Abby squinted against the persistent raindrops pelting the windshield, struggling to keep her eyes open after an entire day of driving with minimal breaks.
Thankfully, she’d arrive at her destination any second now.
At least, she desperately hoped so.
She couldn’t find the adapter to charge her cell phone, and before the battery died, the squiggly line on the GPS leading to Blessings Bay looked relatively short.
If only she could stay awake.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, prying her eyelids open with sheer willpower.
During the last few hours of her drive, the stunning coastline had kept her alert. Like peeking into another world, she’d witnessed towering redwoods on one side and rugged cliff faces on the other. The vibrant cobalt waters had stretched toward the invisible horizon, a breathtaking blank slate of endless possibilities.
That is, before nightfall and an unexpected storm plunged everything into a pitch-black void, leaving her disoriented.
To make matters worse, the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops pinging against the roof of the car threatened to lull her to sleep.
She flicked on the radio, scrolling through crackling static until the velvety croon of Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” stilled her hand.
Donnie used to love the sultry classic, and had added it to his Christmas Kickoff playlist, along with an eclectic mix of Bing Crosby and Burl Ives.
Abby always thought the song sounded a little sad, as though a tear hid behind each dulcet note.
She should have changed the station or turned off the radio altogether, but she leaned against the headrest, letting the music wash over her.
Her own silent tears slid down her cheeks, the sadness in the song—real or imagined—more palpable than ever.
Lost in the melancholy melody, Abby nearly missed the sign welcoming her to Blessings Bay.
Snapping out of her reverie, she jerked the wheel, veering off the highway down a narrow lane.
Rain pounded the windows even harder now, and the violent wind battered the compact vehicle with shocking force.
With every muscle in her body clenched, Abby searched the darkness up ahead, expecting to see light from the town—a street lamp, glow in a shop window, something.
Although her wipers worked tirelessly to whisk away the waterfall cascading toward the hood of her car, she couldn’t make out anything save for murky shapes and moonlit shadows.
Had she stumbled upon a ghost town?
A subtle weight of regret settled in her stomach. Why had she been so impulsive? Nadia had tried to warn her, tried to stop her….
She should’ve listened.
Suddenly, her headlights bounced off reflective paint, and she stomped the brake.
Her heart vaulted into her throat as she lurched forward, the unexpected stop sign glaring down at her with a disapproving glint.
Where had that come from?
Gathering a deep, shaky breath, she steadied her erratic pulse as she eased forward.
She murmured, “1109 West State Street,” searching for house numbers within the limited radius of her low beams.
A quick glance at the clock on the dash told her it was almost midnight.
She allowed herself a brief whimper, then bolstered what little energy she had left, determined to see this through. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could last…
On the verge of pulling off the road and crawling into the back seat, she nearly wept when 1109 leaped off the curb in blocky white lettering. She couldn’t make out much of the home in the gloomy abyss, but at this point, curb appeal wasn’t high on her priority list.
She eagerly turned into the driveway. “Please, please have a warm bed and soft pillow.”
Fishing inside the glove box, she found the key that had been included with the paperwork from their lawyer. Clutching it tightly in her palm, she grabbed her purse and overnight bag from the passenger seat, braced herself, and exited the car.
The moment she left cover, merciless raindrops besieged her on all sides, soaking her hair and clothing in a matter of seconds. Sprinting toward the house, she sloshed through several puddles before stumbling up the slippery steps, finding a modicum of refuge on the expansive front porch.
She fumbled with the key a few moments before bursting inside, slamming the door against the maniacal wind that seemed to have a personal vendetta.
Panting, she leaned against the doorframe in the darkness, collecting her wits as water dripped from her shoulder-length hair, pooling by her wet sneakers.
In the dim moonlight, she could barely make out the ghostly outline of a staircase a few feet ahead. She opened her purse for the flashlight on her phone, then remembered the battery died.
Great.
She fought against tears of exhaustion—tears that would affirm she’d made a terrible mistake.
Nadia was right. She’d been so focused on running away, she had no idea what she’d run toward.
So far, the trip was shaping up to be a colossal disaster.
After dropping her duffel, she peeled off her drenched jacket.
