Forward Read online

  http://eepurl.com/cGnJi9

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  EPILOGUE

  END OF BOOK NOTE

  Other works by J. Saman:

  Start Again (Start Again Series #1)

  Start Over (Start Again Series #2)

  Love Rewritten (Release Date 6/12/17)

  Start With Me (Start Again Series #3) (Release date fall/winter 2017)

  1

  “You need to calm the hell down,” Amara, my roommate, tells me in no uncertain terms. “You look hot, but you’re freaking out and it’s going to make you start sweating like a whore at the beach.”

  “Isn’t it a whore in church?” I ask, scrunching my eyebrows and tilting my head at her reflection in the mirror playfully. She waves my comment away. Amara has been sitting on my bed, watching as I tear through dress after dress like this is a first date. It’s not, but for some reason I’m having a lot of trouble deciding what to wear. Amara’s eyes are fixed to her version of the holy bible—gossip magazines.

  “Like it matters where the whore is? The point is the bitch is scared, and so are you.” Her eyes find mine in the mirror before going back to her magazine. She always did have a way with words, but that doesn’t mean what she’s saying is any less true. I am freaking out. I’m about thirty seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

  I’m so not good with these kinds of situations.

  “I know I know. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t sweat,” I tell her with a cheeky grin just to piss her off.

  “Fuck you very much, I can’t help it that I sweat like a truck driver. I’m Middle-Eastern.”

  I snort. “What the hell does being Middle-Eastern have to do with sweating?”

  “I don’t know, it just sounded good.” She huffs out a breath, flipping the page with a loud crinkle. “Can we stop talking about my glandular disorders and get back to you looking perfect, like you always do? You’re being a ninny,” she says with a fake British accent that makes me smile.

  “I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” I lie. I absolutely know why I’m nervous, but I’m not in the mood to discuss my relationship phobias again. “It’s so not even a big deal. It’s just dinner. Tom and I have gone out to fancy places dozens of times.” Staring at my reflection in the full length mirror for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half an hour, my eyes scan over every one of my features. I smile, trying to reassure myself.

  Could I be anymore lame?

  Who smiles at them self?

  “Then like I said, calm the hell down.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I salute her, and she rolls her eyes at me.

  I don’t look nervous, other than the slight flush in my cheeks. My hair is down in soft brown waves because I took the time to dry it. It looks nice, and he likes my hair down so there’s a double bonus. My makeup is flawless, albeit minimal. Just some mascara, bronzer and lip gloss.

  I know why I’m so uneasy. Tonight Tom is going to ask me a very important question, whatever that means. At least that’s what he told me when he asked me to meet him downtown at his office before going out for a lovely dinner.

  What kind of boyfriend does that anyway?

  Tells you ahead of time that they have a very important question to ask you? Doesn’t he know me at all? Doesn’t he know that a stupid statement like that is a surefire way to lead me down the dark road of overthinking? You’d think in the seven or so million years men have existed on the planet, they’d have figured out women by now.

  You don’t tell us things like that unless you want us to obsess.

  I shift my weight in my four inch heels, still gazing in the mirror, but now my focus isn’t really on myself. I’m going through all of the possible things that he’d want to ask me. Top of the list is moving in with him. We’ve been together long enough where that’s a logical step. He’s even brought it up before casually. I had a minor Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off freak-out moment on him, so he hasn’t brought it up since, but that was about eight months ago.

  He might be planning to try again.

  He could also be asking me to meet his family. I’ve begged off of that in the past as well, and I know it would mean a lot to him if I did. I’m such a bitch. I have no idea why he puts up with me. It’s not like he couldn’t have a million other girls, because he could.

  I’ve gotten better, though. Things have definitely taken on a more serious note with us, and I’ve been into that. Drinking the hardcore commitment/relationship Kool Aid for a while now. I get the feeling he’s about to strike like a cobra on a mongoose.

  “You think he’s going to propose?” Her question snaps me out of my reverie and straight back into panic mode, because no, I didn’t think he was going to ask me that. “I mean, you haven’t even been together for two years, and you’re only twenty-five for fuck’s sake.” Pressing her lips together, she rolls her eyes like she’s also discounting this possibility as she flips another page of her glossy magazine.

  She may be trying for nonchalant, but I know Amara.

  This was her way saying that she’s not cool with the idea of me getting married, and is trying to talk me out of it before the question is even popped.

  “Oh shit, did you see her ass in this bathing suit? I’d die, I swear,” she snickers, not bothering to even show me what the hell she’s talking about.

  I turn around and glare at her, putting a hand on my hip and shifting my weight to the opposite foot. “No proposal,” I say horrified, pointing a finger at her like in warning. The very notion of nuptials makes my stomach roll. “He said it was important and asked me to dress nicely. I’m sure it’s something more benign than that.” I turn back to the mirror, tilting my head as I take myself in. Running my hands down my dress, I glance at the large crumpled pile of discarded dresses on my bed.

  Nope, not going there.

  This is the dress.

