Wrapped Up in You

by Talia Hibbert

  Will always knew where to look.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, dry and restrained as ever, but her eyes said, “You’re a sweetheart.”

  And then she said it. She actually said, with actual words from her actual mouth, “You’re a sweetheart.”

  He blinked, frowned, wondered if he’d just had some sort of stroke. “Er … did you say something?”

  “Yes.” She sipped the chocolate. The mug was still in front of her face when she mumbled, “I said you’re a sweetheart.”

  Will slowly, slowly realised that he hadn’t imagined a thing. She’d said it. She’d said something nice, out loud, to another human being, and that human being wasn’t an infant or a close friend in floods of tears or a corpse on the day of its funeral. “Holy shit, Abigail.”

  She glared. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Will knew what was good for him.

  Her glare turned into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  Then his big mouth said, “Post-divorce therapy?”

  She scowled, which was one expression she’d never hidden. “I am going to murder my own twin with my bare hands.”

  “Actually, Harlan told me.”

  “I am going to murder all my brothers with my bare hands. How unfortunate.”

  “All of them? What’d Noah do?” Will found himself smiling, which was unusual for a conversation about fratri-whatnot, but Abbie had always had that effect on him.

  “Nothing yet,” she said, “but I’d like to cover my bases.”

  “Fair enough.” Will’s smile faded. “Sorry, by the way. I think he thought I already knew.”

  “Probably,” she agreed, and gave him the look that meant Don’t worry about it, so Will didn’t. When Abbie was done with something, she was done with it.

  “Enjoy the chocolate. After my workout,” he said, “I’m going to make you brunch.”

  She put down the mug and pulled a needle gently through her hoop of fabric. “Honey, you know you can’t cook.”

  “I took lessons.”

  Some people might question that, or laugh at it, or something. Abbie didn’t. She was always taking classes, learning things—she liked to learn, loved it, had made Will less afraid of it. He used to think he was stupid, before Abbie had all but dragged him through their final exams and told him again and again, “Smart isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Will, but learning is something else.”

  So at his announcement, she just raised her eyebrows and asked, “Hm. How’s your French toast?”

  “Glorious,” he said. “Life-changing. Life-affirming, some might say.”

  “Yeah? Who might say that?”

  “People.”

  “Women?”

  He smiled, slow and delighted. “Are you fishing for information, Abigail?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, William. I’m just saying, women are my preferred sources for trusted opinions.”

  Will deflated. “Ah.” Never mind. Obviously, she wasn’t going to swing into a jealous rage over his theoretical French toast–eating girlfriends after half a day of tentative flirting on his part and confused glares on hers. Yet again, he felt a warning flare in his gut, a little voice shouting that Jase was right and his plan was more sly and pointless than smart and brilliant—but the voice was quickly smothered by a blanket of nervous hope. So many feelings, all of them messy, none of them as interesting as Abbie.

  Shifting closer, he peered at her embroidery hoop. “Can I see?”

  Abbie had always embroidered, as easily as people doodled. Probably had something to do with her mother and grandmother being seamstresses. She hesitated for a moment, which was odd. Then she sighed and turned her hoop around, and he saw a silky blue ocean dotted with little pink fish and lit up by a golden sun. Over the yellow thread, she’d stitched the words “A WARM AWAKENING.”

  He smiled. Abbie’s art always made him smile. Then he blinked and realised something. “Oh. It’s … I sent you that, didn’t I?”

  She avoided his gaze as she answered. “I think so.”

  “You think so?” He laughed. “How many people do you have sending you artwork over Instagram?” But then it occurred to him that she might have a lot of people doing that. He could very easily be one of hundreds of desperate individuals sending Abbie the things they loved just to make her smile and remind her of their existence.

  Suddenly he felt a terrible mood coming on.

  Until she rolled her eyes and said, “Fine, yes, you sent it to me. You have good taste. Sometimes I embroider the things you send. You know, when I’m running out of ideas.”

  Will’s mental sun burst out from behind the clouds and burned his storm away. “Do you, now?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head, Reid.”

  “I would never.” But he was grinning, so that was an obvious lie.

  “Yes, you would,” she said, and then she grinned back, which was so rare and so goddamn hot that his heart squeezed and his stomach tensed. Abbie had a wicked kind of grin, the kind that made you think of fucking. Or maybe it only made him think of fucking. Whatever. He could accept that as a personal problem. “You are horrendously flattered,” she said, “to influence the decisions of a master of embroidery such as myself.”

  He sipped his protein shake and tried to look bored, which he was actually quite bad at. His acting had never won any awards; only his face had done that. “Master of embroidery? If you say so.”

  “Tell me the truth or I’ll prick you.” She waved her needle menacingly.

  “You would never—”

  She reached out, and he yelped. It took him a moment to realise she’d poked him, not stabbed him. “Ow.” It hadn’t actually hurt, but he caught her by the wrist anyway and pulled her as close as he could without throwing Haddock off of her lap—which turned out to be pretty damn close. Close enough that he could see her pupils within the deep brown of her irises, could hear the tiny little breath she took. Could feel the ghost of it against his cheek maybe, or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

  He could definitely feel her wrist beneath his palm, and he savoured that. Abbie was private, and Abbie was strong, and Abbie was smarter than he’d ever be, but he could still feel the fragile bite of her pulse … And. It. Sped. Up.