A loud thump, then a clatter came from somewhere upstairs.
Abby froze, fear gluing her feet to the floor.
Was someone in the house?
Her breath remained lodged somewhere in her lungs as she dug inside her purse for her Taser.
She’d heard of squatters moving into vacant houses, but the possibility hadn’t occurred to her until this moment. Inching toward the bottom of the stairs, she switched off the safety feature, tucking herself against the wall.
Growing up in a not-so-great part of Chicago, Abby wasn’t a stranger to taking care of herself. Plus, Donnie had made a point to teach her combat maneuvers. But the reality of executing the self-defense techniques in an actual life-and-death scenario sprouted beads of sweat on her already damp forehead.
More than anything, she wanted to go home.
She wanted Donnie.
A creak on the staircase sent her heart scrambling into her throat, and she fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.
Stay calm. Stay focused.
The dark figure slowly descended the steps, and her fear ratcheted with each imperceptible sound—another creak, the thud of a weighty gait.
This was it… the intruder was almost upon her.
No time to back out now.
When the shadow drew within arm’s length, she inhaled a sharp breath and lunged forward, ramming the Taser against bare flesh.
A man’s guttural cry ricocheted off the walls and a heavy body hit the ground.
Logan wasn’t sure which hurt worse, the cattle prod to the rib cage or his face getting cozy with the hardwood floor. Either way, he wouldn’t let his attacker get away with the cheap shot.
His fingers curled, prepared to fight back.
“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” a strong yet feminine voice demanded in the darkness.
His assailant was a woman?
He hadn’t seen that coming. But then, he hadn’t seen the electrified metal prongs before they’d zapped him, either.
Whoever this woman was, she had gumption.
Detecting the faintest warble of fear in her words calmed his self-preservation instincts and he uncoiled his fist.
“Logan Mathews. I live here. Who are you?” He rolled onto his back, but didn’t get up, in case the movement provoked her again. While he was pretty sure a standard-issue Taser couldn’t cook his vital organs, he didn’t want to risk it.
“Abigail Preston. I own this house.”
He squinted, straining to glimpse her features in the shadows. But although he couldn’t see her face, a clear picture formed in his mind.
Abigail Preston… Donnie’s wife.
In all the years they’d served together in the Air Force, no other man had been prouder of his better half than Donnie. Even in boot camp, he’d taped a photo of her above his bed for everyone to see. Nothing crass or inappropriate, like some of the other guys posted.
In fact, all things considered, the snapshot had been fairly simple—a dark-haired woman at some restaurant, but Donnie couldn’t remember which one. She held a glass of ice water in one hand, her head thrown back, laughing at something Donnie said. As he told it, late afternoon sunlight had hit her just right, creating a halo effect. She’d looked so beautiful, so captivatingly blissful, he’d snapped a photo to preserve the memory.
What had stood out to Logan the most was the woman’s smile—the kind that lit up the world, but also seemed to belong only to you.
While it was a pleasant visual from the past, he had a feeling Abigail wasn’t smiling right now.
“I’m a friend of Donnie’s. We were in basic training together.”
“Really?” She didn’t bother hiding her skepticism, and he envisioned her dark eyebrows raised, her lips scrunched to the side. “I’ve never heard of you.”
He sighed inwardly, suppressing a groan.
Of course she hadn’t.
“What about Nugget?”
“You’re Nugget?”
“The one and only.” He rose, stretching his full six foot two frame, hoping to regain some dignity.
He’d loathed that call sign every single day of his service. If he’d been smart, he would’ve participated in some good-natured bribery, which was how one of his buddies wound up with the name Shooter.
But no, he’d taken the moral high ground, and they’d named him after the sugary, walnut-laden dessert bar his grandmother sent him in regular care packages. But hey, at least they were delicious.
Besides, if he had a choice, he’d give anything to be back in the cockpit of an F-16, even if it meant reclaiming a call sign as humiliating as Nugget.
“Donnie used to talk about you all the time. And weren’t you the one who sent the box of desserts the day of the funeral?” Her words blended with a mixture of gratitude and something softer, something close to affection.
