One Week Later

Prologue

I was still adjusting to my new life when it was time to draft book four.

It was notably quieter in our—no, my—apartment.

I never realized how much I relied on the soundtrack of daily living to feel like a whole person until the music was gone.

No more humming by the stove or whistling while folding laundry—and certainly no more singing in the shower.

The absence of melody was more than just irony.

It was my new reality. I grieved the refrain of our life together as if I’d lost a tangible sense like my sight or my taste buds.

I was on a deadline, but I had nothing. All I knew about the fourth book was that it had to be a romance. I’d pitched an idea—a hospital romance reminiscent of Grey’s Anatomy that my editor seemed to think would work.

If only I could write it.

See, in theory it sounded great. A down-on-her-luck cardiologist falls in love with an ailing patient, but just as she cures him of his as-yet-unnamed disease, his twin sister dies suddenly from the same affliction and sends him into a tailspin. All the Broken Hearts, it would be called.

Problem was, I’m not a doctor. Also, I have no history of heart issues and have never even seen a cardiologist.

My mom did, though, about three years ago, which was how I got the idea.

The cardiologist, Dr. Hartman (because of course that was his name), told her she had congestive heart failure, stage C.

That was after her first heart attack, when she was sixty-three.

He told her to quit smoking immediately, put her on beta-blockers and a whole cocktail of other meds, and said to make a conscious effort to lower her stress.

So, what did she do? She booked us a trip to Aruba for Christmas break. Just me and her. Eight days, seven nights at the Renaissance in Oranjestad.

Which is where I met Beckett.

Who ruined me.