by Tessa Bailey
IT WAS SATURDAY morning. Abby should have been packing her travel case for a lazy, sunshine-laced weekend with her friends. Instead, she was staring over the top of her Mac computer screen at the company’s lawyer, Mitchell, and one visibly irritated stepmother. Her stepmother, to be exact.
Abby had woken early, thinking to drop into the office to tie up some loose ends so she could relax over the weekend, but she’d stumbled upon a meeting between her stepmother and Mitchell, who were less than enthused about her impromptu vacation. Oh, they were trying to hide it, but her stepmother’s tell had always been rummaging through her purse. And the Balenciaga bag had been rummaged within an inch of its three-thousand-dollar life.
“You’ll be on call, though, won’t you?” her stepmother asked, pulling out her wallet and replacing it seconds later. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’re finally taking advantage of the estate. I’ve been begging you to accompany me for a visit for years. But, Abigail—”
“The situation here is minute to minute,” Mitchell interjected. “We appreciate the time and effort you’re putting in, as does your father.”
Abby didn’t look up from her keyboard. “How would I know that when he won’t see me?”
“Sweetheart, he doesn’t want you to see him this way. You know what a proud man your father is. Soon, I promise. Everything will be back to normal.”
Abby inhaled deeply, reminding herself to stay calm. They weren’t in Southampton just yet, but she’d resolved to breathe this weekend. Over the last week, the pressure had mounted to the point where, not only was this trip meant for fun, it might even be necessary for her health. A thought that terrified her, knowing what her father had gone through at the helm of the company. “Yes, I know. And I have everything under control. If it makes you feel better, I’ll have my phone and laptop with me while I’m there.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, entering reminders into next week’s calendar before switching screens to respond to a client email. “It’s not unusual for father to be unreachable by phone over the weekend. Our clients know they can communicate with him via email, and I’ll be there to handle any concerns.”
“There is a conference call with Venezuela on Monday morning,” Mitchell said, consulting the datebook in his hand. “You’ll be back by then, won’t you? It’s your father’s account, and no one else is familiar with it.”
“Yes. I’ll be back Sunday night.” She spun in her chair and opened a file-cabinet drawer, slipping out the client’s information. “I’ll take the file with me, so I’m up to speed. Is there anything else?”
Her stepmother started to speak, but a familiar voice shouting in the hallway interrupted her. “Mayday, Mayday. We’re down one party girl. I repeat, party girl has gone rogue. Must recover.”
Roxy.
“Roger, that, chopper one.” Honey. “We’ve got our eyes peeled for an off-the-grid party girl. We’ve been advised her killer legs are registered weapons and will proceed with caution. Over and out.”
When Roxy and Honey sailed into her office wearing goggles and duck-shaped flotation devices around their waists, Abby burst into laughter, ignoring her stepmother’s mask of horror. Not exactly a traditional way to introduce your best friends to your stepmother, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Dang. There was a tight welling in her chest telling her this weekend might be more in order than originally thought.
Last night, she’d been lying in her bed, formulas and risk evaluations overflowing from every crevice of her brain, when Roxy and Honey had burst into her room like a pair of Tasmanian devils. As soon as she’d stopped screaming from the shock, Honey had pounced on her, holding her shoulders down as Roxy straddled her waist.
“Thought this intervention was over, didn’t you?” Honey crooned.
Every inch the actress, Roxy released a truly chilling, haunted-house cackle. “Oh, it has only just begun. We’re taking a road trip, baby.”
Abby tried to get up, but Honey held fast. “Have you guys been hanging out with Louis’s twin sisters, or something?”
“Say what you will, but the terror twins get shit done,” Roxy responded.
“Just like we’re about to.” Honey’s face was poised inches above Abby’s. “We’re getting out of this city for the weekend. You’re going to relax if we have to tie you down and have a shirtless pool boy force-feed you Vienna sausages and chocolate.”
“Honey Perribow, you are a straight-up natural at this,” Roxy praised.
“It’s all in the delivery.”
