It’s a massive undertaking.
But I’m not complaining.
Because this project is going to earn me thousands of dollars.
And more than that…it’s going to put Abigail’s Wildflower Designs on the map.
The woman takes a breath, like she’s steadying herself.
“I actually found you online,” she says softly. “I was looking at your designs…your dresses, the details, the stitching…and I don’t know how to explain it, but I couldfeelthe love behind them.”
My throat tightens.
“It didn’t feel mass-produced,” she continues. “It felt… intentional. Like every piece was made with care. With kindness.”
She gestures vaguely between us. “So I drove three hours to come here.”
Three hours? To seeme?
Wow!
“I want something very simple,” she says. “Nothing extravagant. I don’t need dramatic trains or thousands of layers or anything like that. I just want to know that the dresses my daughter and I wear when we start our new life were made with love. That someone cared when they made them. That kindness was stitched into every seam.”
Her voice wobbles, but she keeps going.
“We’ve had enough of surviving. This day… this is about choosing something better.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“I can do that,” I say quietly. “I wouldloveto do that.”
The woman’s eyes fill, and her daughter’s fingers curl into her sleeve like she’s holding onto something solid.
“Thank you,” the woman whispers. “I know it’s not a lot of time. Will you be able to get them done in time?”
Even if I have to spend my nights in my workshop, I’ll get these precious dresses finished.
“It’s doable,” I say, giving her a reassuring smile. “Come with me and let’s talk fabric and designs. I’ll need to measure you and your daughter.”
Because these dresses aren’t just fabric.
They’re a fresh start.
And I know all about needing a fresh start.
Chapter Two
Tank
I punch the asshole in the face and watch him topple to the ground.
“Dammit, Tank,” Spike sighs. “I needed that one awake.”
I shrug and step toward the next idiot. He drops to his knees immediately, sobbing like a little bitch.
“Don’t,” Spike growls. “We need answers.”
“Not many of ’em left, brother,” I grunt. “They’re running. All of ’em. Fleeing like the cowards they are.”
