Page 28 of Live for Me

“Will do,” he said calmly.

He understood.

He knew there would be no talking me out of this.

Nothing else mattered when it came to Abbie.

I may not be hers anymore, but she would always be mine, whether she wanted me or not.

Rounding the back of the bunkhouse, I yanked open the door of Pop’s old Chevy, tossing my jacket in the passenger seat as I climbed in and fired up the engine. I backed out of my space, put it in drive, and listened to the gravel flying behind me as I passed the bunkhouse, the barn, and then the main house. Once I was on the driveway, I pressed down on the gas, the old engine roaring through the night.

I’m coming, Wildflower.

I never broke my promise.

Chapter Seven

Abbie

There are a lot of different morning routines out there in the world. Some people meditate, some people go for a run as the sun rises, some people read or journal, some people have afifteen-step skin care routine, some people go to an expensive workout class—not for the workout, but because they have the overwhelming desire to fit in.

I didn’t have a morning routine.

I pressed snooze on my alarm at least six times before I eventually rolled out of bed and forced myself to get ready for the day. Most mornings, my coffee was burnt or there wasn’t enough creamer in it. So instead of drinking the coffee I made at home to save money, I let it sit in my office all day before I’d go downstairs to the lobby cafe and order the coffee I promised myself to stop getting months ago.

That was my morning routine.

In the words of Jack Sparrow, it’s “simple and easy to remember.”

So waking up at four in the morning to someone pounding on my front door was definitely not a part of said routine, and was sure to throw me off my game for the rest of the day. Groaning, I rolled over to my nightstand and yanked my charger out of my phone as I scrambled to open my home security app. As I logged in, thunder clapped outside, and I looked over to my window, watching the rain in the streetlight.

It wasn’t supposed to storm until later in the day.

I took that as an omen that today wasn’t going to be the best, but then again, when was the last time I had a good day?

Muttering a curse under my breath, I pulled up the doorbell camera and squinted. The person was standing in front of the camera, giving me just a view of their hip. Goosebumps skated across my skin as I held my breath, the forceful pounds echoing through my quiet house.

For half a second, I feared it was stalker, but then logic set in. According to the research I’d done on stalkers, making their presence known—like this—wasn’t normal. Whoever was at the door wasn’t my stalker, so it was now just a fifty-fifty chance Iwould be dying today. I dropped my head, praying that whoever this person was, they would give up and walk away. Maybe then I could get an hour of decent sleep—-sleep that didn’t contain memories of the past or horrible nightmares my imagination brewed up just to keep things interesting.

“Abbie!”

My head shot up, and I jumped, my phone bouncing off the bed and clattering to the floor as the sound of my name echoed off my walls. They knew my name.

Mary mother of Mona Lisa.

I pushed my hand through my hair, gripping the back of my head as I chewed on my bottom lip. What the hell was I supposed to do? Answer the door in the middle of the fucking night?

The pounding continued as I realized it could have been Dave.What if he was in trouble?

The thought had me swinging my legs over the edge of my bed, not bothering to put shorts on as I dashed out of my room and down the hall in nothing but an old t-shirt. The pounding grew harder and louder as I rounded the corner, finally stopping in the foyer. Without a second thought, I flipped the three locks, dropped the chain, twisted the knob, and yanked the door open.

There was one big, huge, no—monumentalproblem.

It wasn’t Dave standing on my porch at four in the morning.

Hell, it wasn’t even my stalker.

My chest heaved as I took him in with wide eyes, from his boots, to his Wranglers that fit him in a way that drove me mad, to his damp white T-shirt, to his cream cowboy hat.

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