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  Copyrighted Material

  SOMEONE ELSE’S SHADOW

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Copyright © 2022 by Monica James

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.

  Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Interior design and formatting by:

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

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  authormonicajames.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books By Monica James

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with Monica James

  THE I SURRENDER SERIES

  I Surrender

  Surrender to Me

  Surrendered

  White

  SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL SERIES

  Something like Normal

  Something like Redemption

  Something like Love

  A HARD LOVE ROMANCE

  Dirty Dix

  Wicked Dix

  The Hunt

  MEMORIES FROM YESTERDAY DUET

  Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

  Forgetting You, Remembering Me

  SINS OF THE HEART DUET

  Absinthe of the Heart

  Defiance of the Heart

  ALL THE PRETTY THINGS TRILOGY

  Bad Saint

  Fallen Saint

  Forever My Saint

  The Devil’s Crown-Part One (Spin-Off)

  The Devil’s Crown-Part Two (Spin-Off)

  THE MONSTERS WITHIN DUET

  Bullseye

  Blowback

  DELIVER US FROM EVIL TRILOGY

  Thy Kingdom Come

  Into Temptation

  Deliver Us From Evil

  IN LOVE AND WAR

  North of the Stars

  Fall of the Stars

  STANDALONE

  Mr. Write

  Chase the Butterflies

  Beyond the Roses

  Someone Else’s Shadow

  This book is dedicated to me. I thought I was broken. But then, then I wrote this book…

  Something about a thunderstorm in June is utterly captivating.

  With the sunlight kindling across the horizon, one cannot be condemned for peering up into the heavens and believing we’re not alone because only the hand of God could create something so perfect, so picturesque. But just beyond the skyline, an undercurrent of electricity soon overshadows the sun.

  Before long, the sunshine surrenders to the darkness, disappearing to an untouched paradise because Mother Nature has no mercy when it’s her time to shine.

  The clouds emerge quickly but quietly, setting the stage for Act 1. The destruction lingers in the air minutes before you can hear it or feel it. One can taste it on their tongue. People scurry like mice, desperate to get indoors and safe in their houses because the roar of the thunder warns what’s approaching from the distance.

  Dark gray blankets the vibrant sky, and without warning, it’s illuminated by a flash of lightning. By setting an ominous mood with the warmth still loitering, one can almost forget that the heavens will open and baptize us all with driving rain in seconds.

  A thunderstorm in the summertime is such an oxymoron. The weather is stifling, yet the punishing downpour forbids basking in the seasonal heat.

  But for me, I must be the epitome of an oxymoron—a smart fool—because all I can think about is breaking free from the suffocating confines of this car and dancing in the rain. My feet yearn to kick at the puddles, bouncing recklessly into each one like a five-year-old. I want to tear off my clothes—overpriced garments which could feed a small nation—and spread my arms out wide and fly. I want to feel the rain on my face trickle into my mouth as I scream in liberation.

  I don’t care what others think of me; let them ridicule me because I’ve always been utterly captivated by a thunderstorm in June or…so I think I have.

  “Peyton, is everything all right?” Tearing my gaze from the storm just outside my window, I meet Stella Lane’s hazel eyes.

  I can see the resemblance. I have her large eyes, which are almost too big for my heart-shaped face. My locks are a deeper, darker orangey copper than Stella’s, but we both wear our hair long. My lips are naturally full, tinted a rosy pink. Stella’s are plump, thanks to her cosmetic doctor. Our builds are slim.

  Yes, I can definitely see the similarities…but it’s still so difficult to accept this stranger as my mom. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a lot to take in.”

  I know she wants me to say more, maybe explain why I’ve decided to move from her gated mansion in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, to a small, secluded property forty-five minutes away. But I can’t give her a reason because I don’t have one. I have no idea why this less than luxurious home appeals to me. It just does.

  Stella’s pout slants downward, and I know what she’s going to say. “We can always turn this car around and go home.”

  Home.

  They say home is where the heart is, but the problem is, I’ve misplaced my heart, along with the memories that go with it.

  When I look into the mirror, I don’t recognize the person staring back at me because I don’t know who I am. Snippets of information have been relayed to me over the past six months in hopes that it will jog some kind of memory, but all it does is leave me feeling empty; I’m a stranger in someone else’s skin.

  They tell me my name is Peyton Veronica Lane. I was born on October first. I’m twenty-seven years old. I have four siblings—two brothers, two sisters—and I’m the third oldest. I’m a marketing manager who loves water sports and having a glass of wine while listening to classical music. The small scar on the underside of my chin is from falling off my mare, Sabina, when I was nine.

  It seems I’ve lived a full, rewarding life, one which many may envy, thanks to the blue blood running through my veins. Still, I would give it up, all of it, in a heartbeat if only I could remember who I was.

