Title Page

WHERE TIME STANDS STILL

N.S. PERKINS

Where Time Stands Still © 2022 N.S. Perkins

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 N.S. Perkins

Book Cover Design by Murphy Rae

Editing by Jacqueline Hritz

Formatting by Champagne Book Design

Table of Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Author's Note

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also from the author

Dedication

To my love. The memories I have with you are my most prized possession.

Author's Note

AUTHOR’S NOTE

My dear readers,

Before beginning, I wanted to address the fact that while this book is a romance, it deals with heavy topics, including chronic illness, debilitating accidents, death, and dying. There are also instances where the protagonist has ableist views and discourses about herself and her condition. While the narrative, just like myself, condemns this self-taught ableism, some parts of this book might be triggering to read for some of you. I have tried to handle these themes with the utmost care, respect, and love, but I still I want you all to take care of yourselves.

Love,

N.S. Perkins

Prologue

PROLOGUE

I always wear a ring when I go out.

Not that I go out often—far from it—but when I do, I want to keep the drunk men looking for someone to warm their beds at bay. It usually works.

Except for tonight.

The man sits down on the stool next to mine before I can say anything. I wouldn’t have hesitated to tell him this seat was taken before he sat down, but now it feels a little rude. Especially since he’s already sprawled on the bar, his head draped on top of his arms.

Wow. I didn’t know it was possible to get this plastered on a Tuesday night.

And this is why I don’t go out.

I shake my head and take a sip of my vodka soda. It’s not like I had much of a large selection of places to visit tonight. I needed to get out of my apartment. Do something—anything—that could take my mind away from my problems for at least an hour or two. This bar seemed as good a place as any to do just that. The ceilings are high, the light is dim, and the jazz music that’s playing from the built-in speakers is not too loud. Plus, the alcohol they’re serving is useful to take the edge off. All in all, this place is helping. So the guy can sit there if he likes. I’ll just ignore him.

Except it’s hard to ignore a person when they keep mumbling things that are incomprehensible half of the time. I keep thinking he’s talking to me, but apparently, he’s only talking to himself.

“…can’t believe this.”

I turn to my right and once again find that he wasn’t addressing me, but I do a double take when I realize he’s opened his eyes. They’re a light brown, droopy and red rimmed. But that’s not what’s most noticeable about them; they look so very sad. In fact, they don’t fit with the rest of him. Even when hunched, I can see he’s tall and has a muscular build. His dark-brown hair is curly and ruffled, as if he’s dragged his hands through it more than once. The skin of his forearms is sun-kissed, a nice gold shade. His lips are plump, too big for a man’s face, really, but somehow, it all works.

He’s stunning.

And he’s also deeply unhappy.

In my experience, gorgeous people always seem happy, or maybe they only hide their pain to let it out once they’re alone, but there’s no mistaking his state of mind. It’s easy to conceal the truth with words, but eyes don’t lie. That’s something my mom used to tell me over and over again. Before forgetting about me, that is.

I take another sip of my drink as I keep looking at him. Thankfully, his gaze is lost in space, so he doesn’t see me. Funny how I was complaining about him sitting next to me a few minutes ago, yet I’m the one acting like a stalker now. It’s not for the same reason guys usually look at girls, though. I don’t want to get in his pants—not by a long shot. What I do want is to know what’s wrong with him. Something’s eating at him, and it’s got my attention. Maybe if I learn about someone else’s real problems, it will make mine feel smaller. It might seem selfish, but after today, I need it.

Before I can overthink it, I turn to him and ask, “Are you all right?”

His gaze climbs to mine as if it’s completely natural for a total stranger to ask how you’re doing. Maybe this guy goes out more than I do and it’s actually a normal practice. Who knows.

His eyes are glassy. I can see it even better when he straightens and blinks at me. The beer he takes a chug of is definitely not his first or second of the night. With a voice deeper than what I would’ve imagined, he says, “I will be, but right now, I’d say life could go fuck itself.”

I can’t help it. I snort. I wasn’t expecting such blunt honesty, but somehow, that’s the most perfect answer he could’ve given me.

“Cheers to that,” I say before downing the rest of my drink. Coughing a little, I lift my hand and signal to the bartender for another one. Since I don’t drink often, I’ll probably regret it once I get to the office tomorrow morning, but right now, I’d say I deserve it.

“I’ll take it your life sucks too?” Tall Guy asks as he leans his head on his hand.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“What happened to you?”

Creases form on my forehead as I lift my brows. I know I was about to ask him the same thing, but it feels like a pretty intrusive question for someone I met five minutes ago. Plus, it’s not a simple one to answer. Too much has happened—and will happen—for me to be able to narrow it done to one thing.

So instead, I narrow my gaze and reply, “What happened to you?”

“That’s cheating,” he says, as if we’re playing some kind of game. Maybe we are. Who’s the worse off between the two of us? No matter what he tells me, I know I’ll win.

Goodness, I sound like a whiny, broken record tonight.

Sighing, he picks up the beer the bartender brought him a second ago, after he finished the previous one, and takes a long swig. “I just proposed to the girl I’ve been with for the past ten months, and she said no.”

