Sneak peekaroo of Forget Me Twice

Aug 09, 2022 9:22 pm

Happy Tuesday!!

Do you know why Tuesdays are great? Because that's the day Senden Daha Guzel airs.

Listen, if you haven't started watching Turkish romantic comedy are definitely missing out. It's pretty much the only way I'll run on my treadmill. LOL.

So if you need any Turkish romcom recs, I can tell you which ones I've watched. (They've been helping me exercise regularly—which I have needed!)

Also, is summer done yet? Because my little home loving heart is ready to stay home for a while. (Not gonna happen, we still have several trips planned before school starts. The amount of coffee I'm consuming is getting a little out of hand. 😬) If you need me, I'll be over here pretending like I'm getting a full five hours of sleep.

Need a solid laugh for the end of the summer?

Miss Trailerhood is on sale for 99¢ today and tomorrow! Hurry because this is only a short sale. :)

Miss Trailerhood

She disappeared from our lives without a word. I never expected to run into her at a Quik Mart in between jobs.

What’s a guy to do when he finds his first crush? Follow her home, of course, and remind her of all the things she’s missing.

I didn’t know that holding onto Riley would involve living in a trailer park.

Or keeping it a secret from my sister—her best friend.

Riley is completely at home with lawn-mower racing, beer-guzzling exhibitionists. She doesn’t think I can handle it. Well, I’m going to show Miss Trailerhood that I’m here to stay—no matter what trailer-park mayhem she puts me through.

Love is patient, love is kind, love means buying a single wide.

Read Here


Anyone ready for Forget Me Twice?

Big news, it's about to be sent out to ARC readers AND it's with my narrator, who is amazing. I can't wait to reveal who it is! She's wonderful!

A Forget Me Twice sneak peek...... since November 10 is still a long while away. (Why am I soooooo impatient??? Because I love this story, that's why.)

Chapter One


“I’m sorry to tell you this, but your husband has been in an accident,” an unfamiliar voice tells me. 

The words drift through the phone, ringing in my ears. 

“I think I misheard you,” I say as I shut my front door with a sharp slam—it never latches correctly unless I do. 

Hanging my purse on the hook above my entryway table, I turn and stare at myself in the mirror. My bangs are not where they should be, and my hands feel empty after delivering my packages to the post office, where the postal worker pretends like she hasn’t seen me before. 

I see Janice, the mail clerk, every Tuesday and Friday when I ship my orders. We like to play the Oh, who are you? and Can I interest you in a book of stamps? game. 

No, Janice, you can’t interest me, not since the price of stamps went up a penny. I can’t afford that habit.

“Your husband was involved in an accident,” the voice repeats, reminding me that I answered the call to a number I didn’t recognize. Sometimes, I like to live dangerously. “Ma’am, your husband has been injured.”

Vocabulary wasn’t my strong suit in grade school, but I have a firm enough grasp on it now to realize that an accident usually results in an injury.

There is one slight problem with her explanation, however. 

“I’m not married.”

There’s a painful silence as I kick off my shoes and stretch my toes, waiting for the telemarketer’s pitch. It’s probably a life-insurance scam. I bend down and slide my shoes onto my shoe shelf.

“You are Meyer Dunmore, aren’t you?” Her voice takes on an exasperated tone. 

Yes, I think I know my name, thank you very much

These scam callers are getting good. She asked if I was Meyer Dunmore when I first answered the phone. I now regret saying yes.

“Yes.” I draw out the word into a quiet hiss as I wait for her to explain. I need my daily power nap. And now, I’m missing it because of a spam call.

“Archie Dunmore was brought into the emergency room today at Green Valley General. Unfortunately, he was involved in a minor accident, and I’m afraid some complications would be better explained in person.”

Archie Dunmore.

My heart drops to my socked feet. “Accident?” My voice tremors even though I do my best to focus on the words I’m hearing.

“Yes. He’s been injured. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. It’s just that…Archie Dunmore is my ex-husband. That’s why I’m confused.”

Archie Dunmore had once filled a piece of my soul that I hadn’t known was missing, then crushed it entirely when he walked out of my life a year ago. 

“Well, you’re listed as his only emergency contact. And it says you’re his wife.” She states it in a way that says that the paperwork couldn’t possibly be wrong.

