If You Never Come Back Read online

  If You Never Come Back

  Sarah Smith

  Contents

  Praise for Sarah Smith

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Connect Online

  Thank you

  Faker

  Simmer Down

  Also by Sarah Smith

  About the Author

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  If You Never Come Back

  Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Smith

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641971423

  Cover design © 2020 by Germancreative

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  121 West 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Praise for Sarah Smith

  Praise for If You Never Come Back

  “If You Never Come Back ripped my heart out and put it back together in the way I want from a romance. It’s an emotional journey of love that hits hard and delivers a satisfying ending that’ll leave you with a book boyfriend hangover. A must read!”

  —Stefanie Simpson, author of The New City Series

  “All the feels from one of contemporary romance’s freshest voices.”

  —JL Peridot, author of It Starts With A Kiss

  Praise for Faker

  “A funny, charming, and thoroughly entertaining debut. I couldn’t put it down!”

  —Samantha Young, New York Times bestselling author of Fight or Flight

  “A fresh, sweet, and funny story about how the people we think we know can surprise us in the sexiest way. Full of swoony kisses and heartfelt honesty, Faker is like a warm, reassuring hug.”

  —Lyssa Kay Adams, author of The Bromance Book Club

  “I loved every page of Smith’s wonderful debut! The romance was sweet and heartwarming, but it was Smith’s ability to write a main character who embraces all of her power that had me cheering throughout this book.”

  —Alexa Martin, author of Fumbled

  “Written with insight and humor, Sarah Smith’s Faker is a charming, feminist, and diverse romance that will have you hooked until the very last page.”

  —Sonya Lalli, author of The Matchmaker’s List

  “A sweet, slow-burn romance between rival coworkers at a power tool company makes for a promising debut.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Smith brings the heat in more ways than one in this enemies-to-friends-to-lovers story with a splash of humor. . . . Perfect for fans of Tessa Bailey and Christina Lauren.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for Simmer Down

  “From the first chapter Nikki and Callum’s interactions were fraught with sexual tension and great banter. I found myself devouring this book in just one day. Now a one-click author for me, Sarah Smith is a true talent. Fantastic writing, great characters, and sizzling chemistry make this contemporary romance a MUST READ.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Samantha Young

  “This food truck romance serves up an enemies-to-lovers story that is spicy, salty, and sweet. Delicious!”

  —Mia Hopkins, author of Thirsty

  “Sarah Smith delivers a story and characters to root for! Simmer Down is full of love and food (which is love), and you’re sure to crave more with each page.”

  —Tif Marcelo, author of Once Upon A Sunset

  For Stefanie. Thank you for believing in me.

  Prologue

  Valentine’s Day, this year

  The second I set my eyes on Garret, I knew he would be good for one thing and one thing only: eye candy.

  I was wrong. Sort of.

  He is actually excellent eye candy. Six-foot-three, sandy blond hair, icy blue eyes, strong jawline. All of that on top of his build, which resembles that of an Olympic swimmer, and he’s hands-down the best-looking guy in this bar.

  But what’s throwing me for a loop is his choice of conversation topic: eating pets.

  “Kind of crazy, don’t you think?” He gestures, martini in hand. “Weird that we think it’s acceptable to eat cows and chickens, but not cats and dogs.”

  The frown on his face doesn’t convey irony like I hope. Just pure, unfettered confusion. As if the single greatest mystery that exists on planet Earth is why we aren’t all chowing down on our pets.

  I drain my glass with a long sip, the vodka burning my tongue. I wince, longing for the taste of tequila instead.

  I will the urge away. No tequila, not ever again.

  Stacy the bartender offers a single sympathetic nod as she refills my glass, this time with top-shelf vodka. I open my mouth to request the cheaper vodka, but she answers with a pointed stare. No need to explain, she wordlessly says. You have to listen to this guy talk about eating kittens and puppies on a date. The least I can do is offer a few splashes of decent alcohol.

  And this is how I spend Cupid’s special day, sitting across from a hunky weirdo in the bar where I work part-time, trying not to choke on my drink.

  Thank heavens that my cousin Remy isn’t here. He owns this bar, the Dandy Lime, and if he overheard this guy, he would immediately call him out. Ask him at maximum volume why Garret’s chatting about such a creepy topic. It would be entertaining and embarrassing. I love Remy to death, but it would cause a scene.

  “Um, what now?”

  I don’t even bother to hide the disgust in my response. I cross my arms and lean back on my barstool, widening the space between us. Garret carries on, unbothered by my reaction. Evidently, he can’t tell by my body language and dead silence over the last few minutes that I’m just not into this conversation.

