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      About the Author

      MEGAN HART is the bestselling and multi-published author of more than thirty novels for Spice and MIRA Books. Megan lives in the deep, dark woods of Pennsylvania with her husband and two children, and is currently working on her next novel for the Spice line.

      You can contact Megan through her Web site at www.MeganHart.com.

       Author’s Note

      I could write without listening to music, but I’m so glad I don’t have to. Here’s a partial playlist of some of the music I listened to while writing Collide. Please support the artist through legal sources!

      “Breathe Me”—Sia

      “Bulletproof Weeks”—Matt Nathanson

      “City Lights”—Mirror

      “Closer”—Kings of Leon

      “Collide”—Howie Day

      “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover”—Sophie B. Hawkins

      “Don’t Pull Your Love”—Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynolds

      “Dream a Little Dream of Me”—The Mamas and the Papas

      “Ghosts”—Christopher Dallman

      “Goodbye Horses”—Psyche

      “I Think She Knows”—Kaki King

      “I’m Burning for You”—Blue Öysters Cult

      “If”—Bread

      “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”—Cat Stevens

      “Incense and Peppermints”—Strawberry Alarm Clock

      “Je t’aime moi non plus”—Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin

      “Joy to the World”—Three Dog Night

      “Kiss You All Over”—Dr. Hook

      “Labor of Love”—Michael Giacchini’s Star Trek

       (Music from the Motion Picture)

      “Lascia ch’io pianga Prologue”—Antichrist Soundtrack

      “Life on Mars”—David Bowie

      “Purple Haze”—The Cure

      “Shambala”—Three Dog Night

       Collide

      Megan Hart

       www.spice-books.co.uk

      First, to JNB—HAYYY GURLL HAYYYYY!

      Thanks for the late-night streamin’ marathons

      and the mutual appreciation of all the things that

      make us a pair of duty hooahs.

      To DPF for putting up with me.

      And, of course, to Joe. Without you this book wouldn’t exist.

       Chapter 01

       Oranges.

      The smell of oranges drifted toward me. I put a hand on the back of the chair nearest me and searched the countertop for fruit in a basket. Something, anything, that would explain the smell, which was as out of place in this coffee shop as a Santa suit in the sand. I didn’t see anything that would explain the scent, and I drew in a deep breath. I’d learned a long time ago there was no point in trying to hold my nose or my breath. Better to breathe through this. Get it over with.

      The smell passed quickly, gone in a few blinks, a couple of heartbeats, replaced by the stronger odor of coffee and pastries. My fingers had tightened on the chair but I didn’t even need the support. I oriented myself before letting go of the chair to finish moving toward the counter where I’d been heading to add sugar and cream to my coffee.

      It had been almost two years since my last fugue. That one had been equally as mild, but the fact this one had been barely a blip didn’t offer much comfort. I’d had periods in my life when the fugues had come hard and fast and often, essentially crippling me. It was too much to hope they would go away, but I didn’t want to go back to that.

      “Hey, girl, heyyyyyy!” Jen called from the booth she’d snagged just inside the Mocha’s door. She waved. “Over here!”

      I waved and finished adding the sugar and cream, then wove my way through the jumble of chairs and tables to slide into the booth across from Jen. “Hey.”

      “Ooh, what did you get?” Jen leaned forward to peer into my coffee mug as though that would give her some idea about what was in there. She sniffed. “German chocolate?”

      “Close. Chocolate Delight.” I named one of the two featured coffees. “With a shot of vanilla-bean syrup.”

      Jen smacked her lips. “Mmm. Sounds good. I’m going to choose mine. Hey, what did you get to eat?”

      “Blueberry muffin. Should’ve gone with the chocolate cupcake, but I thought maybe that would be too much.” I showed her the plate with the muffin.

      “Too much chocolate? As if. Be right back.”

      I stirred my coffee to distribute the syrup, extra sugar and cream, then sipped, enjoying the extra sweetness most people didn’t like. Jen was right. I should’ve gone for the cupcake.

      Jen had picked the wrong time to get in line. The midmorning rush had begun, customers lined up four-deep, all the way to the front door. She threw me an annoyed look and a shrug I could only laugh at in sympathy.

      The coffee shop had been pretty empty when I entered, but customers who were put off by the line had started snagging tables while they waited to take their turns. I waved at Carlos over in the corner, but he had his earbuds settled deep and his laptop already open. Carlos was working on a novel. He sat in the Mocha from ten to eleven every morning before he went off to work, and on Saturdays, like today, he sometimes stayed longer.

      Lisa, her backpack bulging with textbooks, took a table a few seats away and wiggled her fingers at me without noticing Jen’s semifrantic waving for me to ignore her. Lisa sold Spicefully Tasty products to pay her way through law school, and though I’d never found her sales pitches annoying, Jen couldn’t stand them. Today, though, Lisa seemed preoccupied, focusing on setting out her books and notepad, already clicking her pen as she shrugged out of her coat.

      We were the Mocha regulars, like some sort of club. We met up in the mornings before work, in the evenings on the way home and on the weekends, bleary-eyed from the nights before. The Mocha was one of the best parts of living in this neighborhood, and though I’d only been a part of the club for a few months, I loved it.

      By the time Jen got back to our booth with her tall cup of something that smelled both minty and chocolaty and her plate of something oozing and gooey, the crowd had settled. The regulars had found their usual spots and the people who’d just stopped in for takeout had bought and left. The Mocha was full now and buzzing with the hum of conversation and the click-clack of keyboards as people took advantage of the free Wi-Fi. I liked the hum. It made me conscious of being there, present. In the moment. This moment.

      “She didn’t try to hit you up for some sort of cream-cheese spread today, huh? Maybe she got the hint.” Jen offered me a fork, and though I wanted to resist, I couldn’t help taking just a taste of her brownie.

      “I actually like Spicefully Tasty stuff,” I said.

      “Pffft.” Jen laughed. “Get out of here.”

      “No, I do,” I insisted. “It’s

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