At the time, he’d wondered if he should’ve sent flowers instead, but the homemade Nevada Nuggets seemed more fitting, somehow. At least, Donnie would’ve gotten a kick out of it. “They’re an old family recipe. I hope you liked them.”
“I did. They were wonderful. So much better than flowers.”
Her tone carried a hint of a smile, and he was surprised by how badly he wanted to see it. “Why don’t we move into the sitting room? The power’s out because of the storm, but there’s a fire in there and I can scrounge up a couple of battery-operated lanterns.”
As she followed him into the next room, Logan mentally rehearsed half a dozen ways to ask the awkward yet all-important question—what was she doing here? And how long did she plan to stay?
But no matter how he phrased it, he couldn’t bring himself to form the words, realizing his future hung on her response.
After all, she owned the place. If she wanted to kick him out, she could.
The smoldering embers cast a peripheral glow, allowing Logan to glimpse Abigail for the first time.
Even dripping wet and a little worse for wear, she did something to his insides that closely resembled internal combustion. Only, in this case, it was ignited by striking hazel eyes instead of jet fuel.
Abruptly looking away, he rummaged through a desk drawer for a flashlight, then moved to the closet and retrieved two lanterns.
Clicking them on, he set them both on the coffee table, turning to look at her again.
Her eyes were fixed on his bare chest, and when he caught her staring, she flushed, quickly averting her gaze.
“The fire feels nice.” She stepped toward the hearth, stretching out her hands to gather warmth. And maybe mask the sudden rosiness in her cheeks.
“There’s a fireplace in the master bedroom, if you’d like me to build one in there for you….” He intentionally let his words trail off, hoping she’d fill in the blanks with her plans for the foreseeable future. When she didn’t, he added, “My room is upstairs, so you’re not putting me out or anything.”
He didn’t want to go into the morose psychological reasons of how he’d chosen the smallest room in the house over the large master suite because he didn’t feel he deserved it.
And thankfully, she didn’t ask.
She stood in an uneasy stance, kneading her lips together as though massaging the right words out of them. “I’m sorry to intrude like this. I had no idea you were living here. How, uh, how long has it been?”
“A couple of years. Donnie didn’t tell you?”
Something flashed in her eyes. Embarrassment? Sadness? Perhaps a mixture of the two. She shook her head.
Guilt clawed at Logan’s stomach. Why hadn’t Donnie told her? Was he worried she wouldn’t approve of the arrangement?
Logan always knew his friend had been far too generous. Sure, he paid the utilities and maintained the property, which wasn’t exactly easy considering large historic homes needed a ton of work. But Donnie would have made a small fortune selling the place. Maybe he hadn’t told his wife to avoid the conflict.
Logan hated the thought of being a wedge in their marriage even more than he hated being a burden.
“I’m sorry for the… mix-up tonight,” he said, putting it mildly. He’d likely have a nasty burn on his side in the morning. “This is your house. If you need me to leave, just say so. Only, I’d prefer to wait until after the storm, if that’s okay. Otherwise, the moving boxes might get a little soggy.” He grinned, hoping to add some levity to an all-around uncomfortable situation.
The corner of her mouth lifted, giving him a small taste of the smile he remembered. “That won’t be necessary. Honestly, I don’t really know what I plan to do with the place long-term, but for now, I was just hoping to get away for the holidays. Or more accurately, get away from the holidays.” She hesitated, slicking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “I suppose we could work something out for the next few weeks. Find a way to coexist without getting in each other’s way. Would that be okay with you?”
She met his gaze, and his heart rate skyrocketed like the first time he experienced g-force. Coexist? As in, live within the same four walls? He wasn’t used to sharing his space with anyone, let alone someone like Abby.
His brain shouted, Eject! Eject!
But the rest of his body didn’t heed the warning. “Sure. We can make that work.”
“Great. I just have one… request,” she said in a tone that indicated it was more of a nonnegotiable. “I’m skipping Christmas this year. Which means no decorations, no tree, no holiday music, nothing festive whatsoever. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
“No, ma’am.”
He could handle nixing Christmas.
The real question was whether he could handle living with his attractive new houseguest.