at him.

  “You need to sit, don’t you? That’s what the panicky face and the shakes mean. Believe me, I know it all too well, having recently spent some time in rehab myself with the arm.”

  “Yes,” I reluctantly admit.

  He makes a come-hither motion with his hands. “It’s okay, Anna. I’m actually sorry I don’t have a sofa for you to sit on. May I help you?”

  My options aren’t great. The floor, the mattress, or this counter. And there’s no way I can get up there on my own. “Thank you. Yes.”

  He’s standing so close. The man must be a bit over six feet tall because I barely come up to his nose. Strong hands grip my waist and my breasts brush against his chest on the way up. Accidental, as evidenced by the slight widening of his eyes. As if he’s never been up close to a bosom before. Please. And he smells ridiculously good. Clean, warm male sweat with a hint of spice. It verges on nirvana for a woman who hasn’t had sex in almost a year. Not to mention the recognition that I am in fact a real live breathing person, with feminine wiles. Th
e sensation that he’s actually seeing me when I’ve felt nonexistent for so long is a heady thing. I’ve been a patient, a problem, everything but a strong, capable woman with a beating heart with wants and needs.

  “Thanks,” I say again, a little breathless this time.

  “No problem.” The way he stops and studies my face is weird. It’s probably because I’m being weird. But finally, the odd moment ends, and he takes a step back. “Nice dress.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  I counter with, “Nichelle said you visited me every night for a while in the hospital.”

  He sighs and crosses his arms. “I read to you at night for a few weeks. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It kind of is. That was very sweet of you.”

  “Anna—”

  “Don’t,” I say, harder than I mean to. “Don’t diminish it. That you took the time to sit with me means a lot.”

  “Yeah. Well.” He scratches his head. “Truth is, you were lousy company.”

  I bark out a surprised laugh. Then slap a hand over my mouth, because what an unholy loud noise.

  Leif smiles behind his can of beer. “So come on, tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Start with the basics.” He leans against the wall, one of his big-ass boots tapping out a beat in the silence. “Or surprise me. Whatever.”

  “Twenty-six. I was in hospitality, but that’s all on hold.” I shrug. “Grew up in Cape Elizabeth.”

  “Fancy neighborhood.”

  “If you say so. Only child. Went to college in New Hampshire.” And that’s basically me. “What about you?”

  “Thirty-one. Local born and bred. Youngest of three sons. And I’m a tattoo artist.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Wow.”

  “No ink for you, huh?”

  “Not after all of the needles in the hospital.” Not that it was a remote possibility beforehand, I mentally add. While I can appreciate how they look on him, I am nowhere near that interesting. Nor do I enjoy pain.