Well, it can be, Karen

“There’s no one else listed? Our last names are the same because I haven’t taken the time to switch mine back yet. You probably meant to reach Holly Dunmore. That’s his mother. How bad is it? Where is he?” I ask, though I know that, when he left me, he fled to his home state of Arizona. I tell her as much. “I’m not even in the same state. I’m in Oregon.”

“He is, too. I already said Green Valley General.” A heavy sigh deafens my ear. 

I’m a burden to this woman, and she wants me to know it. But why can’t she just explain what’s going on? 

“So, Archie has been hurt? In an accident?” These words are familiar, almost as if someone just said them.

“Yes…I’m afraid he’s suffering a—” She stops herself and then repeats her earlier pronouncement, “Well, he’s been in an accident.” 

Suffering. It’s more information than I had three seconds ago, but I’m still not sure what she wants me to do about it. Physical or emotional suffering? I need her to elaborate. Despite leaving me, despite being my ex, I need him to be okay. 

“But he’s going to be all right?”

“We’ll be able to give you more information in person. We prefer to disclose news face to face,” she answers. 

“Did he stub a toe or lose a leg?” I pry.

“It would be best if you spoke with the doctor.” Now, she sounds tired. Maybe she needs a nap, too.

“A bathroom accident or a car accident?”

“Please drive carefully.” She doesn’t sound like she means it. 

With that, the pesky woman hangs up, and I’m left imagining Archie lying in a casket. He’s made me mad in the past—furious, even—but I would never wish an accident on him.

Despite the nurse’s reminder to drive carefully, I drive like I’m auditioning for a demolition derby. I leave muddy tracks in my yard, screech onto the road in front of a minivan, then blow through every stoplight in town—all three of them.

I park in the front-row spot at the hospital that says Patient Offloading, then dart inside and head straight for the ER waiting room.

“Hi. I’m here for Archie Dunmore.” 

The powerful smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils as I wait for the receptionist to respond. She taps her thumb against the phone and speaks a few more words before hanging up and answering me. 

“We don’t allow visitors in the ER.”

“You. Called. Me.” And I will happily walk out right now if she doesn’t escort me back, because I would bet my last dollar that Archie doesn’t know I’m still listed as his emergency contact on his medical information.

She glances up. “You said Archie Dunmore. Are you the emergency contact?”

“It seems so,” I say between clenched teeth. The anxiousness welling up in my soul at the thought of seeing the man I once considered to be my soul mate has me barely managing social niceties.

“All right, I’ll buzz you through. Head to the triage desk, and the nurse will direct you.”

I stand in front of the double doors and wait for the telltale buzz. The doors swing open automatically, and I wonder if this is how Lucy felt when she first stepped into the wardrobe.

Then, I move forward. My backpack purse bangs against me with each step.

I haven’t seen Archie in a year. The last fight we had was oh-so impressive. The divorce was uncontested and required neither of us to be present. Yet, I have to see him for myself. I need to know that he will be okay after this accident. Then, I can go home. I’ll take that power nap that didn’t happen.

The triage nurse is more helpful than Friendly Fran at the front desk. This one points me directly to Archie’s room and tells me she’s glad I made it.

Taking a shaky, sterile-air-filled breath, I rap my knuckles on the large wooden door and push it open slowly. I brace myself for the sight.

Archie lies on a hospital bed. His long body is bent awkwardly, as though he is trying to find a comfortable way to rest. There’s a bandage on his head, wrapped on top of his thick, medium-length hair. It seems darker than I remember. The cut on his cheekbone gives him a dangerous air, taking away from his usual boyish charm. 

Is that a five-o’clock shadow I see?

He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, splattered with blood. A suit jacket and tie are folded on a seat next to him. The only time Archie would be caught in a hospital gown was if he was dead. So, he must not be too injured if he was able to refuse one.

A couple of nicks stand out on his chin. He’s been hurt, but still, he’s here. In the flesh. 

I want to hug him. I want his love. I want a reckoning.  

But I probably won’t get any of those things.

What will he say? Will this be a practical transaction? Does he need my help to get home? Maybe he wants me to hand over his favorite Christmas socks that I kept after the divorce. He might still want his ratty, old sweatshirt back.