  He flashes a toothy grin, that same one that made my stomach flip when we locked eyes while perusing the stacks at the bookstore yesterday. That grin must be a decoy he uses to rope unsuspecting women into dates before he drops the bomb that he advocates for eating pets.

  He rests his hand over my hand that’s sitting on the bar top. His clammy palm feels like a giant slug on my skin.

  “So. You ready to get out of here?”

  Over the rim of my glass, I squint. When I slam it down on the counter, his broad shoulders shrug up to his ears.

  “Excuse me?”

  Garret clears his throat just as the faintest shade of pink makes its way up his pale neck and cheeks. “I just figured…well, it’s Valentine’s Day. And um…I thought you’d be up for something more.”

  I yank my hand out from under his, then take another deep breath. This time when I exhale, it’s slow, measured. There are a million invisible fire ants crawling un
der my skin, compelling me to toss the rest of my drink in Garret’s face for assuming I’d be willing to sleep with him just because it’s February fourteenth. Screw that.

  “You know something, Garret? You’re pathetic. I don’t know why you would think I’d be desperate enough to go home with you, especially after I’ve had to sit here and listen to your bizarre monologue about eating cats and dogs.”

  I fish a handful of dollar bills from my purse and slam them on the bar. “That’s for my drink and tip. Don’t leave without paying for your own.”

  When I stand, I leer at him. This time he’s the one leaning away. He’s got nowhere to go, though, as the wooden edge of the bar top is digging into his back, blocking his escape.

  “For the love of Christ, never, ever speak of pets as food again. It makes you sound like a serial killer.”

  I yank my purse from the back of my stool before shrugging on my coat. With the fire currently coursing through my veins, I don’t even need to wear a jacket. And the single-digit chill outside will do well to cool me off. But taking the time to button my coat gives me a few extra seconds to tear Garret a new asshole.

  “Lose my number,” I snap. “And if you know what’s good for you, don’t come back here again. The owner isn’t a fan of arrogant pricks like you.”

  Garret offers nothing in the way of protest. Just silence and a nod. I’m out the door before I can take another breath.

  I stand outside on the snow-covered pavement and breathe deep. This winter in Bend, the biggest city in central Oregon, has been a bitch with sub-zero temperatures and record snowfall. Normally, a heat demon like me would groan at having to stand outside in the icy cold. But it’s the perfect opportunity to quell the rage and frustration ravaging my insides. Hopefully these slow, even breaths I’m forcing out will work. Hopefully, that frigid arctic air will take the edge off the fire coursing through me.

  I try for a minute, but judging by my racing heartbeat, the sweat beading at the back of my neck, the burn in my eyes, it’s an utter fail.

  It’s not all Garret’s fault. The shit-show conversation was all him, but the reason I stand here barely able to keep myself from sobbing on a public street corner is completely on me. I don’t know why I thought Valentine’s Day would ever be normal again. I should have just stayed home in my pajamas, binged Netflix, and eaten three cartons of Haagen Dazs. Going for a drink at this bar on this night, where one year ago my world turned upside down, was the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.

  Hot tears freeze against my cheeks as the frigid wind whips against me. This day will never, ever be normal again. It will never be anything other than a taunting reminder of my worst heartbreak.

  A warm whoosh of air hits the backs of my legs as the door to the bar swings open behind me. Quickly, I wipe my face dry with the back of my mitten-covered hand. The last thing I need tonight is a pitying look from a passing stranger. But there are no footsteps behind me like I expect. Just the nearby downtown street noise of car honks and snow slushing against tires.

  There is a single breath though. One sharp inhale, then a throat clearing. Then my name, spoken by the one person I never, ever thought I’d hear from again.

  “Shay?”

  I know it’s him without even having to turn around and look. The low, whispered tone he employs is so different from how he used to say my name, but I still recognize it. I’d remember that rasp anywhere.

  “Wes?”

  I almost don’t believe my eyes when I spin around to look at him. It’s been six months since I’ve laid eyes on him, six months since we’ve uttered a word to each other. No phone calls, no texts, no form of contact between us for more than one hundred and eighty days. But that sure as hell is him.

  That mass of thick brown hair, that smooth tan skin, those earthy brown eyes. The only thing different is his facial hair. What was once the sexiest five o’clock shadow in the universe is now a well-groomed beard.