Abby had put up a token protest because her workload only seemed to triple every time she blinked, but her friends had feigned actual deafness until she said yes. And the minute she had, the sharpest edges of her anxiety started to ebb. Anxiety brought on not only by her workload but Russell’s radio silence. Maybe it was naïve on her part, but she’d expected him to stop her before she’d even gotten on the subway after leaving his house yesterday. Then again, when she returned home, she had been positive he would call, tell her he wanted to pursue the physical relationship she’d proposed. But . . . nothing. Nada. Suddenly, the one person who had always seemed hell-bent on her not getting hurt was doing the hurting. As a result, her confidence was taking a significant dip at a time when she really didn’t need any additional crappiness heaped on top of her.
“Earth to Abby,” Roxy said, waving a hand in front of her face, reminding her four other people stood in the office. Staring at her. How long had she been zoned out?
“Sorry.” Abby tucked some stray hair behind her ear and stood, shoving a handful of essential files into her laptop case. “Um. Mother, meet Honey and Roxy. My roommates and best friends.”
Her stepmother’s smile was strained as she shook hands with the girls. “Are you planning to wear those . . . ducks while in Southampton?”
“Don’t worry, we promise not to let your daughter be seen in one.” Roxy winked at Abby’s stepmother. “We brought her a frog.”
Mitchell broke the horrified silence with a nervous laugh. “I hope there’s a pocket for your cell phone on that frog.”
When Honey and Roxy both opened their mouths—no doubt to inform Mitchell and her stepmother that no work would be attempted or completed over the weekend—Abby jumped to intercede. “Come on. We don’t want to keep the guys waiting.”
Her stepmother’s knuckles went white as she clutched her purse. “Guys?”
Abby didn’t break stride as she sailed toward the door. “Yes. Guys. I’m twenty-four years old, and it’s about frickin’ time.”
And holy hell. Not doing what was expected of her felt really good. She needed to make a habit of it. Starting this weekend.
Chapter 10
WHEN ABBY CAME into view on Ninth Avenue, Russell paused in his stride, hefting his duffel bag higher against his shoulder. That first eyeful of her always packed a punch, but it had the effect of a full-on knockout round now. She sat outside her building, perched on a designer suitcase that could probably pay his brother’s rent for six months. Honey and Roxy sat on either side of her, sipping from Starbucks cups in between conversation and bouts of laughter. Abby had this habit of laying her hand on someone’s shoulder and giggling when they said something funny, and she did it just then to Honey, making his throat hurt.
God help him this weekend when it came to keeping his hands off her. She looked angelic, with her thin, white T-shirt tucked into a short, flowery skirt. What did it say about him that he only wanted to get that angel on her ever-loving back? Naked and moaning, the way she’d been Thursday afternoon in Queens.
No. Maybe his logic was twisted, but he needed to keep Abby . . . untouched. At least in the final way that mattered. If he could manage that Herculean feat a while longer, just until he knew a future between them was even possible, that he could give her a happy life, he’d be a candidate for sainthood.
Russell tipped his head back and breathed through his nose. “I am not my dick. My dick does not make decisions for me.
”
A passing woman started walking faster, and Russell sighed. Best to keep his new mantra internal the next time he felt the need to repeat it in public. And he had a feeling he’d be chanting it like a motherfucker before the weekend was over.
“Russell,” Roxy yelled from across the street. “Did you forget where we live?”
“Hint,” Honey chimed in, gesturing with her coffee cup. “We’re sitting right in front of it.”
Russell smirked at them as he crossed Ninth Avenue, sufficiently reminded that although his dick would be having a rough weekend, the rest of him would have fun. While his focus was always on Abby, he’d developed a pretty serious soft spot for his buddies’ girlfriends. Not that he was insane enough to let them know it. Once women knew they could smile and get a favor out of you, they turned into loaded weapons. Some women, at least. Abby waited until he offered, then smiled.