I wince. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”

His shoulders lift in the most half-assed shrug I’ve ever seen. “’s all right. Guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different.”

I don’t ask him what he means by this. Instead, I take another sip of my newly served drink and say, “So are you still going to stay together?” I don’t know who I am at the moment. The real Wren Lawson would never involve herself in someone else’s personal life like this. She’d never even have tried to engage in a conversation with a stranger in the first place. Must be the alcohol, or the fact that asking him about his problems takes my mind somewhere else.

He blinks slowly, his gaze getting lost for a moment. “Nah. What’s the point in staying with someone who doesn’t see herself with you in the long run?”

I don’t answer because he has a point. One I’ve lived by my whole life. The reason why I’m single and plan on staying that way forever. I lift my glass in my second toast of the night.

The music around us becomes slightly louder, and I close my eyes, slowly moving my body left and right. Drunk Wren really is a different person. The AC is cold against my skin, which feels amazing compared to the sticky June air of downtown Boston. My hair was starting to curl out of my tight bun as I walked here.

“What about you?” Tall Guy asks, head tilting.

“Hm?”

“Why are you drinking?”

My eyes drift down to the glass I’m holding.

“I told you my reason. It’s your turn now,” he adds, and even though he’s drunk, he makes a fair point. And if there’s one thing I care about in life, it’s fairness. I didn’t become a lawyer for nothing, after all.

“My genes suck,” I answer simply, the test results I received today flashing in my mind, all those letters I could barely decipher sticking a punch to my jaw.

While this might not be the kind of detailed answer he’d expected, it’s more than I would’ve given anyone in normal circumstances. It’s surprising that I’ve even given him that. Apparently, there’s something about this guy that makes me be honest. Maybe it’s the small wrinkles around his mouth that tell me this man smiles more often than not, or maybe it’s the warmth in his gaze, the color of a flickering fireplace. Or maybe it’s the fact that I know I’ll never see him again after tonight, so why not?

Tall Guy nods like he understands exactly what I mean. He probably doesn’t, but I appreciate the fact that he acts like it.

“Life always finds a way to screw us,” he answers after a while. “But you know what helps?”

“What?”

With a lift of his half-empty pint, he says, “Alcohol.” Then, for the first time tonight, he smiles. It’s small, but it’s explosive. It’s not exactly symmetrical either, yet somehow, that makes it even more charming.

I’m not a big smiler. Anyone at the firm would tell you. Focused? Yes. Hardworking? Absolutely. But a smiling person? Not really. It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s that the majority of the time, I don’t see a reason to smile. Not like I’m sad or depressed, just constantly neutral. Things are the way they are, and I accept that. Doesn’t mean I need to celebrate it by expressing a happiness I don’t feel.

But his grin triggers something in me. It’s almost like a bumper car. He hits me with it, and the only thing I can do in response is to grin back.

Tonight really is the strangest night I’ve spent in a while.

After we both take a large gulp of our drinks, I say, “So what’s next for you then?”

He puffs his cheeks, then slowly releases the air. “I don’t know. Figuring out how to be alone, I guess.”

Before I can control it, a snicker comes out of me.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing. It’s just that I’m an expert in that.”

“Being alone?”

“Uh-huh.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’ll call you for advice then.”

The strangest thing happens then. Something in the air changes. Or maybe it’s something in me that shifts. But one second we’re joking about our shitty lives, and the next, I’d swear he’s about to kiss me. He doesn’t utter a word, yet I feel it everywhere. It’s like a bubble surrounds us, the air warmer, the chatter of patrons softer. His gaze dips to my lips, lightning fast, and I’m hit with mixed feelings. A part of me wants to get up and run away, but another part wants to stay here and learn what this stranger tastes like, how he could make me forget. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let go for once. His tongue darts out, wetting his rosy lips. I swallow, the alcohol in my veins making everything fuzzy. Or is it him?

But before either of us can move, the bubble is burst by a hairy arm placing two bar tabs in front of us, the leather smacking against the granite bar. I jump, my heart beating way too fast all of a sudden.

What the heck was that? Did I imagine it?

I look down at my phone and see it’s close to midnight.

“I should probably get going,” I say, looking everywhere but at him. Not waiting for his answer, I get up to pay my tab. Once I’m done and the bartender has wished me a good night, I put my wallet back in my purse and look over my shoulder at the guy I most likely will never see again in my life. His eyes are a little less glossy than before, and he sits straighter. Smiling softly, he lifts a hand and gives me a quick wave.

“It was nice meeting you, stranger,” he says. No awkwardness.

Yeah, I definitely imagined things.

With a nod, I wave back, then walk toward the door.

I know nothing about this guy. He knows nothing about me. In the past half hour, we haven’t even exchanged names. But somehow, as I walk out of the bar into the warm summer night, I feel lighter than I did coming in.

A miracle.

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Five months later

Wren

Memory is a strange thing.