  I look hot—at least I think I do. There really is no telling what Tom considers nice, though. He works on Wall Street as director of something or another. I, on the other hand, am a nurse, working on getting my masters as a family nurse practitioner with a concentration in acute care.

  We’re in two completely different worlds. I’m all about comfort, he’s all about style and money—something his family has oodles of, and though mine is hardly slumming it, we’re not even in the same sphere. His family is old English money, like with nobility and estates and shit. My family lives in the ‘burbs of Boston in a nice house. Dad’s a lawyer and Mom’s a nurse. Tom’s family own an investment firm in the UK, and a large one at that.

  We own a house and this apartment.

  Get my meaning?

  “Maybe.” She shrugs, tossing her magazine onto my bed. The pages make a fluttering noise. Leaning forward, she appraises me like she’s a judge on Project Runway. “He’ll like that one.” She nods her head at me. “But I still think you should have played up your boobs more in my red dress.” I frown as I look at down at myself. My girls are well concealed.

  “Mr. Sexy Ass will like the classic black, though you can never go wrong with that, even if your tits don’t say: Suck on me, I’m
yummy.”

  “Amara, you’re such a cuntling, you do know that, right?” She throws me a devilish smile that says she does. “Tom doesn’t like it when I show too much boob in public. He thinks it’s trashy.” I run my hands down my dress again, a nervous gesture. It’s simple, just above my knee, and only gives a slight hint of my girls, which frankly is a minor miracle since I have cleavage when I wear a turtleneck. I picked this one because it has long sleeves.

  It’s cold as a bastard’s testicle out.

  “Lame. If I had your tits, I’d be walking around Manhattan naked.” She tilts her head up toward the ceiling, like she’s actually giving this some thought. “At the very least in low cut tops.” She winks, but her playful expression morphs to a slight scowl. “For real though, what will you do if he does propose?”

  I shake my head unable to answer her for a beat. “He’s not going to, Amara. My money is on living together or meeting his family. We’re just not that serious yet.” I’ve been with Tom for a while now. He’s ridiculously hot, nice, smart, stable and treats me like I’m the best thing ever.

  He’s my parents wet dream for a husband. Do I love him? Yes. I do. I can say that without hesitation, but I placed an emotional limit on myself years ago and have never allowed myself to go past it.

  I sigh, walking over to join her on my bed with a heavy bounce. Leaning my head on her shoulder, we’re both quiet for a moment. “I never in all honesty pictured marrying him.” I admit to her feeling like this admission is a personal weakness on my part, but I also know she won’t judge it.

  Marriage isn’t something we talk about often.

  Amara and I became roommates and best friends when we met as new nurses working in the ED here in New York. I moved here from Boston after I graduated from nursing school. “He’s probably not proposing anyway.” I pull back to look at her, needing reassurance. “I mean, he told me we had something important to talk about. You really think he’d say that to me and then propose?” I scoff, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Talk about unromantic.”

  “Um, yeah,” she draws out. “I think he would.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “I’m surprised he didn’t have his assistant call you to do it for him.” We both laugh. I put my head back on her shoulder, leaning in. Her arm wraps around my shoulder as she lets out a slow breath like she’s about to get real with me. “You hold yourself back, Peanut. I don’t know why, really. You don’t like to talk about your past too much and I respect that, but I do know that you don’t allow yourself to let go and be happy.” I swallow hard over the lump in my throat, trying to hold back the tears I feel creeping up. “Enjoy your life. Learn to open yourself up again. I’m not saying you have to marry Tom, but it’s time to crawl out of the dark.” She’s hit a nerve, whether she knows it or not, though something tells me that she does, in fact, know this.

  She’s right, I don’t talk about my past and I’m certainly not starting now.

  “I’m trying,” is all I manage in return. My voice is a bit shaky from my unshed tears. I glanced over at the Star Wars clock on my wall. “I better jet if I’m going to make it downtown. The car should be here any minute,” I say, changing the subject quickly. I get up slowly, taking one last cursory glance in the mirror, before walking towards the front door. I grab my large handbag that doubles as my work bag. It’s filled with clean scrubs and my stethoscope. Amara follows, helping me put on my white, winter dress coat.

  “At least the rich prick had the decency to send his car for you.” She winks at me. “Damn considerate loving bastard.” We both laugh because it’s the truth. He really is a gentleman to the core. He always told me it’s a British thing. I think the British pass good manners through the umbilical cord.

  “I love you.” I hug her tightly, because I totally freaking do. “Thanks for helping to girlify me, you know I suck at that.”

  “Yes,” she sighs, shaking her head like I’m a pathetic little thing. “You do. One day your vagina will kick in, and you’ll realize the fine art of makeup and not dressing like a geeky college freshman.”

  I shake my head smiling. “I don’t know what that has to do with my vagina” She smiles at me with a wink. “Are you on tonight? My shift starts at eleven,” I say, opening the door, hovering a bit.

  “I’m on at seven,” she says. “See you there. And you better tell me every detail.” I kiss her cheek before she pushes me out into the hallway.