  He swallowed. Hard. His organs turned around inside his body. “Abbie,” he said, and forgot all about his plan, remembering a night two years ago in this very room. “Abbie, you look beautiful today.”

  Fuck. Shit. Why in God’s name had he said that? For years, Will had thought that sort of thing, and for years, he’d kept his bloody mouth shut. And now, during the first moment they’d spent together alone since her divorce, he threw compliments at her like a drunken pest at a bar?

  Nice, Reid. Very nice.

  Abbie’s eyes widened behind her glasses for one surprised second—before they narrowed with her trademark suspicion. “Beautiful, hm?” she asked, her voice like iron.

  He let go of her wrist. Tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Went back to the careful, clever plan he’d devised during his months out of Abbie’s electrically compelling presence and found it had crumbled like a cookie under the force of her actual personality.

  Well, shit. He might be sweating a little bit.

  But … When in doubt, brazen it out. That had been Will’s motto ever since he’d realised he couldn’t keep fibs straight in his head like the other kids. “That’s right,” he said, raising his chin. “Beautiful.” Then he smiled, because a large number of women seemed to like it when he did that.

  Of course, Abbie wasn’t only a woman; she was a woman who’d known him and his bullshit for decades. “What are you up to, William?” she demanded, squinting at him as if he’d changed species before her eyes.

 
; “Not a lot,” he said, which was technically true.

  “Really?” she asked, the word dripping with disbelief, disapproval, derision, all kinds of terrible d-words. Haddock, clearly aware of the impending storm, picked up his rickety bones and clambered out of Abbie’s lap. Will watched him pad out of the room with more than a little envy.

  Then he replied, with complete inadequacy, “Really, really, Abs.”

  “Fascinating,” she drawled. “Because if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to flirt your way into my underwear like we haven’t been friends for twenty-one years. And I’m trying to figure out why you would do such a thing, and the only explanation I can come up with—” She faltered for a second, so slightly he might not have noticed it if he wasn’t (1) kind of obsessed with her, drinking her down like sixty-year-old Scotch, and (2) so on edge in this moment he noticed her every goddamn breath. “The only explanation I can come up with,” she went on, her expression unreadable and her eyes burning, “is that something’s happened since the last time I saw you. Something that’s turned you into kind of a dick. I don’t know what it is, but I’m not going to take it.”

  Will’s mouth fell open. He was rapidly losing control of this situation, which he’d expected, but what he hadn’t expected was the direction it would spiral off into. “I—what? Calling you beautiful makes me a dick now?”

  “Flirting with me makes you a dick,” she replied instantly, her voice low and steely, her expression hard and—beneath it all … hurt?

  Yes. It was hidden, like all of Abbie’s feelings, but he’d made it his life’s mission to decipher her, and he knew what the flash in her dark eyes meant. What he didn’t know was how he’d managed to fuck up so spectacularly and with such jaw-dropping speed.

  Or maybe he did know. Plans weren’t his thing, and now he remembered why. It wasn’t only his lack of organisation; it was the fact that this plan involved keeping secrets, holding back, and that felt a little like lying.

  Jase had been right—and Will had been wrong.

  Because he wasn’t afraid of rejection, not usually. But he realised in this tense, suspended moment of oh-fuck regret that he was terrified of being rejected by Abbie.

  “You can deny it if you want,” she was saying, “but I’m not an idiot.” The word had bite. Her lips pressed tight together, she nodded as if reassuring herself. “I am an adult woman. I know what flirting is. I’m not imagining things.”

  “I never said you were,” he replied softly. “I’d never say that, Abbie-girl.” I’d never fuck with your head. I’d never make you feel like a fool. Except maybe he already had.

  At his words, something about her seemed to relax, just the tiniest bit. As if his honesty was the key to cooling her sudden ire. “Oh,” she said, and seemed suddenly at a loss.

  Which only emphasised exactly how badly Will had messed up here. In the aftermath of her explosion, the magnitude of it really hit him.

  He’d made Abbie doubt herself, hadn’t he?

  He’d made her feel … played with.

  He’d ignored her twin’s advice—ignored his own knowledge of her, and of the shit she’d been through with her husband—to carry out some cloak-and-dagger plan like she was a science experiment.

  Well, fuck that. Fuck the fucking plan.

  Will exhaled hard and propped his elbows on his knees, dropping his head onto his hands. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “What are you doing?” Abbie demanded. She was always edgy when she was confused. Yet another thing he should’ve taken into account.

  He should’ve taken her into account. That was the bottom line. But … “Honestly? I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

  “Well, that’s a lie,” she said. “I do see the headlines, you know. And don’t say it’s all made up, because Jase mentions things, too.”

  Will frowned and looked up at her. She was still lovely in the pale morning light, even lovelier with that defiant frown and the fire in her gaze. “What are you talking about?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about your marauding penis, William. I’m sure it’s very cold and lonely up here in the Highlands. But you better order yourself a Fleshlight because you ain’t warming that thing up in me.”

