Page 11 of Hidden Vows (Love in Ashford Falls #3)

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JUDE

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself when I step into the bookstore Wednesday morning—it’s as if it’s entirely out of my control.

Seeing Abbey through the front window—one elbow propped up on the counter, her chin resting in the palm of her hand—reading a book. She’s too tempting to ignore.

Since I watched her walk out of my dad’s hospital room, I’ve made it a point to stay in the apartment above the bar until I hear Abbey leave.

Not because I don’t want to see her, but because I wanted to give her time to accept what I told her Sunday afternoon—I will prove to her that I’m not the same person I was when I left town.

Three days probably isn’t enough, considering what happened between us, but I’ve gone so long without her, and now that I’ve seen her again I don’t want to waste any more time.

I never thought I’d be back in Ashford Falls, let alone see Abbey again, but I don’t know how to ignore this opportunity.

There’s no other way to say it: I was an idiot when I was nineteen.

I made the wrong decision and I’ve had to live with it.

But now I’m thirty-six, and I’m doing pretty well; I don’t have to rely on anyone else to be successful anymore, and that means I can take care of myself and anyone else I might choose.

And I’ll always choose Abbey.

No matter how much time passes or where we are, she’s always been and always will be the person I want to be with most.

I never wanted our story to play out the way it has, and I can’t help but view this as a chance to make things right with her.

Abbey is the love of my life.

Ever since I told her we’d talk about everything, I can’t stop the possibilities from running through my head. I never stopped wanting her; I wasn’t strong enough to fight for that, but I am now.

Walking into the bookstore may not be what Abbey wants, but it’s what I need. And unfortunately for her, I can’t wait any longer to address things between us. Maybe that was my issue back then, not being brave enough to prioritize my wants above others, but I’m more than capable now.

The bell above the door rings, giving my entrance away before I’m ready for it, but I don’t let it stop me.

It takes Abbey a second to register it’s me walking through the door, but she straightens from her position as soon as she does, her body going taut.

“Jude—” she tries to speak, but I don’t let her finish.

I have eyes only for her. “Here’s the thing,” I start, stepping up to the other side of the counter. “I know you’re not ready to talk, and I want to respect that, but I also know you won’t be ready to talk any time soon, not if I don’t push a little.”

Her eyes bounce between mine, but she doesn’t open her mouth to say anything.

“I don’t want us to act like the past didn’t happen, but I know we’re not in a place to talk about that yet, so let’s try to focus on something outside of you and me. I don’t care what it is. It can be as small as the weather, but we have to start somewhere.”

Abbey’s eyes stay trained on mine, but I see her fingers start to fidget with the corners of the book in front of her—it’s as good a place as any to start. “That’s a new book. Did you finish the other one?”

She bites her lip, her eyes falling to the pages in front of her for a moment before her spine straightens and her eyes meet mine, determination burning bright.

It’s a struggle smothering the smile that pulls at the corner of my lips.

Abbey’s fight was always something I loved about her, and I’m glad she hasn’t lost it.

“I did. Definitely his worst work yet.” Her brows pinch as she studies me. “You’re really interested in my thoughts on that book. Are you a fan of AJ Doherty?”

“You could say that.” I feign indifference, but it’s harder than I imagine.

Am I a fan of AJ Doherty? That’s one way to put it. A better way, a more honest way would be to tell her the truth— I am AJ Doherty. But if I tell her that now, there’s no way she’ll be honest about her opinions on my work, and Abbey’s opinion is the one I care about most.

I’ve had negative reviews before—been torn apart by editors and publishers alike—but something about Abbey not liking my work hurts in a way none of the others have.

“When you say worst, what do you mean?” Trying to appear nonchalant, I lean against the counter, bringing myself close enough to get a brief whiff of lemon and lavender— Abbey .

“Well, I mean, I absolutely hated it. It’s nothing like any of his other work.

It felt far more like a romance than a thriller, and he clearly doesn’t have the knowledge to write a romance.

” She turns, grabbing a pile of books from the shelf behind her and marching toward the shelves in the back of the store.

“What does that mean?” I follow behind her but finally let my eyes travel the store.

This place is a reader’s dream.

The shelves span almost three walls, standing floor to ceiling without an inch of open space. Their deep mahogany color with large armchairs in front of them help create a cozy atmosphere. It feels more like a cozy home library than a bookstore.

“I know this was a fictional story, and I shouldn’t apply real-world logic to it, but characters that in love with each other should have better communication.

” She shrugs, returning books to their proper place on the shelves.

“What made it worse was that the first half was phenomenal. It was everything I expect from an AJ Doherty novel, and then he threw it all away in the second half. And that spicy scene?” She scoffs.

“What the hell was that? Has the man ever had sex?”

“Wow, don’t hold back,” I mumble.

I want to disagree with her but struggle to find a leg to stand on.

My editor and agent had very similar comments when they read the manuscript.

They both seemed surprised the publisher picked it up.

But I’d built a name for myself and had proven time and time again I could sell books, so they ran with it.

It helped that I’m a faceless author writing thrillers. The mystery behind who I am seems to drive fans mad, sending them out to buy my books, looking for clues in my writing to figure out who I am. My publisher ate it up and uses the mystery to their advantage.

I ignored all of it and focused entirely on the writing.

I would’ve laughed in your face if you asked me when I was younger if I ever thought I’d be a New York Times bestselling author.

The idea that I—a kid with no future beyond running the family bar—could make such a big name for myself was so far out of this world it never crossed my mind.

