Crash Into Me: Crescent Bay, #1

By Alyne Hart

A sexy and emotional romance that transcends the ideas of life and death. Can you suspend disbelief?

For one entire and blissful night, I wasn't Megan the widow. I was Megan out having a drink with her best friend. I was Megan, getting hit on by a hot, younger guy. I said no, but everything inside of me said yes.

I was still grieving and healing the loss of Sam. Getting my life back to some kind of normal. Until it got complicated. Very, very complicated. Because that hot young guy who wasn't even supposed to be on my radar? He came crashing in with this weird electric pulse between us and chemistry that's off the charts. If that wasn't complicated enough – Liam is a student in my creative writing class with enough complications of his own.

The words in Liam's poems remind me of Sam's.  He says things that are too familiar. Knows things about me no one else knows. It's like seeing a ghost. I wasn't supposed to fall for him, my happily ever after is gone, and Liam's arms feel like home.

But when everything starts to make sense, and the pieces come together in the end, am I in love with Liam? Or the memory of Sam?

*Crescent Bay books are a series of stand alone romances all set in the same coastal town*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyne Hart
• Release date: Feb 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393085355

Alyne Hart

Alyne Hart is a contemporary romance author and wine connoisseur living in Walla Walla, WA. She's known for writing stories that pack an emotional punch and get you right in the feels.  She loves writing real, flawed characters and writing about realistic, gritty and raw romance. She's a romance junkie and happy endings addict, and if you’re a lover of deeply emotional, flawed and realistic romance reads with lots of delicious angst, her books are for you. Alyne's stories involve characters with bigger problems than just finding love. She writes stories about making peace with the past, rekindling old flames and healing old wounds. She loves small towns, men in uniform and alpha males with a heart of gold.  She began her story-telling journey first with her dolls, then it progressed to paper. She has a deep love for anything romantic, and she's a believer that in love anything is possible.  When Alyne isn’t writing, you can find her reading, hanging out with her cat, and spending time with her two children. She enjoys trips to the mountains just as much as trips to the wine cellar, live music, chick flick movie marathons and hanging out with her eclectic group of friends.  Follow Alyne: Facebook → http://bit.ly/2w89KNP Twitter → http://bit.ly/2w8kRqb Blog → http://bit.ly/2vxvmGy Goodreads → http://bit.ly/2vv8S8S Bookbub → http://bit.ly/2fyhncE Newsletter → https://mailchi.mp/a8a0de143ef8/alynehart

Book preview

Crash Into Me

A Novel

Alyne Hart

Book Title Copyright © 2020 by Alyne Hart. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

Cover designed by Alyne Hart

Photography by Michael Downs http://www.michaelanthonydowns.com/

Cover model: Davin Addison

––––––––

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

Alyne Hart

Visit my website at www.alynehart.com 

Printed in the United States of America 

First Printing:

February 2020

contents

Dear Readers

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Four

Epilogue

About The Author

Other Books By Alyne Hart

Crash Into Me Playlist

Dear Readers

Wow, here we are again. The idea that I keep writing and you keep reading, it still blows my mind. I was just a girl with a dream and a keyboard and now we are in story eleven.

This book came to me in a dream, like a flash of thoughts. Which is slightly ironic considering the story you are about to read. It isn’t a plot I ever thought I would write, and the deeper I dove into it, it became a harder one to tackle than I’d originally thought. I obsessed over it, talking it out with people on how to execute it and what route to take it. There was an overwhelming amount of ideas and opinions on the subject, and in the end, I went with my heart and my gut.

As I was writing this book, a writer friend of mine was driving one day and witnessed someone toss a kitten out of a car window and run it over. She raced the tiny animal to the vet and kept us updated hour by hour, day by day about his progress. He became beloved to me and many others, going by the name Twitch as he had a host of injuries that left him paralyzed in one paw and many other things. I was so inspired by this act that I gave my character Megan a rescue kitty who suffered the same fate and was left without the use of his two back legs. So, thank you, Molly O’Hare and Twitch for your bravery and kindness and for inspiring Oliver for me.

I would also like to thank my (tiny) writing group for listening to me and letting me vent during this process, and for my author friends who helped me hammer out a few details. And I would like to thank my sweet, insanely smart and supportive boyfriend who came up with the twist or main plot vehicle. And I would like to thank a good friend who talked it out with me and helped me ultimately decide how to end it and give the story some explanation.

Mostly, I just ask that you read with an open mind and suspend disbelief and let Liam and Megan take you on a journey of finding your way to your true love.

This book is dedicated to all the lovers, who despite the odds being stacked against them, always find a way.

You are a poem – written with flesh and bones and tiny particles of glittery stars and everything beautiful I am fated to love.