One of the first warning signs that he was lost over Abby had been one month into their friendship. Louis threw a surprise party for Roxy one night after she’d landed her first big acting role. He’d noticed Abby walking into the apartment with liquor bottles, setting them on the counter and heading back out into the hallway. Twice she’d done it before he’d gotten frustrated enough to ask her if she needed help carrying something. Turned out, there’d been three heavy cases of liquor for the party sitting downstairs, and she’d planned on carrying the contents up, two bottles at a time. Instead of asking for help.
Russell had stacked the three boxes on top of one another and brought them to the apartment, grumbling about stubborn women the entire way. But when he’d set them down in the kitchen, he’d turned to find Abby beaming at him like a certified hero. God, if she’d asked him to jump out the window at that moment, he would have leapt without a thought.
As he approached the girls, however, Abby wasn’t looking at him like a hero. She wasn’t looking at him at all, and it instantly fucked him up. If he didn’t suspect it would show his hand, Russell would have flung himself down on the sidewalk and begged Abby to ask him for a favor. Anything. Anything in the world so he could go get it for her. A pink armadillo. A flower from the highest peak in the Swiss Alps. A baby goat. Whatever. He just wanted her to look at him the way she always had. Before he’d slapped her ass and sent her back to Manhattan. Jesus, he was a prize asshole.
You’re going to fix it. Just hang in there.
“Hey,” he said, his voice reminding him of sawdust. “Where’s your old ball and chains?”
Roxy appeared to register Abby’s lack of greeting but didn’t comment, thanks be to God. “Louis is picking up the Zipcar—or Zipvan, really. Ben is—”
“Right here,” Ben said from behind Russell, opening his arms just in time for Honey to fling herself into them. He kissed his girlfriend’s forehead and tucked her against his side with a smile that had contentment written all over it. “Louis is en route. Roxy? Try not to freak out.”
“Why?” the actress tilted her head, but Ben stayed quiet. “Shit. What did he—”
A series of three loud beeps interrupted Roxy, her face not even bothering to register shock as a white, stretch limousine glided to a stop at the curb. Louis popped out through the sunroof and spread his arms wide. “Did someone call for a ride?”
“Louis McNally II.” Roxy stomped her foot. “You did not.”
“I did.” When Roxy crossed her arms and made no move to enter the limo, Louis sighed. “I’d rather hold my girl than a steering wheel for three hours. Don’t be mad at me, Rox. I got overexcited at the prospect of seeing you in a bathing suit.”
When Roxy’s lips twitched, Russell knew the fight would end the way all fights ended between his ex-playboy best friend and Roxy. A shit ton of PDA. So he tuned out and let his gaze roam over the limousine, wondering how much Louis had dropped on the damn thing. More than he could afford to chip in on, probably, which left a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t fault his friend—the guy was generous to a fault—but Russell preferred to pay his way.
Abby rolled her suitcase to the back of the limo, as if she’d done the same hundreds of times. Well versed in this world of limousines and weekend trips to the Hamptons. The driver appeared, presumably to help Abby lift her luggage into the trunk, but before Russell registered his own movement, he’d lunged forward to perform the task himself.
Well, at least she’s looking at you now, dumb-ass.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Russell swallowed a baseball-sized lump. “I bet you packed a bunch of high heels just to drive me crazy.”
Her expression warmed. “Someone has to do it.”
“Excuse me,” the driver said from behind them, forcing Russell to step away from Abby so the guy could load the other suitcases. Frankly, he wasn’t thrilled over the fact that some stranger was going to be responsible for Abby’s safety for the next three hours, but he figured everyone would give him shit if he asked to see a license.
Abby seemed to remember something at the last second, reaching into the trunk to pull an item out of her suitcase before climbing into the running vehicle. Russell finished helping the driver load the luggage and followed. As he ducked through the entrance, he kept his face neutral, so no one would realize it was his first time in a limo. Jesus, the inside was huge. They could have fit another eight people comfortably. Ben and Honey were cozied up just inside the door, Roxy and Louis making out, as expected, a few feet down the middle row.
