A dirty talking Irishman, the Russian Bratva and a pushy Boston detective make this a page turning romance you won't be able to put down!
Waking up with amnesia.
Not remembering the love of your life.
Wondering why someone is trying to kill you.
This is Jerri Sloane's new normal.
She doesn't remember her best friend or the apartment she lives in.
The only person she remembers is him: Locklin.
But nobody seems to know who he is?
Lost, pregnant and terrified, Jerri must piece together the details of her past and find her broody Irish lover before the Russian's find her first.
A full length standalone novel.
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Mindlessly playing with the frayed edges of my dress, I listen to the soothing sound of the heart rate monitor. Normally, anything with an incessant beep would drive me insane. But in this instance, it’s a reminder.
The beeping is not as comforting as I would have hoped.
In fact, it’s a giant fucking kick in the teeth. Who would have thought it would have come to this? Who would have imagined, in their wildest dreams, that I, the woman with amnesia, had all the answers I needed right in front of me? Every answer to every goddamn question I ever had was ready and willing for me to take. For me to learn and remember and know?
A mild cough startles me from my internal rant. I’ve had ten hours to fume.
Ten hours to sit in this beautifully tattered dress, calm my shit, and rehearse my speech to the man who could have given me everything. But instead, he kept it all.
I stand from the uncomfortable chair I’ve been sitting in. I move to fix my hair before I get closer to the bed, but then I remember it doesn’t matter.
Because if I wasn’t worth enough at my best, surely my messy hair, torn gown, and filthy body covered with dried blood—me at my worst—will change nothing.
“Don’t speak,” I interrupt, holding up my hand, voice raspy. I watch his face fall. His weary eyes shut in pain. Not pain due to his injuries. Not pain due to four hours of surgery.
Pain due to heartache.
We’ve come full circle. Only this time the emotional pain doesn’t belong to Portia, who watched her best friend wander lost in her mind. This time—it’s him.
Placing my hands on the bedrail at the foot of the hospital bed, I take in the man in front of me.
His clean-shaven jaw grew with stubble overnight. Dark hair, not as long and shaggy as I like. Clearly he’s been back to the barber.
I follow the plains of his solid tattooed chest and the wisps of dark hair on his tanned arms, and only when I’m ready, only when I’m brave enough, do I finally meet his piercing blue eyes.
“You lied,” I strongly tell him, my voice deep and full of emotion. I softly raise my hand when I see he wants to speak again, but I know it hurts. I know the tube that was down his throat did some damage.
I continue, ignoring my blurry vision from tears that threaten to fall. “When I woke up in the hospital four months ago, I wanted one thing,” I pause, choking back my sob, “just one thing.”
“Jerri . . .”
I shake my head, eyes closing, tears falling free. I face him with all of it. Screw strong. I let him see it all: the hurt, the agony, and the heart-crushing pain that comes with not knowing.
The anguish that comes with not being wanted.
“You,” I whisper. “I just . . . wanted . . . you.”
Opening my eyes, I watch as the light leaves his. Any hope from waking, any wish he had to be alive, healthy, and happy when he had woken up is shattered.
Just like my heart.