That day, p.1
That Day, page 1
Contents
About the Author
Contact
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Gorgeous Gyno Excerpt
Also by Karen Deen
That Day
Copyright © 2021 by Karen Deen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in either, electronic, paper hard copy, photocopying, recorded or any other form of reproduction without the written permission of the author. No part of this book either in part or whole may be reproduced into or stored in a retrieval system or distributed without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and owners of products referred to in this fiction which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Published by Karen Deen
Edited by Contagious Edits
Formatted by Kellie Clarke
Cover Design by Opium House Creatives
Cover Model Andrew Biernat
Photographer Wander Aguiar
About the Author
Karen Deen has been a lover of romance novels and happily-ever- after stories for as long as she can remember. Reaching a point in her life where she wanted to explore her own dreams, Karen decided now was the time to finally write some of her own stories. For years, all of her characters have been forming story lines in her head, just waiting for the right time to bust free.
In 2016, Karen put pen to paper for the first time, with Zach and Emily being the first characters fighting to have their story written.
From that first word, she hasn’t been able to stop. Publishing Love’s Wall (her first novel in the Time to Love Series) in 2017 has ignited her passion to continue writing and bring more of her characters to life.
Karen is married to her loving husband and high school sweetheart. Together, they live the crazy life of parents to three children. She is balancing her life between a career as an accountant by day and writer of romance novels by night. Living in the beautiful coastal town of Kiama, Australia, Karen loves to enjoy time with her family and friends in her beautiful surroundings.
Contact
For all the news on upcoming books,
visit Karen at:
www.karendeen.com.au
Karen@karendeen.com.au
Facebook: Karen Deen Author
Instagram: karendeen_author
To Mum
For the strength you give me to follow my dreams,
And for showing me the kind of person, I want to be.
That Day
Karen Deen
Chapter One
ASHA
“This damn dog is going to be the death of me!” I scream into the wind that’s blowing in my face, whipping the stray parts of my blonde hair across my eyes and into my mouth while I’m yelling.
If I run any faster, I know my heart is going to stop, put her hands on her hips and throw a tantrum, because of course that’s what hearts do in the real world. Me and exercise are not best friends. Actually, to be honest, we have never been friends. If this body were designed to run, then I wouldn’t have these short legs that make me have to take two steps compared to the average woman’s one.
Seriously, I see all those posts on social media of the hot-looking chicks with long legs, the perfect tits, not even breaking a sweat as they pound the treadmill in the gym. The perfect bubble butt in the short little gym shorts, no panty lines, so they are probably wearing a G-string just because they can and still feel comfortable running.
Sometimes I wish I could do the honest post of how the uncoordinated women in the world exercise. I picture myself on a treadmill, my little legs trying to keep up with the speed, before the machine spits me off the end with my arms flapping around like a windmill. Then in the weights room, the red cheeks and sweat pouring off me, just from trying to lift the smallest weight they have.
I just wasn’t built to be a fit pocket rocket. Instead, I’m the little quiet wallflower who just wants to blend into the wall behind me. It wasn’t always that way, but life has a way of changing things.
“Coco! Stop!” I swear this dog is deaf whenever I’m calling her. But she has the best fucking hearing when it’s time to feed her. The moment I open the cupboard where her food is kept, she is circling my legs and I can’t even move. I swear there wasn’t much thought process that went into this when I picked a dog. I mean, who gets a dog that’s almost as big as the person who owns her?
“That’s it, you stupid mutt! You’re on your own. I don’t care if you get lost. Go find some other human to put up with your shit!” I hunch forward, hands on my knees and gasping, trying to get air into my lungs. I watch Coco running along the beach chasing the same seagull that she spotted the moment we stepped onto the sand this morning.
Our morning walks on the beach would be so much better if there were no birds. I mean, can’t the gulls wait for me to take my walk and then come out for their morning fly-by on the way to find their breakfast for the day?
I don’t sleep much, so as the sun starts to rise, I find that the most peaceful time of the day to walk. Clear out my night thoughts and try to let the new day flow into my body. It gets my creativity started. Routine has become my savior from my haunting memories.
Coco’s barking snaps me out of my thoughts. Looking up, I see her stopped and focusing out into the waves. The early-morning surfers are out getting their fix from the saltwater before they head off for their day jobs. I see the same ones every day, and the ones that are addicted are usually back in the afternoon. Obviously, they can’t get enough. I understand that type of addiction.