—anita krizzman

One

Death comes with consciousness. There is a moment of impact. Your heart crashing against your ribcage, and a shot of adrenaline piercing your veins. Your breathing slows to a stop as an echoing chaos of noise surrounds you in a cacophony of screeching tires, sirens and shouting.

Three things happen when you die.

The first thing is everything goes quiet, and your life really does flash before your eyes. But it’s more like a movie reel sequence that seems to last for centuries. There’s no order to it, no linear progression of events. You don’t move from birth to the final minutes of your existence. It’s random. Like reliving every critical and emotional minute and day of your life through the eyes of someone else.

The second thing is blackness. It’s not dark. It’s not like turning off the lights as you leave a room. It’s more absolute. An endless abyss that wraps around you and swallows you whole.

Then there’s light. A light that’s nearly indescribable to the human eye. It’s not white or black or color. It’s something else. It’s this bright, crystalline brilliance that draws you in.

You move both fast and slow. The idea of time and space means something else. While only seconds may pass on a wristwatch, it lasts what feels like a decade.

I was supposed to follow that light. I was supposed to move through it.

Instead, I searched.

Two

Megan

When I was twelve years old, my grandmother took me to see a gypsy woman named Levinia who read palms. She handed her twenty dollars, and I watched with a rapt enchantment as she studied my hands, shaking her head and clucking beneath her breath.

This is not good, she said, repeating the sentiment twice. Her ample, cheetah-print covered bosom heaved with the force of the breaths she took, and her heavily lined lashes lifted to look me in the eye. You will live a long life. First, you will be very happy. Then, you will be sad. Very, very sad. For a long time.

Why will I be sad?

It’s not good, she said and nodded gravely. I squinted, leaning in closer, mesmerized by her thick accent and wise-looking silvery eyes. It will be very bad. You will feel—as if you’ve died—

Megan, let’s go, my grandmother butted in, taking me by the wrist and lifting me from my seat.

With all the strength I could muster in my twelve-year-old body, I stayed put, enraptured by the woman. Why will I feel dead?

Something very tragic, she went on, despite my grandmother’s warnings.

She’s twelve, no need to scare her.

I’m not trying to scare her. Her gaze left mine and met my grandmother’s. She needs to know this, or she might not survive it.

I want to know, I whispered, pushing my palm impatiently forward.

You will find love, and you will lose it, and it will hurt so bad you feel like you can’t breathe. You will feel this way for a long time. And then you will love once more. And... she paused, wrinkling her brow in confusion as her fingernail traced a deep line from my pinky to my index finger. This is curious.

What?

Her head shook. I can’t be certain. I’ve only seen this once before—it’s so strange.

My grandmother yanked me from my seat and tugged me by the collar of my coat out the front door before I could hear the rest as the woman called out for me to come back someday.

Afterward, my grandmother insisted the woman was a fake, and that I shouldn’t believe her. But I would think about it a lot. I would stare at the palms of my hands and study the lines, swirls, and creases that reached across my skin. I would study the length of my fingers as she had, squeezing the meaty part where the base of my thumb met my wrist and wonder if it all actually meant something.

As I got older, for the most part, I’d forgotten about it. My life moved along at the pace it should and hit all the standard milestones. I went to high school, made the cheerleading squad and got crowned Homecoming Queen. I went off to college where I met my husband and put on the freshman fifteen. Simultaneously. We got jobs, paid off our student loans, we bought a house and then I rescued a cat. In fact, my life was perfect.

That was, until sixteen months ago. Sixteen months, four days, five hours, and twelve minutes to be exact.

Then everything changed.

Now I think about my hand a lot, and if she’d been right.

Because losing him felt like I wanted to die.

But that’s how it’s supposed to feel, right? When the one thing in the world that brought you the most joy is gone, what else is there to live for? When your soul gets ripped to shreds and the sky closes in on you, and your lungs can’t seem to get enough air. What do you do?

Some days it’s all I can do to get out of bed and pretend to live.

On mornings like this, I like to sit on my back porch, taking deep breaths of air laced with the smoky crispness of the coming September mingling with the salty perfume breezing in off the Pacific Ocean. Lifting a cup of coffee to my lips, I sometimes catch a glimpse of my fingers wrapped around the mug, and I think about my hand.

Maybe it’s silly. To think somehow, I could have stopped this. If I’d gone back to her and asked for more information, maybe Sam wouldn’t have taken that road that day. Perhaps he would have stayed home where he would be safe. Maybe I wouldn’t have to watch his casket be lowered into the ground while trying to stifle my sobs.

Maybe.