  Six months ago, I woke up…woke up from a coma with no recollection of anybody, anything. The doctors told me I was involved in a head-on collision that almost claimed my life. On the outside, I look unscathed, a pillar of perfect health, but the unseen, like an iceberg submerged deep in the murky depths, has caused me the most harm. My mind is a blank slate. Every moment in time was wiped clean.

  I’m told by my friends and family that I’m a good woman, that I’m loved, but I just can’t remember any of it…any of it at all.

  “Thank you, but I need to do this. I think.”

  Stella tugs at her mother-of-pearl earring—a sure sign she’s annoyed I’ve said no, a word she doesn’t hear too often. Augusto Lane, Stella’s husband and my father, merely sits quietly in the driver’s seat, occasionally glancing at me in the rearview mirror. He seems just as unsettled as I am.

  It’s disconcerting to have people you don’t know but who know you trying to narrate your life. Every time someone details a memory, I see the hope flash before their eyes—they’re hoping something will finally resurface. But nothing ever does.

  Only time will tell if I’m forever broken. The doctors aren’t even sure.

  So I’m sitting in this Mercedes on the way to my new home because it’s the first flicker of familiarity I’ve had in so many months. I’m drawn here, and I need to know why.

  Stella said it’s because we vacationed on the lake when we were kids. She has the photos to prove it. But those photographs may as well have been taken in another lifetime because I’m looking at them through the eyes of a stranger.

  When Augusto takes a left, the lush vegetation becomes thicker and the location more remote as we journey down a quiet stretch of road. The bustle of Myrtle Beach has left me with a perpetual case of seasickness. The world moves faster down there, but here, the easygoing pace appeases my need for calm.

  The wide road is unevenly paved, but it doesn’t seem to bother the locals. Appearing to have been standing for an eternity, the weathered lake houses radiate warmth and love. The neighborhood is everything you’d expect a small community to be—private, tended, and still.

  As the storm subsides, I rub a circle in the condensation and peer out the window, all but pressing my nose to the glass. The farther Augusto drives, the more secluded we are, but who needs civilization when a mysterious lake emerges from the isolation? I hold my breath.

  Its size is considerable, almost daunting, and one can’t be blamed for looking into the cavernous depths and wondering what secrets it conceals. With trees forking from within the water and low-hanging branches skimming the water’s edg
e, it throws off a swamp-like feel.

  The car decelerates before veering down a steep driveway. I know without looking that this is my new home.

  Stella whispers something to Augusto, who turns over his shoulder, his thin lips slanted into a puckered line. I know they’d rather I live anywhere but here, but this isn’t their decision. I’ve lived by their rules for the past six months, and I’m no closer to unearthing just who I was…who I am. Unsnapping my belt, I reach for my backpack, unable to leap from this car fast enough.

  “Peyton! Use your umbrella. And dear Lord, put on some shoes!”

  I pay no heed to Stella’s requests because the moment I step foot outside and my bare feet connect with the recently showered earth, my lungs fill with air, and I breathe. The oppression gradually fades, and I take a moment to appreciate everything around me.

  Spinning in a slow circle, I admire my quiet neighborhood. The two-story houses across the road are weather-beaten but well loved. Most are bright white or pale yellow with wraparound white balconies. Wooden rocking chairs sit on front porches for my neighbors to admire their perfect views. The manicured gardens are flourishing with not a blade of grass awry.

  Small hybrids or compact cars are parked in all the driveways except one. A stunning two-story home a few houses down has clearly been renovated, but the addition of the floor-to-ceiling windows doesn’t make it any less beautiful than the neighboring houses. If anything, I imagine the living areas glowing from the brilliant sunshine and warming the occupants all year round.

  An enormous black SUV pickup in the drive towers over the adjacent cars. The flourishing rose bushes lined up like regimented soldiers along the paved pathway contrast the virile feel of the home.

  My admiration continues when I look upward and marvel at the Spanish moss decorating the gigantic oak trees lining the road. The silver-gray strands sway gently in the wind, hanging like a trapeze, ready for her next trick. The soaring oaks arch over one another, the sunlight capable of breaking through only when the leaves dither in just the right way.

  An undercurrent of enchantment is in the air, and when I turn, that magnetism amplifies tenfold when the lake comes into view. An unforeseen sense of déjà vu passes over me. My attention drifts to the towering oak across the lake. A well-loved wooden swing rocks lightly in the breeze. But that’s not what I’m fixated on. I’m spellbound by the red ribbon tied to the weathered rope. It looks…familiar.

  “I have no doubt that the roof will cave in the moment a wind blows.” Stella’s judgment is a sudden, welcomed distraction.

  My home is an olive-green lake house; it may not be the prettiest of the bunch, but I envision the possibilities. With a fresh coat of paint and some TLC, both inside and out, I can see myself building a life—a life I will remember—here. Clutching the straps of my backpack, I can’t wait to start.