I often wonder who they are and where they come from. Are they teachers, bankers, scientists? Or the guy who stocks the shelves at the supermarket?
That’s my problem. My head has a story for everyone I see in the world. I blame my dad. He had the wildest imagination, and I obviously inherited it. Every night when he put me to bed, instead of reading me a story, he would make one up. Sometimes it matched the pictures of the book I picked, but most of the time we didn’t even bother with a book. Mom would complain every night when I would be giggling loudly or shouting out to the imaginary dragon that I was riding to fly higher in the clouds. I can still hear her words in my head.
“Rhett, you are supposed to be putting her to sleep, that’s why they are called bedtime stories!” Her voice would waft down the hallway from the kitchen where she would be cleaning up from dinner. She tried to sound angry, but all there was in her voice was love. For me and even more for my dad. They were perfect for each other.
I slowly creep up on Coco and attach the lead that I tried to put on her before we left the backyard this morning. Some days we don’t need it, but obviously today is not one of them. Luckily, she is still looking out to the sea. Her focus seems to be on the lone surfer that is to the right of the group, sitting on his board, just watching and waiting for that perfect wave. The surf is a little rough this morning. There are reports of a hurricane coming, but they don’t expect it to make landfall. The ocean is always a good weather reporter for me. It fascinates me on so many levels.
“Coco, shush, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. No guy likes a girl who is loud and never shuts up.” She finally stops barking and looks up at me like she understands what I just said.
“Oh, now you want to listen?” I pat her head as she starts wagging her tail at me.
“One day we’ll work out this me-the-master, you-the-dog, relationship. In the meantime, can you just stop making me run? Otherwise, you’ll be on your own, because I’ll be the dead lady, face first in the sand after my heart attack.” She looks up at me and gives me one bark and then starts calmly walking towards home like I’m the one making a fuss.
“You think I’m the diva? Well, I’ve got news for you. If there was a prize for the sassiest dog in North Carolina, you would take the gold medal.” I laugh to myself because this is my day beginning like normal. Me talking to a dog and actually thinking I’m having a conversation with her.
Yep, I’m officially a nutcase!
Looking out to sea again, I catch sight of the guy in the surf that Coco seems to have a thing for. He hasn’t moved. He’s just bobbing up and down on the waves and staring straight at me.
Fuck.
I don’t want to draw attention to myself, but I can’t look away. I know who he is. Well, I don’t know know who he is, but I know who he is on sight. It may or may not have somethin
I’m not purposefully looking… well, sort of. I mean, if some hot guy happens to park at the end of the parking lot closest to your house and is facing you every time he lifts his shirt, what’s the point in missing the show? Or the hot ass that bends over with his towel wrapped around his waist as he pulls his wetsuit up underneath it. I pray every day that it will accidently slip undone. I still don’t know… does he wear anything under that towel and wetsuit, or is it a commando thing?
“Shit!”
Stumbling forward, I nearly fall flat on my face as Coco decides she is going to run again. Except this time, she’s attached to me.
Bitch of a dog, I’m sure she does it on purpose. Probably because she saw me eyeing her surfer boy. I swear this dog is human, or at least wants to be.
“Coco, if you don’t slow down, you are not getting any breakfast!” My squeaky voice rings out as I try to keep up with her.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I say as she slows to a walk again. “I’m the boss, remember.” I’m trying to catch my breath again, and I let out a giggle. You would think walking every afternoon and morning—with this crazy dog that has me running half the time—would make me fit.
God, what must that guy on the board think of me? I’m probably his morning comedy relief. I’m the story he tells his work buddies when he gets to work.
‘Oh, you should have seen the crazy dog lady this morning, almost face planting in the sand when the dog took off on her.’
Hmm, what would his voice sound like?
I’m sure it would be deep and a little raspy, like the real rugged guy that he looks like. Trying to imagine him talking about me is a bad idea. My mind starts wandering to what he would sound like, except not talking to his buddies. That voice I can hear, but then it changes to his dirty talk. Fuck, I have been on my own too long.
That’s what they call desperation, when you are imagining a guy you have never met talking dirty to you while he fucks you.
“I’m a lost cause,” I mumble to myself as I walk along the beach toward home. Coco just looks back at me with those sad eyes, then turns forward again and keeps walking.
“Great, now even my dog thinks I’m a hopeless case. My life is a mess.”
