by Tessa Bailey
“She did?” Russell wheezed the question, feeling as though he’d been slugged in the stomach by a giant. “Ah Jesus, this weekend was a bad idea. I just needed until Wednesday. Less than a fucking week.”
His friends traded a baffled look. “What?”
“Never mind,” Russell muttered. They wouldn’t understand. Both of them came from money. Louis had embraced his role as heir apparent to the McNally fortune. Ben might have shunned his status, but his bank account had been there all along to fall back on. Russell Hart had nothing. No padding to cushion him. Not for the first time, Russell questioned his role in the group. He was the oldest, the least successful, the one without a defined life path. Shit, here he was, hours from everything he knew, making sure no one looked sideways at Abby. A girl he had no business wanting. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Hey, man.” Louis handed him a hot dog on a plastic plate. “I’d rather you were defensive than quiet.”
Ben leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms. “Russell, I’m going to talk in my professor voice. Are you listening?” Russell raised an eyebrow, refusing to admit Ben’s stern tone had just sent him back to the middle-school principal’s office banked in his memory. “Louis and I complain about your often outlandish advice, but the truth is, it has helped us in the past realize we were being shitheads. Mostly by listening to your erstwhile wisdom and doing the opposite.”
“Thanks,” Russell stretched out. “I think?”
“Just go with it, man,” Louis said, while sending a wink toward Roxy.
“Do you know of the sirens from Greek mythology?” Ben asked, removing his glasses to polish them with the hem of his black T-shirt. “They sent sailors crashing against the rocks, having lured them with beautiful singing voices.”
“I’m with you so far,” Russell asked, wondering where the hell this lesson was going. Had his friends always been this weird? “Hurry up, though, Professor. I’m late for health class.”
“Here’s the lesson they don’t teach you in school.” Ben replaced his glasses. “The sirens were trying to tell the sailors something, and the fuck-ups wouldn’t listen. Find out what that something is, Russell, and don’t crash into the rocks.”
ABBY TOOK A healthy slug of her third margarita, hoping this one might have some effect. Maybe she was already too numb for the tequila to do its job. Evening had started making advances, darkening the sky by long-drawn-out degrees. She sat on a deck chair beside Honey and Roxy, listening to them trade summer-vacation horror stories, laughing when it seemed appropriate. It wasn’t right. She should have been enjoying herself, soaking up every second with her best friends, erasing the negative memories lingering in the house. It was impossible, though, when her cell phone continued to vibrate where she’d shoved it beneath her thigh. Mitchell. Her stepmother. She’d stopped checking. One weekend. She’d only wanted one weekend.
Abby sensed Russell watching her steadily from the deck, where the guys were cleaning up after their foray into grilling. Really, he hadn’t stopped watching her since coming downstairs—and the urge to flip him the bird was so intense, it actually alarmed her. She didn’t make rude gestures. Didn’t ignore phone calls. It was taking a massive effort just to sit there and look normal. Every time she felt the vibration against her thigh, a gnarled tree root grew inside her throat, extending deeper until it reached her stomach.
Is this what her father had gone through? This stress that stole your ability to function? Upon discovering that they’d found her father huddled in a bathtub, she’d been horrified by the image. Her capable, forward-thinking father shutting out the people surrounding him, unable to face the outside world. Now? Yeah, she could see herself hiding in a bathtub. If the damn phone would just leave her alone. If Russell would just stop looking at her. On top of the workload she could feel piling up by the minute, trying to discern Russell’s thoughts and intentions, analyzing his actions, was starting to feel like the straw that would snap the math geek’s back. She didn’t feel like herself, and that scared her.
Everything hurt, her muscles protesting at being tensed for so long. Worst of all, her heart tripped over every beat, as if performing its job on an empty tank of gas. For a really long time, she’d had feelings for Russell; she simply hadn’t known how to define them. The horrible way she missed him when he wasn’t around. The utter joy and relief that exploded in her chest when she saw him coming. Upstairs, everything had come into focus, only to be made blurry again. In every aspect of her life, succeeding didn’t seem possible. For each piece of work she completed, it divided into two. Every time she swore that she and Russell were on the same page, he turned it. Well, she was done. Done.
Abby started when Louis plopped down beside her on the chair, throwing a brotherly arm around her shoulders. It was only then she realized Ben and Russell had joined them, too, taking up the surrounding chairs. How long had they been sitting there? She refused to look at Russell but could feel his displeasure cloaking her from two chairs away. Or maybe it was directed at Louis. Thankfully, her ability to care had disappeared along with her third margarita. Which—praise the Lord—had finally gone to her head.
“Hey, there,” Louis said, shaking her a little. “We haven’t heard your shitty-summer-vacation story yet.”
She felt a rush of gratefulness toward Louis for including her in the conversation and redirecting her thoughts from Russell to where it should be. Her friends. This weekend away from work. Making new memories. “Um.” She took a calming breath. “I spent my summers here, so I don’t think they can be classified as shitty.”
