Tender Heart (Fire Island #1)

Chapter 1

One

EVIE

T he air in my lungs is not my own.

The air in my lungs doesn’t belong to me.

Everything is heavy. Still. Black.

I rememb?—

Laughter and family and friends. Rings and words. No, not words, vows. Music and dancing. Wine and?—

The rattle of tin cans.

Speeding down the highway, the night wind in my hair...

A blaring horn,

The semitruck.

Noise piercing my head . . .

Then, the car was too small . . .

Someone was screaming.

My world caved in. Something forces my chest down painfully. I flinch at the assault.

Air floods my mouth, throat, spewing into my lungs.

The weight on my chest sinks again. Then over and over.

I gasp, choking on something copper.

Warmth trickles from my mouth, sending heat down my jaw and neck.

“She’s back,” a gruff voice bites out.

Every inch of me trembles, and I fight to drag my eyes open, fingers cramping into my palms, knuckles scraping the rough surface I lie on. The sting barely registers.

Lights, amber and blue and red, flash overhead. Pain lances up my right. A man leans over me; he’s kneeling.

Middle of the highway.

Stars shine straight above. Another person comes to my side and gloved hands jostle my body. A thin funnel of light shines into my left eye and I wince. It moves to the right.

“Pupils equal and reactive.”

Oh . . . God . . . Paramedic.

The uniform catches my attention. Panic winds its searing heat through my limbs, one inch after another. I startle, clawing at my clothes, trying to move. To get up off the middle of the road. The...

I snap my gaze sideways and turn my head. Something hard and cold digs into my neck.

“Try not to move. We’ve braced your neck, Eve.” The words are light. Kind. She knows my name.

The underside of a car blocks my view. Tin cans and rope.

Me and?—

Joshua.

The car is mangled, crumpled, and smashed in. Glass is littered over the dark, shining asphalt. My heart squeezes through my ribs in ragged, bloody slices.

Joshua . . .

“Eve, can you hear me?” The words echo beside me.

Trembling, I turn toward the sound. A stranger’s face is near mine. Relief straightens his features when I meet his gaze. “My name is Dave. You had a bit of a spill, hey. We’re goin?—”

The ground is trying to swallow me . . .

“No, stay with me honey,” Dave insists.

I rally, remembering that’s my car, and I was with?—

“N-no.” I curl upward, desperate to rise from the ground.

Hands press down on my shoulders from either side. “We need you to stay still, sweetheart. You can’t get up. You’re secured to the backboard.”

Dave.

I search the dark sky until his face comes into view, his eyes.

“Jo—” I choke. The copper from before blooms in my mouth again.

Now, the tight eyes of a female paramedic find me. Her sad smile sets my heart on fire. Burning the last shreds of hope I had to ash.

“I’m so sorry, Eve.” She shakes her head. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

Air strangles my lungs. I retch; bile spills over my mouth and it burns. The still-shimmering stars overhead blur. Violently, I shake, ragged sobs revolting their way up my throat.

“She needs sedation.” A low voice drops the words by my side.

“Five mil,” she says.

“Five mil,” the low voice repeats. “We’ve got you, sweetheart.”

“No... Josh.” I try to reach, but my fingertips meet hard asphalt.

The board I lie on rises, taking me with it.

I rock when it lands on a gurney. The night breeze plays with my hair, now slipped from its wedding updo, sending small brown waves around my shoulders.

The paramedics’ vehicle blocks my view of my small car, the Just Married sign now sagging from its ties at the trunk. My head lolls, eyes drifting downward.

The once-pristine white satin and tulle of my dress is ripped, reddened, and ruined.

“Almost away,” the nice lady says with a small smile. She follows me into the back of the ambulance, talking softly. The back doors slam shut.

“Joshua?” I sob.

Kind eyes find me, a hand sweeps my hair back from my forehead.

Darkness drags me under. Down so low, numbness swallows me whole.

Five years later . . .

Icy wind bursts in squalls along the sidewalk, biting into my face.

I clutch my oversized tote to my side, tucking my chin into my chest. Beanie pulled down, my long hair spills out from under it, draping over my shoulders.

If only that would add a layer of warmth.

A girl can dream. My small-heeled boots click along the bustling New York street in time to my frantic heartbeat.

I mull over the few short words on the last unwanted letter that made its sickening entrance this morning.

A blue monarch butterfly was encased in the cream envelope, as always, accompanying the single page.

Of all the insects that might scream “stalker”, a butterfly would have been my last guess.

In other circumstances, a butterfly would be sweet.

Almost quaint. But after the third dead blue insect found its way into my mailbox, each with cryptic and somewhat concerning notes, they lost all appeal. That was over five years ago.

The number of butterflies that have had to die to feed his obsession...

I knew becoming an author would shove me into the public eye.

But never in my wildest dreams did I think I, Eve Holland, would find myself on the receiving end of unsolicited, borderline terrifying letters from a fan.

And, with my contract up for the second time in twelve months, I can’t bring myself to mention it to my editor.

Livvy has enough on her plate. My tardiness has already stretched friendships.

I push on the glass door to the publishing house.

Every inch of me relaxes as the warm air mills around inside.

I pull my beanie from my head, shoving it into my bag.

The front desk girl has her eyes locked on me already.

I’m sure they have a most-wanted list in the staff room for less-than-ideal authors.

If I’m not at the top of that list, I’m betting I’m in the top three at least.

“She’s waiting for you,” the young girl coos with a saccharine smile.