The sun is starting to creep a little higher in the sky now as the day is waking up. Looking up towards the houses, you can see more activity and cars on the roads, everyone going about their morning routine. Although the sun is rising, there are clouds starting to build. They might look light and fluffy now, but that tinge of gray in them tells me they aren’t going to be as innocent as they seem.
Walking up the bank of grass on the sand dune towards my house, I take a breath. My life might be a mess, but this is my sanctuary. My little house on the beach where I can be me and then let my imagination run wild.
After coming through the gate to the yard, I lean down and take off the lead from Coco’s collar and give her a pat and hug her. She might drive me crazy, but I do love her and know she is the one who keeps me from going insane. Living on your own can be lonely. No matter how many characters are talking to me in my head, human interaction is what I crave. Or to be more accurate, I miss the feeling of being touched. Not even intimately, just the regular cuddle, holding hands, or even the stupid thump in the arm of a friend joking with you.
It’s the life I walked into back then, but some days I wonder why.
Coco’s wet nose gives me nudge on the back of my leg to remind me I promised breakfast, and instead I’m standing here on the porch daydreaming again.
“Okay, girl, let’s get you some food and I can get on with my workday.” Her wagging tail tells me she approves.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my wet hair up into a ponytail, my mind is already in work mode. A plot twist has just come to me in the shower, and I want to get in front of the computer and get it down. It’s the strangest thing being an author. It’s my mind, and even I don’t understand how it works. The storylines that come to me happen at the strangest times. Not always in one go, either. Sometimes it builds slowly, and I know the ideas of what the book is about, then bam, it hits. The pivotal scene or the whole story starts playing my head. Or I see one character and their storyline, and the other is hiding from me.
No wonder I’m a loner. How do I expect people to understand me when I can’t even work out my thoughts some days?
One thing I know, though, is by the time I pull a book together, there are people out there in this world who can make sense of my jumble, and luckily for me, come back for more.
Opening up my computer, I quickly jot down the scene for the plot twist, so I don’t lose it.
“Right, now where was I up to?” Yeah, talking to myself is another sign I’m certifiably insane.
“You know exactly where you are up to, you idiot. They are about to have sex. Why do you think you were dreaming about surfer boy this morning, talking dirty to you?” Rolling my eyes at myself seems a waste of energy, but hey, that’s what us creatives do.
Coco lets out a snore from at my feet. The big energetic dog that wouldn’t stop running this morning has left, and in her place is the lazy lump that spends most of the day lying next to me while I lose myself in my book.
When I moved to North Carolina a year ago, I had no idea what my future held in store. Taking the leap and releasing my first book that I had written years before was the scariest thing I’ve done in my life. And let me assure you, I’ve done some scary things before now.
Three books later and I can’t stop.
Writing is my addiction.
“Okay, time to turn the heat up on my couple and finally let the tension bubble burst.” My fingers start dancing over the keys at a speed I never imagined I had. It’s like they have a mind of their own. The clicking noise of the keyboard is what calms my mind. I know that the words are flowing, and the story is coming together before my eyes. I’m lost in my own world, and it’s the safest place for me to be.
Hours pass when I’m writing, and sometimes I have no idea how many hours until I hear my stomach start voicing its disgust that it has been neglected again. Looking up from my screen, I realize I’ve been totally engrossed in my book and the day has been passing me by. It shouldn’t surprise me, because it happens on a regular basis.
Coco must sense my change of movement, as she rises slowly from her sleeping spot. I really need to set an alarm on my phone to make me get up and move more often. My body feels stiff as I start walking towards the kitchen to find food. Not sure what I feel like eating, I’m standing at the fridge door open, just staring in at all the food, hoping that something jumps out at me. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head.
‘Don’t stand there with the door open; get what you want and get out.’
Yet here I am twenty-nine years old and still doing the same thing.
Nice try, Mom.
I settle on the porch swing, eating my blueberries and yogurt, and the wind has picked up since this morning. It’s still hot and steamy, enough that you feel that sheen of sweat on your skin. The direction has changed, and it’s now coming straight off the ocean. The waves are bigger, and I know only the experienced surfers will be back this afternoon. The ones who are risk takers and love the adrenaline rush.
It’s a typical summer day: hot, humid, and building a new storm.
KURT
“I can’t wait for these sweaty balls to finally dip into the cold water. Surely we’re done for the day?” I hear the voice behind me.