  And his body…damn, that body. Even thick winter clothing can’t mar his killer physique. He’s still the proud owner of thickly muscled legs and a broad chest. All that traveling must have kept him in killer shape—

  Emotion grips me by the throat, and I blink. Drooling over Wes’s exquisite body is not allowed. A handful of silent seconds passes, and I’m not tearing up anymore. In fact, all moisture has left my body. My throat is so dry that when I try to speak, I fall into a hacking fit.

  He takes a step toward me, but I shake my head. Holding up my hands is my only defense. He gets the message loud and clear because he stays away. I let out a breath, relieved. If he touches me, I might fall to the ground. Or punch him. Hard to say, given how he left things. How he left me.

  I whip out my phone and pull up a rideshare app. My apartment is just over a mile away; I could walk. But I need to retreat. Immediately. I can’t endure one more minute in Wes’s presence, especially after that god-awful date. If I stand here any longer than I have to, there’s no telling what I’ll do. A car ride home is the fastest way—the best way to protect myself.

  I swipe my finger across the screen. The next available car is due to arrive in one minute.

  “Shay, are you okay?”

  His brows knit together, and my stomach does a backflip. Raw concern paints his face. Everything from the frown lines on his forehead to the purse of his lips conveys that it hurts him to see me like this. Six months ago, I would have handed over one of my organs for that look to flash across his face. That look that says he wants me and nothing else.

  Instead, my body reacts differently now. I’m armed with a dry throat and unblinking eyes, struggling to process the fact that Wes Paulsen is standing twelve inches from me.

  The phantom taste of tequila hits my tongue. It’s spiced oak and smoke and the faintest hint of caramel.

  No tequila.

  The silent command inside my head is useless. The flavor still dances on my tongue. It was his drink, then mine, then ours. And when he left, it was all I could taste.

  It’s all I can taste right now.

  I sink my teeth into my tongue, letting up just before I draw blood. Now all I taste is fire and acid. No more tequila. Not ever again.

  The gray sedan that is my ride pulls up to the curb. For three seconds, I stand between the car and Wes, my eyes darting back and forth between them as if I’m a lost dog who can’t remember which one is my rightful guardian.

  Wes tugs at the hem of his coat. It’s the same black puffer coat he wore the night I met him, a year ago today, in this bar.

  “I just…can we talk?” He takes a single step toward me.

  The invisible dam inside me breaks. Every word he said the night he left comes flooding back.

  I snap out of my haze, blinking back the tears begging to fall down my cheeks. “Stay away from me, Wes.”

  I jump into the car, slamming the door behind me. I don’t turn around to look at him. I don’t even peek at the side view mirror to catch a farewell glimpse. I just stare straight ahead, my vision blurry from all the tears.

  Chapter One

  Valentine’s Day, last year

  “Hey, Shannon! Shot of Beefeater, will you?”

  I glower at the collar-popping frat bro shouting his drink order at my end of the bar. That’s the second time this evening that preppy prick has called me the wrong name.

  “Listen up, Preppy Prick.”

  His eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I’m guessing not many people take that tone with this snowflake.

  “My name is Shay. I’m here to serve you drinks, but that doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole and call me by the wrong name.”

  The nervous laugh he lets out does little to quell my annoyance. It’s ten o’clock on Valentine’s Day and for some reason, every single man in Bend has decided to spend his evening camping out at this bar. Possibly because they’re aiming to pick up a lonely single lady on the most romantic commercial holiday of the year. That’s all well and good, but they still have to
treat me with courtesy and respect.

  I wave an ice pick at the unblinking douchebag standing inches from me. “What’s my name, Preppy Prick?”

  He eyes the razor-sharp tip as it glimmers under the low-hanging lights above. The sleek, copper light fixtures are my favorite part of the bar décor. Remy did a hell of a job remodeling this place. He bought it for cheap when it was a run-down industrial space, investing his savings in building it up. Now it boasts an industrial-chic aesthetic that’s a hit with pretty much everyone, from hipsters to young professionals to college students. Dark wood furnishings, exposed brick walls, and mood lighting make Dandy Lime a laid-back hangout most nights. Except for tonight when I have to deal with the likes of Preppy Prick.

  He stammers out the words. “Your name? Er, um, Shay.”

  I stab the pick into the block of ice resting on the bar top and drag it across. “I knew you were smarter than you looked. Wanna tell me why you’ve been calling me Shannon?”

  “I um…I don’t know.” His gaze darts from me to the floor to above my head, then to the side. It’s like his brain is playing ping-pong with his eyes.

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It’s hysterical how easy it is to make overconfident pricks like him squirm. All it typically takes is calling them out on their bullshit, giving them a mean nickname, and peppering them with questions. They always, always break.