Abby sat closest to the driver, trying not to look uncomfortable over being alone. Of course, everyone assumed he would sit beside her. And why wouldn’t they? That’s where he always sat. At her apartment. In the bar. Everywhere. This time should be no different.
It was, though. After what they’d done together, sitting in the darkness on smooth, expensive leather was a temptation he didn’t need. Nor did he need Ben, Louis, or their sharper-than-hell girlfriends questioning him.
Who the hell was he kidding? There was no choice. A mere ten seconds of seeing her all alone was turning him into a certified mental patient. Russell walked in a crouch toward Abby and dropped into the seat beside her, just as the limo started to move. “I’ll give it ten minutes before you fall asleep.”
She looked affronted, but he caught a note of relief, too. “I’m wide-awake. I even brought an activity.”
“An activity.”
“Flash cards.” She dangled a Ziploc baggie in front of her. “You said I could help with your business-loan meeting at the bank. Did you think I’d forget a chance to discuss numbers?”
Was it possible for a heart to burst through a man’s chest cavity? “You, uh. You still want to help me with that?”
“Of course,” she said, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I’ve been an asshole, and she’s too sweet to punish me for it. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment to have the same freedom as his friends. To pull Abby onto his lap and kiss her however long he wanted. To turn off the blinding awareness that he felt like a poseur in this giant car on steroids, while everyone else appeared completely comfortable. Too bad the fancy ride and apparently free liquor that came with it only made the divide between him and Abby feel more pronounced. He hated it. Hated it. But there it was, like one of those neon lasers in a spy movie that would set off an alarm. “What’s on these cards?”
Her shoulders relaxed. “There are eight questions a loan officer typically—”
Music began pumping from speakers all around them—slow and bass-heavy—drowning out Abby’s voice. Russell threw an irritated look toward the opposite end of the car, but Ben merely gave him a thumbs-up and went back to staring at Honey. It took Russell a second to grasp why the loud music presented more of a problem than simply not being able to hear Abby speak. When her breath feathered his ear and lust spread to his groin, however, the clouds cleared and revealed the mind fuck.
“Um.” Jesus, she was talking an inch from his neck, having scooted closer on the seat. “The first thing any
bank officer will want to know is how you’ll use the loan proceeds, where exactly the funds will be allocated to help them make their money back the fastest.” She paused to lick her lips, and he almost died. “Some officers suggest a ten-year business model, but most would rather see a strong five-year plan than a thin, long-term one.”
Huh. He’d been using the ten-year model in the meetings, but maybe he should reevaluate. This was Russell’s opening to inform her he’d been working on bank presentations for months. Presentations that had ultimately failed. She had no way of knowing how important securing the loan was to him—he’d never shared it with her or any of his friends for a good reason. If no one knew his ideal future hinged on being approved, no one could pity him if the bank stamped a big, red DENIED on his forehead.
Furthermore, if he revealed any of that to Abby, she wouldn’t feel the need to coach him. And right now, with her bare thighs angled toward him, giving him hope of a panty flash, he was keeping his mouth shut. To his detriment. Because he was an Abby masochist. An Abbychist.
Russell turned his head, so their cheeks were pressed together, giving him a lungful of white-grape sunshine. “We’ve got office space picked out over in Hollis. It’s small, but there’s a lot out back for storing equipment and supplies.” Voicing his plan, even partially, felt odd. But good. “Instead of paying rent to a landlord, we’d use half the loan to purchase the building. We’d rent out the top two floors to cover the mortgage, so most of our profit will go back into the business.”
“That’s great,” she breathed, shifting against his side. “Will you hire more employees?”
“Some.” Jesus, it was hot as hell in there and she smelled so good and that skirt had ridden up a little too high. “Mostly, we want to give our part-time guys a full-time gig. We’ll probably hire a secretary to search for jobs soliciting bids and submitting them for us. Alec and I would rather get our hands dirty than sit at a computer.”
“A secretary?” Abby tilted her head back and met his gaze. “Like a girl?”