When I left Ashford Falls, I took whatever job was available in the town I stopped in for a short time. It’s a miracle so many people were willing to take a chance on someone like me. A kid with no plan, simply passing through on their way to who knows what.

“Sorry.” I think I detect a small wince, but it’s gone before I can be sure. “I know you’re a fan, but I’m not willing to lie about my feelings on a book. There are too many in the world for people to waste their time reading something that’s not good.”

“It’s so bad you’d tell people not to read?”

Her lips purse for a second as she looks at me, but then she’s spinning back to the shelves.

“I can’t think of a single person I’d recommend it to, which says a lot about my feelings.

I can always find at least one reason to recommend a book, but this one?

” She shakes her head like she can’t even bring herself to say the words.

My gaze shifts to the section of thrillers to our left, my eyes landing on the shelf filled with my books, specifically the little notes under my previous releases. I can’t read them from here but I imagine it’s praise for the books.

I wish I could say I don’t remember what led me to write in the first place, but I remember it like yesterday.

It started with a journal.

Almost a year after leaving everything I loved, I officially ran out of money and needed to stay in one place long enough to save up again before moving on.

Somehow, I ended up in a little town in Minnesota where the local mechanic took pity on me.

He gave me a job cleaning up after the guys and organizing the office at his shop. It wasn’t fancy, but it paid.

He also let me stay in the shop’s backroom—at least until his wife found out. Once she learned I was sleeping on a cot in what essentially was the supply closet, she gave me the spare room in their home.

I thought it’d be easy enough to go unnoticed in their house, but she wouldn’t have it.

Barely there two days, and she made sure I joined them for every meal, making sure I shared things about myself.

It was hard, but she saw me for who I was: a kid suffering from so much guilt I thought I didn’t deserve their kindness.

To this day, I still don’t think I do, but I’ll be forever grateful they gave it to me.

Willie and Mae were barely old enough to be my parents, but they felt something like parents all the same.

Even though I stayed in constant contact with my dad, his support from miles away never felt like the support I got from the Larsons.

I still make it a point to talk to them regularly and visit them whenever I’m in their area.

Staying with them for those few months set me on the path of healing—even if I haven’t achieved the final goal yet, I’m much closer to it because of them.

Mae was the one who gave me my first journal and told me I was only making it worse by keeping it all locked inside. She said if I couldn’t talk to her or someone else, writing it all down was the next best thing.

She was right, of course.

I started writing in that journal, and I couldn’t stop. It became a part of my daily routine, to the point I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t write in it—even if it was only a few words.

One journal turned into two, two turned into ten, and ten turned into twenty. Even being the nomad I am, I still own every one of those journals. They may not go on the road with me, but I know exactly where they are if I need them .

And one of those journals, started in another small town in the middle of nowhere, inspired my first novel.

I never thought it would turn into what it did, but that little town was hit with a terrible kidnapping case that had my mind spinning with all the possibilities, and I couldn’t stop writing them down.

That fascination with the case turned into a need to get the words out, and the first draft of my first manuscript was the result.

I’d gotten better about saving money over the years after staying with Mae and Willie, and while I questioned my decision to spend a large chunk of that money on a laptop, it turned out to be one of the smartest decisions I’ve ever made.

That manuscript sat on my computer for another few years, and more and more manuscripts were added. Just sitting there with no plans to do anything with them. But in one of the most unoriginal moments of my life, everything changed.

Sitting in a coffee shop in New York City, a man at the table next to me saw what I was working on and struck up a conversation. Turned out he was an up-and-coming literary agent; adamant he could turn my books into something. With nothing to lose, I figured, why not?

That “why not” moment changed my life. Ten years later, I’m about to publish my thirtieth novel, and I want for nothing—well, nothing material anyway.

My eyes move back to Abbey, tracking her movements as she continues putting books away.

She’s right—in a way. This book is different from all my others.

I started writing it a little over a year ago after yet another conversation with Mae.

I never told her the complete story of Abbey and me—I never told a soul—but Mae knew enough to know Abbey was my reason for everything: my guilt, my pain, my sorrow.

Everything that held me back from living a full life .

She said something during that call that got me thinking.

It wasn’t anything new, but the way she said it finally had it clicking.

No matter what you believe, there’s a path we all follow in life—it’s different for everyone, but a path nonetheless—and we have to keep moving forward.

If we focus on the things we wish we could change, we get stuck, and what good does that do anyone?

I wished for so long I could redo that moment with Abbey, but time travel doesn’t exist, and wishing for something that would never happen was a waste of time.

The Silent Promise became my therapy. It wasn’t Abbey and my story, but I definitely took inspiration from our past, and a lot of healing was done while writing that first draft.

That’s why I fought my editor and agent as hard as I did.

I needed this story to be out in the world, the same way I needed to fix things with Abbey now.

The bell above the door rings, bringing me back to the present.

“Dad, you’re here early.” Abbey smiles, striding past me without a second glance.

My entire body goes rigid. Edward Selbey has never been my biggest fan, and I have no doubt seeing me with his daughter will make him very unhappy.

“I hope that’s not an issue.” You’d think his voice would be softer when talking to his daughter, but all I hear is a businessman.

“Well, Ava’s not here yet to watch the store.” Abbey fiddles with the skirt of her dress, rubbing the material between her thumb and forefinger.

Before Edward can say anything else, I march toward the door, offering Abbey the smallest glance as I pass her. “Thanks for the recommendation, Abbey.”

I don’t see it, but I imagine a flicker of confusion crosses her face. She didn’t recommend a single book to me.