I can tell the moment he senses he’s not alone. His body tenses, and then he opens his eyes and turns to face me.

Instead of the curt, hurtful, or brusque meeting I expect this to be, his voice is warm and joyful as he greets me. It reminds me of the first year we were married.

“Meyer!” Archie’s face breaks into a relieved smile. A cheerful smile. 

That can’t be right. Maybe it’s the painkillers working, because when he left me a year ago, it was not on speaking terms.

“Archie…” I draw out his name, wanting to call him Archibald as all the pain of that last fight comes crashing into me, battling the memories of other happier times.

“They said I could go home as soon as you got here,” he says as he reaches a hand out for me. It shakes almost imperceptibly, and there are cuts on his knuckles.

I sigh, reminding myself that this man was in an accident. He’s grateful to be alive, and he needs someone there with him. And apparently, I’m his ticket out of here, so maybe that’s why he’s relieved to see me.

I place my hand in his. Those calluses are so familiar yet so foreign. I know the sensation of those hands—everywhere. Yet, it’s been so long since I’ve touched them. Since they’ve touched me.

This is very normal—mundane, even—I snap at myself. He’s in shock, and it’s only right I offer him comfort.

“It’s okay, Archie. I’ll make sure you get home as soon as possible,” I say soothingly because it seems right in this situation.

“Thanks, Meyer. What would I do without you?”

I’m pretty sure I hear a record scratch somewhere. What would he do without me? He’s been doing without me for an entire year now.

He frowns and flinches as he studies my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Where to start?” I mutter.

He reaches up and touches the bandage on his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m a little out of it right now, but they promised me it looked worse than it is.”

I decide not to comment on that.

The door swings open, and a doctor bustles in—and not the doctor who stitched up my nephew Elijah’s chin after he cracked it at the local community pool. This doctor looks fresh out of medical school and would have patients swooning for his attention in no time.

Well, hello, hello. 

I glance down at Archie, who’s now frowning and glancing between the two of us. The doctor introduces himself as Dr. Tripp Sharpe.

Archie’s earlier smile is gone, and now, he’s busy trying to sit up and look less injured than he really is.

“Stop fussing,” I hiss at him as he jerks at the IV cords. 

If he’s not careful, he’ll yank them out.

Dr. Sharpe ignores our interaction and reviews the charts. “Looks like your scans came back with some minor swelling and bruising, but with lots of rest and sleep, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sharpe.” I cannot look at Archie because he seems to be scooting closer to me. 

He still holds my hand in his, and it’s sending a confusing signal to my brain.

I need to get out of here before I say or do something I’ll regret, so I proactively direct the conversation. “When can we send Archie home? I’m sure we’re all ready for that.” And I do mean all.

“Could I have a word with you out in the hall?” Dr. Sharpe asks me as he glances back and forth between Archie and me in the classic I-have-something-to-tell-you way that people think is so sly. It isn’t. The whole world sees and recognizes that look, but they take pity on the one who is casting it and pretend not to notice.

Archie frowns as he watches the look pass between the doctor and me.

Hopefully, Archie won’t question it too much. His fingers squeeze mine gently, but then his other hand lands on my hip—halfway on my ass. His large hands are very memorable.

My back stretches tight, and I look at the doctor in a panic, as if he can explain why my ex-husband is being so possessive.

I don’t bother saying anything to Archie because I don’t want to fight—not right now.

“Should we go talk now?” My voice is panicky because I’d love nothing more than to step into the hall and clear my head while I learn what the hell is going on.

I pull my hand from Archie’s, and I don’t like that I miss the sensation of it in mine.

“What do you need to talk about in the hall?” Archie’s voice has a bite in it.

Dr. Sharpe doesn’t look at me, but instead addresses Archie. “I need to discuss aftercare with her. Make sure she can fill your prescriptions for you. You need to rest that head of yours. And no driving. Or flying.”

Archie still looks suspicious—and it’s a look I know well.

Given the fact that he has a bump on his head, I decide to pretend like he has the right to that look. That the hand on my ass is out of habit. For now. Until I can ship him back to where he came from.

“Wait, what do you mean flying?” The words finally register as I glance between Archie and the doctor. 

Archie seems to find the ceiling very interesting for someone with such a guilty face.

