Until I Met You
Copyright ©S. L. Scott 2015
The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940071-32-9
Interior design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats
Cover design: Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations
http://www.okaycreations.com/
Cover photographer: Yuri Acrurs
Small Images: People Images, Dollarphoto.com, Stocksy
Editing:
Marion Archer of Making Manuscripts
Marla Esposito of Proofing Style
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
A Personal Note
About the Author
Available Books by S. L. Scott
To my heart and soul—my husband and children. I am, because of them.
THE BARS WERE rusted. The dingy paint was chipping on the inside of the windowsill, and her gown was fraying along the ties. She took in and then slowly released a long breath, even though the air she was breathing was stale. She wondered if the vent was blocked, but it was too high for her to reach. So she remained flat on her back on the bare mattress with the springs poking into her. Jude had a knack for lying very still for hours on end. This was how she stayed sane. This was how she survived.
Don’t give them anything.
Don’t give into them.
Fight.
Fight.
Fight.
Hold on.
One more day.
Hold on.
Love wasn’t about reason.
Love wasn’t rational.
The heart charged forth with love on its wings to spite the possibility of the bloodshed aftermath.
MAYBE IT WAS the music—an instrumental version of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” played melodically through the Upper East Side apartment. Or maybe it was traces of the pink pills still in her system. Her mental freedom was slowly awakening her dormant mind.
Either way, Jude Boehler liked this party.
She liked the suits that surrounded her, the women who ignored her. She liked being invisible. So wonderfully rare not to be under a microscope.
Jude swayed to the music while nitpicking her way through the trays of food on display. She tried a few of the fancy appetizers but put back what she didn’t like. Grabbing a celery stick, she dipped it in the creamy sauce next to it. Nice. She dipped again.
“You shouldn’t double-dip,” she heard a man say.
Continuing to swirl the celery through the dip in a figure eight, she looked up. While taking a large bite her gaze traveled over the charcoal-gray suit-clad banker type, and she swallowed. And smiled. Then laughed as she dunked her celery in the dip again as if she had never heard him. She took another bite, this time louder while looking into the eyes he hid behind black-framed glasses. Lifting up on the balls of her feet, she tried to see them more clearly. Not appeased, she dropped back down and asked, “What color are your eyes?”
“Hazel,” he replied flatly. A line between his brows, which had formed long before tonight, drew her attention.
Done with the celery, she stuck the remaining piece in the dip, leaving it sticking straight up, and took his hand, palm up, into hers. “You should buy me a drink.” The tip of her finger traced a broken line that led from just above his wrist in a semi-circle around his thumb.
Pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket, he stated, “The drinks are free. The bar is over there.”
His words screamed impatience and she wondered if he was always this uptight. She stood her ground with him and looked in the direction he was pointing. “You should offer to get me one. Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”
His head jerked back. “You just put your germs in that dip and touched half the food on the table, thus contaminating it, and you’re calling me out for not being polite?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’ll take a Crown and Coke.” Her back was turned to him as she picked up four different cookies to investigate the chip to dough ratio, and then settled on a brownie. She could feel Hazel’s gaze and returned to face him. With an ironic smile, she curtsied. “Fine, I’ll get my own drink. Since you’re here, can I get you something while I’m over there?”
“No. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Before she left, she asked, “What do you do for money?”
“My profession?” He watched the peculiar girl twirl in front of him. Her skirt ballooned out and brushed against his gray wool-covered legs.
She stopped, smiled, and replied, “No, just in the general sense.”
One of his eyes squinted, completely confused by the nonsensical question. “I’m an architect.”
Jude’s lips pursed, seeming to agree with him. “That makes sense.” She left this time while he watched her go, but she didn’t walk. She floated. She danced her way in red snow boots through the stiff crowd dressed in suits and evening attire. The girl wearing a chartreuse sundress with little pink flowers embroidered around the bottom in the middle of winter stood out at this party. And captivated him.
There were plenty of people he knew and some he should talk to, but he didn’t move from where he stood. He waited for her. Shifting uncomfortably, he was confused as to why he was waiting, but he did.
Jude returned as if they were long lost friends, as if she had no doubt he would still be there, waiting.
Taylor stood next to the girl in the sundress in silence. Her brownie had been eaten, and a cocktail now replaced it in her hand, which she waved flagrantly to the music not noticing—or not caring—that liquid was spilling as she moved.
Finally speaking up, he asked, “How many drinks have you had tonight?” But he really wanted to ask if she was drunk. He had never seen someone so careless before, so carefree before. She twirled again, and he swiftly took the glass from her and set it down on the table. For the safety of the drink, of course.