  However, all plans of moving forward are put on hold when a boisterous barking, followed by the wind being knocked from my sails, requires my undivided attention. Thanks to the wet ground and my bare feet, I lose my balance and end up very ungracefully tumbling onto my ass. The plush grass breaks my fall, but nothing protects me from the bouncing Golden Retriever who dives on top of me and assaults my face with his very affectionate tongue.

  I can’t stop my laughter as he pins me down and smothers me with kisses. “Hey, boy. Are you the welcoming committee?” In response, he licks my cheeks like I’m his new chew toy.

  Reaching for his furry face, I gently coax him backward so I can sit up. He grants me my freedom, but only because I allow him to sit on my lap.

  “Oh, shoo, you big, ugly mutt! Shoo!”

  In the midst of an eye roll, I’m curtly incapacitated of any movement when a voice that can only be compared to molten honey materializes out of thin air.

  “Mutt? Now, that’s not nice. Empire, come here, boy.” The bouncy pooch, aka Empire, barks once.

  His tone is husky, laden with sinful promise, and I’m suddenly left breathless for an entirely different reason. Unable to stop myself, I peer to the left and appreciate the tall, dark, and handsome guy standing only feet away. The first thing that strikes me is the penetrating clarity of his hooded blue eyes. Brought to life by the stirring of gray in their bottomless depths, they have the ability to lure one in and completely hypnotize—just as they’re doing right now.

  His bravado suddenly dies when he sees me with my ass slathered in mud. I was hidden behind my mom, but now that I’m out in the open, he pauses, watching me closely.

  A rigid, perplexed frown tugs at his pouty lips, and when they part slightly, I imagine they have the ability to whisper sweet nothings and vow empty promises to anyone within a hundred-mile radius. His face is chiseled and hard with a strong jawline. The peppered stubble only accentuates his cleft chin. His upturned nose enhances the air of arrogance radiating from his broad shoulders as he holds my curious gaze.

  His light brown hair is mussed, kicked into a natural coif, the longer strands bowing forward lazily. The soft undercut is textured and groomed at the sides, but the style is far too long and wild to be labeled clean-cut.

  But one would never mistake him for being anything but trouble because his hulking, muscular build combined with his rugged, rogue looks all point to the fact that this man is the epitome of what every bad boy strives to become when he grows up.

  A close-fitting light gray V-neck and ripped blue jeans hug his taut body. A pair of motorcycle boots completes the brutish look.

  Once I’ve perused him from head to toe—twice—I swallow past the lump lodged in my throat.

  I’m rendered speechless because he’s eyeing me so openly, uncaring that my mother is about five seconds away from throttling him. Her sharp voice reminds me that we’re in a deadlock, which is highly inappropriate considering I don’t even know this handsome stranger’s name.

  “I don’t care. Take him away this instant.” Even I cringe at her insolence and am disappointed that someone of her social standing doesn’t know better. The stranger doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest and brushes past her, sauntering toward me.

  I instantly release Empire’s collar, afraid his owner will demand I unhand his dog and tell Stella and me to take the high road. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. The only thing is, I live here now, and I have a feeling he does too.

  Empire runs toward him, happily wagging his tail when the stranger ruffles the fur on the back of his neck. I believe he will turn away now that he has his dog, but I thought wrong. He continues ambling toward me, never breaking eye contact.

  When he’s a hair’s breadth away, he comes to a stop. His wide shoulders block out the sun, but the blaze ignites his shadow, bequeathing an ethereal glow. I blink once.

  Now that he’s standing before me, I notice how incredibly tall he is. It could be, however, that he appears this way because I’m still sitting in the mud. Absolutely horrified, I attempt to arise, but a small gasp escapes me when he offers me his large hand.

  I peer up at it and then back at him. I’m certain I resemble a cartoon character because a flicker of a smirk pulls at his curved lips as he examines me carefully.

  Breaking from whatever this insanity is, I slap my palm into his because this is ridiculous. I’m behaving like a high school girl, smitten by her first crush. I’m a grown woman, and just because he’s stupidly handsome does not mean I have to go goo goo ga ga all of a sudden. I’m here to find my independence, and a man will only complicate my plans.

  That theory is all good and well for roughly three seconds because the moment he encloses his hand around mine, a smolder begins to kindle, and I’m certain I’m running a fever. The tips of my ears ignite, followed by every part of my body.

  A strangled wheeze squalls past the floodgates, and although it’s subtle, I know he heard me loud and clear. My cheeks blister, which doesn’t help with the current inferno raging out of control within.

  What is the matter with me? I have no idea if this is how I would usually respond to an attractive stranger because I can’t remember. That thought is my saving grace—reminding me why I’m here—and I allow him to help me to my feet. The moment I stand, I feel dwarfed in his shadow. He’s tall. I’d say six-foot-three. My small stature of five-foot-four has me feeling dainty and delicate in his presence.