“Come on.” Honey smiled at her. “Everyone has something. Bad kisses, a wave stealing your bikini top. Camping outside the box office for Garth Brooks tickets only to find out he’s playing the next town over.” She patted her blond hair. “Not that I ever did that last one.”
Shitty-summer-vacation story. Maybe purging the old memories would make it easier for new ones to take their place. “One summer, my parents left me here with the nanny and went to Italy for a month. Does that count?”
No one said anything. She heard Russell curse behind her and frowned. Not the reaction she’d been going for. Honestly, her story hadn’t been as bad as the others, had it? Their expressions told Abby they felt bad for her, and it really didn’t sit well. Not when she already felt bad enough for herself to sink an oil tanker. Not when she desperately wanted to move on from those memories.
“Sorry, Abby,” Louis muttered. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Actually,” she interrupted, striving for a bright tone, “it was a lot of fun. The nanny brought her daughter over, and we made up dances. I still remember it.” Reaching to the very bottom of her liquid courage, Abby stood, dislodging Louis’s arm. “Want to see it? I actually have the song on my phone.”
Roxy whooped. Honey put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loud enough to echo around the pool area. “Hell yeah, we want to see it. DJ, drop that beat.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Abby murmured, positioning herself in an open space that faced her ring of friends. Again, she felt Russell staring but swatted his attention away like a bug. Her nerves were mysteriously absent. Any kind of public speaking or performing—which had been proven during a disastrous piano recital in fourth grade—typically broke her out in hives. But right now? Recapturing some of the bravado she’d discovered this morning at the office felt like the only course of action. That Abby had started to slip away, and she needed to grab on with both hands, yank her back.
She found the song in her phone, hit Play, and tossed the phone to Ben, who placed the device in the portable Bose speaker and cranked the volume, sending “Everybody Dance Now” blasting through the speakers. Simply hearing which song she would dance to sent her friends into a laughing fit, but the laughter did nothing to detract from her courage. No, she was laughing, too, as she broke into the running man, keeping time to the beat. When the male voice started to rap, she someho
w recalled every word from her childhood, closed her eyes, and lip-synced with over-the-top enthusiasm. When she opened her eyes again and saw how entertained and happy everyone looked, satisfaction lifted her spirits.
Then she looked at Russell, witnessed his broken smile, and those raised spirits went plummeting beneath the pool’s surface. He looked happy . . . but the happiness was causing him pain. It refreshed her anger. Screw him for confusing her. For sending her mixed signals. Abby stopped dancing, words rising in her throat that she would surely regret, but wasn’t capable of holding back. What do you want from me? You wreck me and then get sad when I pick my pieces back up? Those words died in their inception when Russell’s attention left her and landed on her lit-up cell phone, vibrating where it was connecting to the speaker, a call interrupting the song.
When Russell stood and reached for Abby’s phone, she lunged for it, but he got there before her, disconnecting it and picking it up before the blaring song could start to play again. “Who is Mitchell, and why do you have forty-two missed calls from him?”
“Give me the phone,” Abby demanded, not caring for his cold tone. Not at all. There was a counterpart to her distress, though. She hadn’t told Russell about her father and the subsequent workload, but she wasn’t entirely sure of the reason for omission. Now, as he waited stubbornly for an answer, phone clutched in his hand, Abby knew. She’d wanted Russell—at least, Russell—to see her as more than a dutiful worker bee. Was it so much to ask? To be desirable instead of reliable? That chance was gone now. Maybe it had never really existed. Not the way she wanted it to.
Russell stepped into her space. “Answer me.”
“Sti cazza. A fanabla!”
“Uh-oh . . . she’s breaking out the Italian,” Roxy whispered.
Riding the surge of defiance and irritation, Abby plucked the cell phone from Russell’s hand and chucked it—still ringing—into the pool. The reduction of pressure pushing down on her chest was so extreme, she bent at the waist, planting her hands on her knees. “Oh my God.” Oxygen seeped from her lungs. “That felt really good.”
Abby’s voice broke on the last word. She felt her friends come up beside her, resting their hands on her back. “Hey, let’s go upstairs,” Roxy said. “I’ll send Louis out for some ice cream.”
“Someone needs to tell me what’s going on here.” Russell’s voice came from behind Abby, harder than she’d ever heard it. “Now, please.”
She straightened and turned on a heel, started to tell Russell that no explanations were owed to him, but his expression stopped her. After what he continued to put her through, she shouldn’t care that he looked haunted. Shouldn’t care that his face had gone ghost white. When would she stop? “I—”
“Abby.”
The new male voice brought all six of them up short. Abby’s pulse went dull for a few beats, then turned erratic along with her breathing. Mitchell, the firm’s lawyer, stood on the deck, looking down at them. She blinked, hoping he would vanish, but there he remained, dressed as though he’d just walked out of a boardroom.
“What are you doing here?” Roxy asked, her obvious recognition of the lawyer drawing questioning looks from the guys.
