 by Annabeth Albert.jpg)
Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Until Sam found me. I’m back in Safe Harbor, where I haven’t belonged in over twenty years. I’m unsure how I ended up here, yet I’m certain Sam is the key to finally healing.
But it’s complicated.
Sam’s had a crush on me since we were younger. To me, however, he was always the annoying kid tagging along. Now he’s all grown-up and delightfully bossy—and sexy—as he encourages me to reclaim my health.
I enjoy pushing Sam’s buttons, but one button too many leads to a scorching kiss. Soon, we’re using Sam’s cushy bed for way more than sleeping. But I can’t imagine staying in Safe Harbor forever, and no way is Sam leaving.
Sam’s given me a place to stay, a job at his nonprofit coffee shop, and a sense of purpose when I had none. But can I give him my heart? And more importantly, can I overcome my past to make Safe Harbor my future?
FIND ME WORTHY is a hurt/comfort childhood crush-to-lovers MM romance. This unexpected roommate arrangement stars two mature heroes with a minor age gap, mental health representation, and plenty of first times and sexy discoveries for everyone. Deep feels, dual point-of-view, and big fluffy HEA guaranteed.
FIND ME WORTHY is book three and the thrilling conclusion to the Safe Harbor series from acclaimed author Annabeth Albert. This small historic Oregon town has a tight friend group, memorable secondary characters, quirky businesses, and long-held secrets. Each book stands alone with a fresh couple, but the background mystery of the town’s secrets ties the series together, making reading in order more fun!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Worth
This was still my tree.
I had no clue what I was doing in Safe Harbor on the Fourth of July, a town I hadn’t been to in nearly twenty years, sitting in front of a house that hadn’t belonged to me in almost as long. My back was pressed against the same massive Oregon white oak where I’d spent many an hour sitting and thinking as a kid. It’d been from here that I could watch the neighborhood, especially on nights like this, when the sounds of barbeques and gatherings filtered all down the block. And here where I could think.
I wasn’t a kid anymore, wasn’t that same person—hadn’t been in forever—but here I was, sitting under the same tree. A little wider now, both me and the tree, a little more gnarly with age, wild branches, and rumpled leaves. We both needed a good trim.
The ground under me was mossy and soft, years of shade from the dense leaf canopy keeping the grass at bay. The ground stayed cool and damp even in the middle of summer. The evening air brought a chill as well, not uncommon for the mercurial Oregon summer weather.
Or maybe that was the cold in my soul: icy and directionless. August would be far warmer, but I wouldn’t be here then. Heck, I didn’t fully believe I was here now.
I stared at the house, but it had nary an answer. Darkness had started to fall, and with it, the sound of fireworks and backyard celebrations picked up, making me more aware of how very alone I was. My gaze turned inward, unfocused, the last forty-eight hours—okay, the last forty damn years—catching up with me.
“Worth?” The sound of my name snapped me alert. A younger guy holding the scroungiest, ugliest sheltie mix stood in front of me and my tree. The white wooden front gate hung open.
“Who are you?” I demanded. The guy was younger than me, probably early to mid-thirties, with darkish hair and lighter eyes. It was hard to determine color at night, but he was slim with a strong bone structure. No one I recognized, although clearly, he knew me.
“You don’t know?” The guy sounded disappointed as he bent to retrieve a phone from the ground, and if I had any more self-recrimination in me, I might feel bad.
“Sorry, man. Been a lot of years since I was back around these parts.”
“I know.” His voice was flat as he shifted the scraggly dog to his other side. “I’m Sam.”
Oh, Sam. This was Sam. And if I’d checked social media anytime in the last decade, I might have known that.
“Sam Bookman? But you’re…” I trailed off because both you turned out hot and you’re supposed to still be a kid were wildly inappropriate. “What are you doing here?” I asked instead. “Don’t you live on the other side of town?”
“I live here.” Sam’s tone was somewhere between patient and irritated. “This is my house. You’re on my front lawn.”
He gave me one hell of a pointed look. The Sam I’d known once upon a time was endlessly chipper and never got irritated, but perhaps I was to blame there. I seemed to try everyone’s patience lately, including my own.
“Oh.” I scrubbed my hair, suddenly aware of exactly how many hours it had been since my last shower. “That’s right. You bought the place. I heard that. Forget from who.”
The house and my tree had been through one bad owner after another. It was a wonder both were still standing. My stomach gnawed at itself, empty but angry, and the longer Sam stared at me, the more I had to fight the urge to rub my middle.
“Worth, why are you here?” A bottle rocket whistled, a pink firework bursting over Sam’s head. The light revealed his auburn hair, a deeper shade than the candy-apple red it had been as a kid. “Why now? You didn’t come for your mom’s memorial.”
“I didn’t.” Nothing to do but agree. Sam didn’t need to know I’d had a ticket to Portland, a hotel reservation too. In fact, despite shaking hands and a queasy stomach, I’d been debating which suit to pack when the feds had shown up at my high-rise condo, and that had been that. No doing the right thing, the expected thing. Story of my whole damn life.
Memorial. I hated that word. It sounded so…tidy. Serene and peaceful almost. Unlike the other M-word: missing. The word that had ridden shotgun with me ever since my mom’s disappearance twenty years ago. And then the M-word I could barely wrap my brain around: murder. I hated that word most of all. Unlike memorial, it was a gory, messy word, bringing drama and chaos. Upending everything I thought I’d known, including the two decades I’d spent convinced my father was behind the disappearance. He wasn’t. A serial killer was. The reopening of the cold case had proven that. And the truth was so much more complicated than any story I’d told myself to get through the long years of not knowing.