“Thanks,” I offer and make a beeline for the elevators.

As the confined ascending space slows at the fourth floor, the doors swoosh open on a ding. Hesitating, I grip the handles of my tote, willing my feet forward.

The doors start to close. I rush from the elevator and turn left.

The welcoming balm of books, of print and paper pulp—despite the books not actually being produced here—makes me smile.

It’s almost enough to quell the anxious knot in my stomach.

I sit on a brightly colored seat outside my editor’s office, knowing all too well what she is about to say.

The staff of the fourth floor mill about their daily business, not paying me heed.

Just as well; people have never been my strong suit.

Unless they’re fictional, of course. My bag—no, my phone—buzzes.

I dive a hand into the tote, hunting for it.

When I untangle the phone from my mess of a handbag, I flip the device over to find a text from Allie.

“Good luck this morning. Remember, you’re a fantastic author! They should be grateful they still have you. Love you xx.”

Typical Allie, always rooting for me, ever since we met the first day of high school. She’s been my best friend for so long. I can’t imagine my life without her. Yet, I still haven’t found a way to tell her about the letters, either. I?—

“Evie! Morning. Come on in, love.” A soft, rolling accent, maybe Irish, finds me.

Livvy stands in her doorway wearing a knee-length wine-colored pencil skirt and a black top.

Her short hair is neatly styled, her black-framed glasses propped on said styled hair, over a smile that’s wide and genuine.

She has always had a way of setting me at ease.

She rounds her desk as I stand and walk into her office, and we sit.

Almost a decade and a half older than me, she’s been with the publishing house for twenty years.

“How have you been?” Livvy says, tapping something on her keyboard briefly before sitting back in her chair and pulling her glasses from her head to swing them around her fingers.

“Good, I’ve been good. Mostly.”

“How’s the writing coming along? Your draft was due last week.” Her R’s roll, and I smile.

“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry, I’ve been writing...”

The lie that rolled off my tongue much like her R’s sees my attention wane, and my gaze snags on the frames on her shelf across the room.

Family photos. A few Livvy is in. Her and another woman around her age.

Then one with her and a woman I assume is her mom.

The last one is her and two other people.

It’s the same woman from the first picture, but a guy a little older than the two women stands to one side, his face half hidden.

Like he wasn’t totally on board with having his photo taken.

“. . . have you done, exactly?”

“Huh? Sorry, what?”

“I was asking, how much have you written?”

“I—um. I’ve written three chapters.” The words are weak.

Livvy’s face falls. The pit of my stomach flips. This is bad. I know it’s bad. It’s the third deadline I’ve missed in the last eighteen months. And it’s the second book in the series, so the house has already sunk money into the series, and me.

Livvy leans forward, setting her glasses on her desk.

“Evie, fantasy is a hot genre, which is great. But that also means that we have hundreds of manuscripts coming in every month. Romantasy has been great for you, but it’s a highly sought-after niche.

We turn writers away on the daily, some with work as good as yours.

” She sighs. “What I mean is, your contract won’t last forever.

Missing one deadline is one thing; three is a problem. For both of us.”

“I know, and I am trying, truly I am. I just . . . I can’t concentrate. The city is too noisy. Everything seems off, and after Joshua, I?—”

Livvy’s face softens. “Hon, it’s been five years. At some point, you need to start taking care of yourself and...” She shifts on her seat. “Living. You need to carry on living. You’re young; it breaks my heart to see you floundering.”

The stone that grew in my throat with her words refuses to budge.

“I know,” I choke out finally. “But I don’t know how.”

“Maybe this will help.” She pulls out a file stuffed with printouts.

Communications between the two of us and the publishing contracts I’ve had with the house since my career began.

“This, here, is the contract you have with the publishing house for the six-book series. And the original deadline for book two was over eighteen months ago. This is your last chance.”

Her face is empathetic but firm.

She is kindly telling me this is it. My ultimatum, delivered in a way that only Livvy can.

Livvy’s version of tough love.

“This is my last chance?” I repeat.

“Last one, hon.”

“Okay.” I swallow and tears well. “What if I can’t?” I whisper.

“Nope, we are not going there. In fact, I had an inkling you might say that. So, I have a proposition for you.”

What on earth? What could she possibly offer that would shift me out of this funk I’ve been in?

“Do I have a choice?”

She sighs. “At this point, no, not really.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sending you away to finish this book.

I can buy you another nine months to get it done.

Not a day more. Since you need peace and quiet and not this bustling city, I have made arrangements for you to stay in a quiet little cottage all on your own.

No noise. No distractions. Simply lots of writing.

And”—her hand reaches over the desk—“what I think you need the most. Healing.”

Her hand squeezes mine. The bridge of my nose prickles, and I scrunch it up, unable to respond.

Livvy’s plan is sensible. It’s the logical thing to do—hide away and write my book.

Move on with my life. I mean, it’s not that I haven’t tried to.

Really, I have. But I’ve lived here all my life, and everything reminds me of my life before the accident. Maybe a change is what I need.

Allie’s been trying to get me to do this very thing for years.

I know I should. One moment in time shouldn’t define me like it does.

I glance at Livvy’s frame-lined shelves.

Two people, huddled together for the camera in front of magnificent places.

.. An island. The same two people who were in the frame I saw earlier.

I drag my gaze back to my ever-patient editor. “Okay, when do I leave?”

Livvy smiles at me, glancing at the frames along her shelves that held my attention.

“How’s tomorrow sound?”