Now it’s just me sitting on the back porch swing and rocking back and forth.  Taking in the gentle slope of grass and a rickety old wooden staircase leading down to the beach. The terra cotta pots of lacey foliage and brightly colored flowers lining the walkway. A half-built gazebo just to the left.

Sometimes my cat Oliver wants to join me. His paralyzed back legs never stop him, and he uses his front legs to scoot near my feet where he licks my ankles to let me know he’d like to cuddle, which isn’t very often. He was my best friend these days. He gave me the kind of peaceful companionship I needed and filled the now eerily silent house with laughter when he raced around the house with joy on his scooter. Reaching down I picked him up, plopping him in the space beside me, where he curled into a ball and napped happily. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like him.

Given a choice, I would spend the rest of my days in bed, with the covers pulled over my head to drown it all out. The way people look at me now. The way they talked to me almost terrified like I might break down at any given moment. The look in their eyes as they ask me over and over and over—‘are you okay?’ ‘how are you coping?’ ‘how are you?’ laced with so much pity, it makes me sick to my stomach.

The answer is always FINE.

I’m doing fine. I’m coping just fine. Yes, you can say his name. No, I don’t need another casserole.

Don’t get me started on the casseroles.

The truth is, I have to say I’m fine. I have to smile and say thank you for the casserole. I have to act like I don’t notice people staring at me in the grocery store as if when I picked up the wrong box of cereal, I might burst into hysterics. People become afraid of you. Not wittingly, of course, but deep down, on some level, they are scared. That you will cry. That you will actually tell them how you are, and that no, you aren’t coping well on the days when you can’t get out of bed. They suddenly become preoccupied with finding something in the bottom of a bag or a phone call, all to avoid talking to you. And the look of terror when they slip and say his name?

It sucks. It really, really sucks.

The ringing of my phone snapped me out of my over-thinking. Plucking it off the seat beside me, I glanced at the screen. Gemma.

Hey, Gem.

Are you ready for next week? her always-perky voice chirped on the other end.

A small laugh escaped my throat. As ready as I can be, I suppose. You seem awfully excited about it.

Everything excites me, she laughed back. It’s part of my charm. If you need help with anything—

I know, I interrupted, pressing my fingertips to my temples. I’m ready. I tweaked an old syllabus, I’m organized and prepared. I let out a deep breath. And if I need help, I’ll ask, I promise.

Promise?

Promise.

Meg, her voice went low, doubt coloring her words. It’s your first year back, and no one expects you to be perfect, you know that, right?

A knot formed in my throat, and I gulped before it turned into a full-on chokehold. Nodding to myself, I ran my fingertips across the pattern of my plaid pajama pants, focusing my attention on the texture and bumps of the well-worn fabric.

I’ve got it.

Okay. I love you, Megs.

Love you too, Gem.

Three

Liam

Can we talk about something else?

We can talk about anything you’d like, Liam. This is your session.

My palms flattened against my thighs, rubbing along the rough denim that covered them. I lifted my shoulders in a shrug and shook my head.

Why don’t you start by telling me what’s had you grinning ear to ear since you walked in here this afternoon.

I smiled at Dr. Carver, steepling my hands at my chest. I liked Dr. Carver. Out of all the psychiatrists and therapists I’ve been through in the last few years, she’s one of the better ones. She’s beautiful in an unconventional kind of way. Long silver bob that skims her shoulders, cat-eye shaped glasses, and she’s always wearing these long dresses with brightly colored patterns.

Besides all that she’s tough. Smart. Empathetic. And she cuts through the bullshit. Which I like. And she doesn’t care if I swear.

Honestly? I feel fucking amazing.

A little smile lifted one cheek. Tell me why that is.

I signed up for some classes at the community college, I can work out again, no one stares at me like I’m gonna freak out and do something crazy anymore. My mom has stopped calling me fifteen times a day. It’s just...good.

Tell me about school, this is a new thing?

I stared at her for a long second. The way she sat on the couch with her legs crossed and her arms folded in her lap, a faint smile lighting her eyes. Like we were just two old friends sitting across from each other in a carefully decorated room meant to suggest comfort and familiarity. The manilla folder on the cushion next to her, full of my files—pages and pages no doubt, shattered that illusion.

Clearing my throat, I shifted in a big stuffed chair, crossing my legs at the ankles. Yeah, uh, a bunch of classes. Sociology, World Civilizations, Critical Thinking. And I signed up for a creative writing class, too.

Really? she asked with open confusion. I don’t think we’ve ever talked about this before. I didn’t know you had an interest in any of those things. Especially writing.

Yeah, I laughed uncomfortably. Neither did I until—dunno—maybe a year ago? I wrote quite a bit while I was in the hospital and just kept doing it.