“His accident was a plane crash,” Dr. Sharpe explains in a monotone voice, as though he heals a plane-crash victim every day.

I don’t take my eyes off Archie. I told him he would get hurt from flying planes. I told him I didn’t want to be the one picking up the pieces. He flung it in my face in that last nasty fight. And now, he expects me to pretend like everything is completely fine and that it’s a normal thing to help my ex-husband out of the hospital.

It couldn’t have been something mundane, like a fender bender. Or him backing into the mailbox. Possibly even skinning his knee while rollerblading. Nope. Not my ex-husband. Because if Archie Dunmore were to get in an accident, it would be a plane crash. He doesn’t like to be average. He always likes to go above and beyond the mark. Nothing expected from him.

Archie finally looks at me. “I’m sorry, Meyer. You were right. I got lost in the clouds and ended up here.”

Anyone else, and I would have taken them literally. But with Archie, I know he’s talking about getting lost in his thoughts. He probably got distracted and flew straight into a tree or some type of nonsense like that. 

I nod once. “I’ll speak with the doctor, and then you can be on your way home.”

The remorse on his face tugs at my heartstrings. 

He’s disoriented from the wreck, and that’s why I’m sympathetic toward him, I remind myself. 

Once he’s back on his feet, the walls will be back up, and we won’t speak again.

Dr. Sharpe leads the way out of the room, and I have a hard time pulling my eyes away from Archie. His dark hair falls forward and to the side in an effortless swoosh.

The door closes, shutting off my inventory of Archie, and Dr. Sharpe jumps straight into the diagnosis. 

“He has post-traumatic amnesia—PTA.”

“He what?” I slam my hand against the wall to catch myself. I accidentally punch the hand sanitizer perched there, and a pink foam shoots out onto my wrist. “Amnesia?” I repeat as I rub the hand sanitizer into my hands. Can never be too careful, especially in a hospital.

Dr. Sharpe’s eyes focus on my wrist, and he clears his throat. “I’m afraid he thinks it’s April.”

The purple pages of my planner come to mind. “That is bad. It’s almost June.” 

“Of two years ago,” he adds.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I realize that Dr. Sharpe is staring at me. 

I stare back. Amnesia.

That’s when someone forgets things. Important things. Whole blocks of time. Sometimes certain people. There has to be a solution. This is the part where he’ll tell me the man needs brain surgery. That would be the next logical step. 

“How long will the operation last?”

“Operation?” Dr. Sharpe furrows his brows, and I realize that furrow is a strange way to think of eyebrows. 

Why do we call it furrowed brows?

“To fix the amnesia?”

He smiles slightly, and I can’t tell if it’s a sympathetic smile or if he’s trying to hold back a laugh at my expense.

“The only thing that can heal amnesia is time,” he explains slowly.

I blow a breath out through my lips. “So, why am I here exactly?”

“You’re his emergency contact,” Dr. Sharpe says. “And his wife.”

Preorder Forget Me Twice here!


Lots of love and awkward hugs,

Carina Taylor

P.S. still working on the paperback preorder! Hopefully that will be coming soon!

Looking for a fun free read?


Two years ago, he broke my heart—and now he’s forgotten all about it.

When my sister goes into labor, what are the chances that the nearest hospital would be the one where my ex, Kevin Bryant, is a surgical resident?

You know—the man who decided being a doctor was more important than love and left me reeling. Hard.

But when we run into each other—quite literally—he falls, hits his head, and wakes up with amnesia.

And he still thinks we’re together.

His brother Connor asks me to pretend we’re dating, just for a little while, so we can ease Kevin into the truth.

But the real truth is that being around this strong, capable man again is making me remember things I would rather forget.

Yeah, hi, my name is Lola, and I’m clearly a glutton for punishment. Because here I am. Pretending with him. Taking care of him.

Kissing him.

Just waiting for the bubble to burst.

Because as soon as Kevin snaps out of this and remembers the past, there WILL be another heartbreak.

And all I’ll have is the memories of what was.

Enamoring Her Amnesic Ex first appeared in the Fall Into Love Romantic Comedy Collection. This closed-door, second chance romantic comedy—with lots of sizzle and spice, but no on-page explicit content—is the prequel to the California Dreamin’ series.

Get it here!