  The freezing cold air smacks me in the face, knocking the breath out of me. I wrap my arms around my body, muttering a curse as I run over to the black Lincoln town car, double parked in front of my building. I jump in waving off the driver as he tries to get out to open my door. It’s too cold for that formality. I’m just glad it was here waiting for me.

  The car smells of leather and men’s cologne, which is oddly comforting, despite being overpowering. “Good evening, Ivan. Thanks for picking me up.” I smile at the warm brown eyes peering at me in the rear view mirror.

  “Ms. Lara.” He nods formally in return. I lay my head back and allow the movement of the car to lull me as we pull into rush hour traffic. I have to wonder why Tom wanted me to meet him at his office. I mean, he works on Wall Street, which is way the hell downtown. I live in the twenties on the east side. Tom lives in Chelsea, which is on the west side of town, and I think we’re going to dinner at a restaurant in Gramercy, if I had to guess, which is close to my apartment. So why am I being dragged all the way downtown only to return to where I started from?

  Makes no sense, but I’ll humor him, because he asked me to, and he rarely asks me for anything.

  He’s good like that.

  2

  I startle when I hear someone clearing their throat rather forcefully. I must have dozed off. “We’re here ma’am.” Ivan tells me in his thick Russian accent. I slowly raise my head from my slumped position and look out the window, still a bit dazed.

  My work hours are seriously messing with me. I need to get off working nights, but with classes during the day, it’s hard to get enough hours in to pay the bills if I don’t.

  I own my apartment outright. It was a rather large graduation gift from my father. He told me it was a good investment. He’s right, but taxes, upkeep and living in the city are an expensive venture.

  I pull my phone out of my purse to text Tom and let him know that we’re downstairs waiting for him, but he walks out of the massive glass doors of the building before I can even hit the send button.

  He’s so good looking it’s almost too much. Tall and slender, but still nicely built. He has a runner’s body, which is something he does frequently when he can find the time. The suit he’s wearing is a deep charcoal gray with a light blue dress shirt and gray textured tie. His blond hair is gelled and brushed back, but not in a creepy eighties pedophile way. More in a hot and sexy with unruly hair, way.

  Light blue eyes pierce through the darkness of the winter evening. They’re playful, not at all serious like I imagine he was before exiting his office building. He gives me his full megawatt smile that I’m sure makes every girl’s panties wet—mine included. I sort of have this Mad Men image of him at work—minus the cocktails, women and cigarettes.

  Ivan gets out, and opens the door for him, blasting me with frigid air. “Cheers Ivan,” Tom says as he slides in next to me, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. “Bugger, it’s freezing out there.” He turns to me, smiling, his cheeks slightly rosy from the arctic air and wind. “Hello, dove. You look gorgeous as always.”

  Damn, I love the accent, even with that stupid nickname. He leans in, giving me a kiss. His lips are cold and wet, but he always tastes sweet.

  Like peppermint and vanilla.

  An odd combination, but it totally works on him.

  “Hello yourself. You look mighty fine as well,” I say, snuggling into him as he pulls me closer to his side, clasping my warmer hand into his cold one.

  “Ivan, Union Square café, please.” He looks down at me with a coc
ky smirk. No doubt my eyes have bugged out of my head.

  It’s my favorite restaurant in the city.

  “Okay, now I’m nervous.” I bite down on my lip, because even though I try to sound like I was kidding, I’m not. He has me all kinds of spooked again. We don’t usually do the fancy dinner thing. We’re more local neighborhood people, and Tom is big into Thai takeout. I like to cook, especially in his apartment where the kitchen is massive. He’s never been one to complain about that since he can’t boil water without burning it.

  “Don’t be, love. It’s just supper and a chat is all. I figured it was a good place to do it.” He smiles softly at me, blue eyes twinkling in the dim lighting of the car. “And yes, it may be my way of warming you up to something.” I nod, but continue to worry my lip. He leans over, pulling my lip away from my teeth with his own. “You really hate surprises, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” I squeak. He’s right. I absolutely, positively do. “Talk, Tommy Boy, before my crazy imagination gets the better of me.”

  He laughs, kissing my lips again.

  “Right then, now it is.” Pulling me closer to him, I can tell he’s excited by whatever this is. He’s smiling and his eyes are glowing with enthusiasm, which has me smiling in return, despite my trepidation. “You know how I’ve been traveling to London frequently for work?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” I draw out slowly. I’m fiddling with his fingers in my lap. He raises our hands to his mouth, gently kissing my fingertips.

  Blowing out a huge breath, his nerves finally make themselves known. I’m assuming my reaction to this impending news is what has him this way. “Well, the firm wants me to go London and head up our expanding branch there. It would only be for a year,” he hurries through the last part. The breath rushes from my body, and all I can think is: He’s leaving me.

  And today of all days.

  I look down, unable to make eye contact with him. I’m more hurt than I thought I would be by the idea of losing him. In fact, if I’m being honest, I feel like I could cry.