  Will almost choked on his tongue. “Abbie!” Since when had the Farrell twins been this sex-obsessed?

  “What? I know what you’re up to.” She scowled.

  “No,” he said, straightening. “You don’t.” Was it his imagination, or did a flash of hope appear beneath her stony expression? Like the impression of a flash of lightning after you closed your eyes?

  Maybe. She was probably hoping he hadn’t turned into a complete prick since they’d last seen each other, hoping he could explain this absolute shitstorm in a satisfactory manner. Which he really wished he could, but … crap. What was he supposed to say? Me and my marauding penis want a lot more from you than that?

  Ha. Abbie hated feelings stuff. She’d been single for two years, and she sent him more men-ain’t-shit memes than she did Rihanna selfies, which was saying something. If he admitted he’d come here hoping to charm her into crushing on him, she’d probably laugh in his face.

  But if he said … if he said, Thirteen years ago, you came home from uni for Christmas, and I saw you for the first time in months after seeing you every day for years, and it hit me like a brick that I was in love with you, always had been, and that has never changed, it’s never changed—

  If he said that, she’d be unbelievably freaked out, and it would make the family Christmas awkward as shit.

  And he’d lose her. Or rather, he’d learn once and for all that he’d never had her. Years of the-time-just-isn’t-right hopefulness would fade away like smoke. The maybe-possibly-one-days he’d used to get himself through dark times would vanish. They’d never really have existed in the first place. Wanting Abbie had kept him going for so long that having to carve her out of himself might fucking kill him. And if he spilled his guts and she politely said, “No, thank you,” he would have no choice but to die right then and there.

  But if he lied, and it made her sad again, he’d die even harder.

  So what the hell was he going to do?

  “I care about you too much to fuck with you on purpose,” he said. That was honest. That was real. “You know that, don’t you?” He watched her face and hoped and hoped—

  Yes. Her thawing was slow, like a reluctant spring, but it was there. “I suppose I do know that,” she said finally. “You’re—you’re like my brother.”

  “No,” he said. The word came out firmer than he’d intended, but he didn’t regret it. He held her gaze and repeated himself. “No, Abigail. I’m not.”

  Her throat moved as she swallowed. She studied him with those clever, clever eyes, and Will suddenly felt that he must be see-through.

  But if see-through was what she wanted, he’d try his best to give it to her. He wished he could offer better, offer more, offer truer, but it turned out that throwing away all your fears at once was nausea-inducing and semi-impossible. So he met her halfway. “I’ve been flirting with you because I … like you, Abbie.”

  Her expression blanked. Her eyes said shock. Her mouth said “You—what?”

  Well, thank God he hadn’t confessed to loving her. Good call.

  “I know that sounds ridiculous,” he rambled. “We’re in our thirties. But—” But this started when we were kids, he almost said, and thank God for his rarely used brain-to-mouth filter that kicked in and cut him off. Not yet. Not yet. “But I don’t know how else to put it,” he finished. “Talking to you is the best part of my day, even if we only do it through Instagram DMs. And talking to you in person, with words, it feels like … coming home.”

  “That’s because we only ever talk when you’re at home,” she cut in sharply. Her expression was still unreadable,
and her breaths were a little shallow, but at least she’d said something.

  “Yes,” he agreed slowly, “but also because you make me happy. I can be myself around you, and I love it when you’re you, and I just want to make you smile, and also, like I said, you’re very beautiful and kind of incredibly hot. I could say more, but it might veer into unromantic territory.”

  Silence. Then she repeated, the word so thin it was practically transparent, “Unromantic?”

  “Yes. Because this, what I’m saying right now, is supposed to be romantic. That’s what I’m trying to do here. I don’t know if you want me to do that, but I kind of hoped you might consider it, and that’s what I’ve been trying to … to figure out, I guess. If you would be open to it. But clearly I wasn’t very good at it, because plans and subtlety and stuff isn’t really my thing. I guess my thing is flopping my feelings onto the table like an unasked-for penis, but trust me when I say I’m really trying to be restrained here, Abs, and, er, I know this is a lot, so … you don’t have to answer right now, or anything. I just … I don’t want to lie to you, Abbie. You asked me what’s happening. So. That’s what’s happening.”

  For a moment, Will felt a thousand times better, getting all that off his chest. Then a few more seconds ticked by, and Abbie remained silent and obviously astonished, and Will remembered why he’d been aiming to reveal that stuff incrementally instead of all at once: Abbie didn’t really like emotions, or surprises, or surprising emotions.

  He watched, his cheeks warm and his palms kind of sweaty, as she opened and closed her mouth a few times like a fish. Which wasn’t the greatest sign. Then she made things a thousand times worse by saying, “Will. What the fuck?”

  And that, of course, was the exact moment Ms Tricia burst into the room.

  Four

  @DoURe1dMe: Hey, do you know where this quote’s from?

  @AbbieGrl: “If I loved you less, maybe I could talk about it more?” That’s Emma.