In fact, even scientists haven’t completely mastered it. A network of neurons in your hippocampus conserving moments and experiences, down to the tastes and smells associated with them, is a wild thing to wrap your head around. And no one has been able to explain without a doubt why we remember certain things but not others. We do know that vivid emotions associated with a moment will help us remember it better, but really, there’s no saying what we will remember in five minutes, or five years, or five decades. Some things, like the day you got your first dog or the last time you hugged your mother, you would like to remember but can’t. And other things, you remember for no specific reason. For example, the face of the man who you thought was going to kiss you in a bar months ago.

Which is a bad thing, considering it’s the first thing I see as I climb out of my car at the Evermore Christmas Tree Farm.

What in the world?

I stand frozen as I try but fail to catch my breath. Today has already become one of the weirdest days I’ve ever lived, and it’s only ten in the morning. First, I’ve been forced to throw my usual schedule out the window to get here. Selina, my boss, told me a few days ago that a new client had requested to work with me specifically on a medical malpractice case and that I’d meet them on Monday. But last night, she called to say they couldn’t come to Boston after all and would need me to drive to their place in Vermont to meet with them.

I’d only heard of a few rare occasions when Silver & Prescott had agreed to meet a client away from our offices. However, she didn’t leave me much choice to say no, so I agreed, only mentally biting my nails. Because of that, instead of walking across town and entering the office at 8:00 a.m. on the dot this morning, I got up earlier than usual and made the almost two-hour drive to get to this place I’d never heard of. For a person who literally never does anything different, that sudden change to my schedule should’ve been the only strange thing to happen to me.

But of course, I should’ve anticipated that one bad surprise never comes alone.

Tall Guy looks exactly as I remember him, except his hair is shorter than when I last saw him, the waves a little tamer. Other than that, he has the same light-brown eyes that look like molten gold in the sunlight, the same large build that would make any man jealous, and the same golden-brown skin that has no right looking this good in late November. He’s also dressed in a completely different style. This summer he wore a dress shirt and nice pants, but here, it’s a flannel shirt and lumberjack boots.

What could he possibly be doing here, almost two hours away from the place where we first met?

Next to him stands a short lady who has the same brown complexion, dark hair, and warm-honey eyes. Beside her is a pale man with white hair and a bright blue gaze, standing up with a walker. The reason I’m here, I assume.

“You must be Ms. Lawson,” the lady says with a light accent—Spanish, maybe—which finally brings me out of my staring trance. Right. I’m here for a job. It doesn’t matter whether I’ve met Tall Guy before. Besides, he was so wasted that night, he probably doesn’t even remember me or the weird moment we shared.

“Yes, I am. And you must be the Scott-Perez family,” I say, closing the door of my sedan behind me and approaching them. The heels of my knee-high leather boots dig into the fresh snow as I look around, a literal winter wonderland of large evergreens covered in white powder surrounding me. I’ve never been to a Christmas tree farm before, and I had no idea a place could look so magical. The view is almost worth the long drive and the disruption of my usual habits. Almost.

Once I stand in front of them, I take a better look at the two older adults before quickly meeting Tall Guy’s eyes. It’s the first time I get to see him upright, and while I knew he seemed tall, it’s nothing compared to standing next to him. I’m five eight, and I almost need to tilt my head back to look at him. Thankfully, his face doesn’t show any signs of recognition—not that I would’ve expected it to. We didn’t speak much that night months ago. I don’t even know why I remember him. Again, memory is a strange, strange thing.

“I’m Aaron,” Tall Guy says as he steps forward, hand extended.

Aaron. After all these months, I finally know his name. It suits him.

“Wren,” I answer as I grab his large hand and shake it. It feels so surreal, to be here, acting professional with him as if I didn’t meet him while in a state so unlike my real self. If he’d remembered, I would’ve been humiliated to my core.

He takes a step back, then gestures toward the tiny woman. “This is my mom, Martina.” I shake her hand too as he says, “And this is my dad, Dennis.”

The man’s handshake is weak. Too weak for someone of his stature. Still, he maintains my gaze the whole time.

After taking a step back, I say, “Nice to meet you all. Shall we?”

Tall Guy—Aaron—nods once, then leads the way toward a large rustic house made of chestnut-colored wooden logs, smoke billowing out of a chimney. The place fits with the whole winter cottagecore vibe they have going on here. I walk behind Martina, who keeps a hand on Dennis’s back as he pushes his walker through the not-so-practical gravel entryway. The air is crisp and cold, and I hug my thin suede wrap-up coat tighter around me.

Once we get inside, the smell of firewood and fresh cookies fills my nose, and I can’t help but hum low. Christmas carols play softly in the background. From the foyer, we can see all the way through the kitchen to a large living room housing a woodstove and brown leather couches covered in throw blankets.

I can’t imagine this place during summer. It’s like it must be inhabited by a perpetual Christmas spirit.

Aaron leads us through the kitchen, with pots hung to the ceiling over a square wooden island, then turns to his left and stops once we reach what I assume is the dining room, a gigantic table made of a big slab of tree in the middle. I take a seat facing the three of them, then grab a notepad and my favorite black-ink pen out of my leather briefcase.

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