Interesting. What do you write?

Poetry mostly. Short stories. Sometimes I just get these flashes of something beautiful in my head, and I write it down on paper.

Dr. Carver flipped open the folder, jotting something down on a notepad. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to see what was in that folder.

You have to take notes on that?

You’re my patient, Liam, her eyes narrowed. I take notes on a lot of things. It’s nothing bad, not everything is bad in here, you know. But if it’s of interest and something I think we can come back to sometime, I write it down.

Okay.

It was then I noticed my fingers went from casually steepled to tightly twisted into a knot like a pretzel.

Sorry, I apologized, shaking my head at myself. I guess I’m just so used to being scrutinized for the last year or so, I feel like I can’t say anything without someone thinking I’m coming unhinged. I’m just—I’m just really fucking excited about this. Six years ago, all I could think about was baseball, and now, I just really want to figure out who I am and all that crap. Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me a little.

Well, I think that’s great, Liam, she said as she studied me. It’s good to see you passionate about something. We’ll talk more about this next week.

At the receptionist's desk, I made another appointment. Same day of the week, same time as always. I thought it was funny at first, how they always seemed to have that exact same time open for me. Then I realized they were afraid of me too. They were just more professional about it.

On the way out the door, I did everything I could to avoid making eye contact with anyone else in the lobby, shoving my hand into my pocket to fish out my phone and quickly dialing my mom.

Outside it was one of those nearly perfect almost-fall evenings that only the Oregon coast could offer. A deep azure sky tinged with a hazy purple hinted at dusk, and a slight breeze cooled the warm air.

Dusk.

Where had that word come from?

Nautical dusk occurs when the sun goes twelve degrees below the horizon in the evening. The term, nautical twilight, or dusk, dates back to a time when sailors used the stars to navigate the seas.

I don’t know how in the fuck I knew that, but I did. Probably some weird show playing in the background while I was in the hospital or something.  I seem to have picked up a lot of things I can’t ever recall learning about when I was in and out of a conscious state back then.

Hello?

My mom’s voice shook me out of my puzzled state.

My mom always answers on the first ring. She still sounds shocked that I called. And her voice always sounds as if I might say something awful or horrifying when she answers, like she’s bracing herself for something.

Hey, Mom, I answered back, making sure to sound extra happy. Listen, I think I’m skipping dinner tonight. There’s some stuff I want to take care of, and I was thinking about hitting the gym for a bit.

I was making meatloaf.

She said the word with so much guilt-laced hope that it hit the same as a well-timed sucker punch. I hadn’t skipped a single dinner in as long as I could remember. My mom seemed to think I would starve to death if she didn’t cook for me. And sometimes I think she just needed a reason to see me and make sure I was whole and intact. I’m sure it helped her sleep at night.

But at twenty-four, it was time to cut the cord and live my own life as much as I could. Cook my own dinners. Not check in fifteen times a day like a child.

I need to get some exercise, and honestly, I think it’s time we cut the dinners down to once a week. I need to start cooking for myself, pretend to be an adult or something.

But your father—

Mom, I assured her. I’m fine. I’ve been fine for a long time.

She let out a long, drawn-out sigh on the other end. You’re right. I know you’re right. How was your visit with Dr. Carver today?

Jesus, did she have my appointments on her calendar?

It was good. I told her about starting classes next week, and she seemed impressed with how far I’ve come.

Good, she agreed. That makes me so happy my sweet boy. You’ll tell me all about your first day at dinner next week?

Mom, I chuckled. It’s college, it’s not like it’s my first day of grade school or something.

She clucked her tongue with a laugh. I know, I know. You’ll always be my baby, you know that. I think you’re going to do wonderful. If you need anything—

I’ll call. I cut her short.

Okay. I love you, Liam.

Love you too, Mom. Tell Dad hi for me. Goodbye.

Four

Megan

What are we doing here?

Drinking, Gemma grinned, lifting her glass in the air before tilting it back and guzzling the contents.

God how I envied Gemma at times. She was just so unapologetically herself. She had her short, dark brown bob styled in messy waves with the top pulled into a tiny little bun. Her dark-rimmed glasses screamed stylish as did her fire-engine red lipstick. The black tank top dotted with bright red lips and leather leggings sealed the deal.

Meanwhile, I sat next to her with my same boring long blond mess of hair. Slapped-on makeup so I looked somewhat human, and the first top that hit my hand when I reached into the closet now hung off my shoulders with just about as much finesse.

I gave her my best sarcastic smile and rolled my eyes. "I can see that. I mean, what are we doing here. The Watershed is like a hipster college bar or something."

Is it?

She looked around us like she hadn’t noticed the twenty-something