Page 101 of Rogue's Path

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“Before we get going, I need to fill up the tank.” Rogue turns into a gas station and pulls up to a diesel pump. “Do you want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good, but thanks.” It’s true, but it’s also a test that most men fail. The law states that every man must buy his woman snacks regardless of what she says at a gas station, especially on long trips.

Will he take my word for it?

I lean back and scroll through the million and a half messages on my phone. There aren’t quite that many, but it feels overwhelming. The reminder from my cover artist that we have an appointment next week is the most urgent one.

Where will I be next week? I’m trying not to think about that. A tiny little sedan pulls in next to us. The truck sits so high that I can look right into the car. There on the seat are a dozen red roses.

No. No. That’s impossible. A scream lodges in my throat. I reach up and lock the doors.

Rogue is just inside. If I honk the horn, he’ll come running.

But this guy can’t be my stalker. It’s impossible. They checked everything. There is nothing for him to track me with. The guy is just a nice guy who brought his wife flowers.

On a random Wednesday? No one brings their wife flowers like that on a random Wednesday.

He doesn’t even look at me as he walks over to pump his gas.

This is all in your head.

Everything is fine.

You’re safe.

He leaves the pump running automatically and grabs the window washer.

That’s totally normal. People wash their windows every day.

Don’t stare at him. From this angle, he’ll be able to see you.

But I can’t stop myself from looking at him. From trying to find a single clue that might tell that he’s the guy.

What do stalkers even look like? In all my books, they’re middle-aged white guys because statistically that’s who most of them are. They have average jobs and get along with the people around them. He fits all the statistics, but that doesn’t make him my stalker. All that makes him, is an average white guy.

I bang my head on the back of the all too comfortable headrest, which wasn’t produced in any factory.

When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me. Probably because he thinks I’ve lost my mind. I give him a half-wave, half-smile.

He returns the half-smile and walks away.

See! If he were your stalker, he wouldn’t have walked away that fast.

Everything is fine.

I start breathing again when he pulls away.

It’s just the flowers that have you all jumpy.

Rogue walks back with a full bag on his arm.

I unlock the doors as he reaches them.

He hops in and sets down the bags. “What’s with the locked doors? And why do you look like you’re about to hyperventilate?”

How do I explain it without sounding like an overwhelmed scaredy-cat? Would pretending be considered a lie? Probably. It’s not worth the risk. “A car pulled up next to us, and the guy had red roses on the seat next to him.”