“I’ve been calling Abby nonstop, and she wouldn’t answer. I had no choice but to make the drive.” Mitchell squinted into the pool, which was still rippling from the tossed cell phone. “I guess I know why my calls were ignored.”
Abby’s vision was cut off when Russell removed his shirt and pulled it down over her head. The worn-in material dropped to her knees. Until then, she’d forgotten all about her lack of clothing, save the bathing suit, but apparently Russell hadn’t. His arm banded around her waist, dragging her up against his side, before addressing Mitchell. “Who the hell are you?”
Mitchell coughed into his fist. “I’m Mitchell. Abby and I work together. There’s a business matter that couldn’t wait until Monday.” He nodded toward the house. “It won’t take long.”
Russell gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t care what this is about. She’s not going anywhere.” He shook his head. “Wasn’t her father available for this?”
The lawyer’s chin went up a notch. “I’m not in a position to discuss that with you. Although, I’m surprised Abby hasn’t. You appear to be her . . .”
When Mitchell let the question dangle, Russell spoke up, discomfort transforming his features. “I’m her . . .”
Silence fell. Until Abby started to laugh. The hysterical sound bubbled from her mouth, impossible to control. There was nothing funny about any of it. Not the fact that work had followed her to the Hamptons. Or Russell—someone so important in her life—not even knowing what to call her. But the alternative was to sob and sob and never stop. So she laughed.
“I’ll be inside when you’re ready,” Mitchell called before escaping the awkwardness she’d created by striding back into the house.
“Should we give you two a minute?” Ben asked, clearly aware that it would take a bulldozer to move Russell. His arm was wrapped around her so tightly, drawing breath was a challenge, especially after her laughing jag.
“Yeah,” was all Russell said, his breath lifting the hair on her forehead.
“Screw that.” Honey crossed her arms. “How about asking what Abby wants?”
“It’s fine,” Abby forced past numb lips. “Really. Go inside and get comfortable. I’ll be in soon, sign whatever paperwork Mitchell needs signed, and we’ll get back to relaxing.”
Roxy looked inclined to argue further but didn’t. “You’ve got some killer moves, roomie. You’ve been holding out on us.”
Abby managed a smile that solidified when she heard Honey whispering on the way back into the house, “Did you know that Russell had chest hair?” Ben narrowed his eyes at his girlfriend as she passed, but the blonde only held up her hands. “Just seems like something we should have known.”
Then she and Russell were alone, and the smile on her face flickered before collapsing. It was hard to muster optimism when a discussion with one very pissed-off construction worker was on the horizon. And it wasted no time getting under way. Good thing she’d never felt more prepared.
Chapter 13
RUSSELL PACED THE edge of the pool, feeling raw, caged in. Like he’d woken up from a two-year coma, and everything he’d known no longer held true. Something was wrong with Abby—his Abby—and he’d fucking missed it. That’s all he knew. Flickers of memories from the last few weeks bombarded him, cursing him with perfect hindsight. Now he couldn’t look at her without seeing the fatigue on her gorgeous features. Where the hell had his head been? He’d failed her. Even without knowing the full story, that much was obvious. Not only had he failed her, he might have made whatever she was going through worse.
All this time he’d been trying to prevent his worst nightmare from becoming a reality when it had already been happening right under his nose. The sparkle she used to have in her eyes when looking at him was gone. Vanished, the way his mother’s had over time. History had repeated itself. Maybe there had never really been a way to avoid it. Dammit. Dammit.
A jackhammer drilled into his skull, and he massaged the spot so he could think clearly, but it didn’t help, so he hit it with a closed fist. Once, twice.
“Russell, stop.”
God, he was such a bastard. Abby looked ready to drop, and his mind kept turning to the lawyer who’d driven all the way from Manhattan to see her. Did a man do that just for some bullshit paperwork? Could anyone spend time with Abby and not covet her? No. That’s who he’d always pictured her ending up with, wasn’t it? Some suit and tie wearing chump? The image of her dancing and laughing sprung to his mind, making his throat close up. Jesus. His unbelievable girl could end up with someone else.
Russell’s entire being rioted at the possibility. “Tell me he’s only a coworker.” He braced his head in both hands, positive it was about to burst into fragments. His question was irrational, and somewhere within the chaos, he knew it. This was
Abby. She wouldn’t date someone else and let him touch her at the same time. But even the idea of lawyer man asking her out broke him out in a cold sweat. “Tell me. Please, angel.”
“That’s your foremost concern?”
“It’s the one I need cleared up so I can think straight.” He dropped his hands and took a few steps in her direction. “Believe me there’s more.”
She stared off toward the beach for a minute, sixty seconds that stretched into the longest of his life, as if debating whether or not he deserved to know the truth. And he’d earned every second of agony that came before her answer. They weren’t together. Their relationship was murky and undefined. He’d made sure of it. Finally, she answered. “He’s only a coworker, Russell. I don’t even like him.” She tugged at the hem of the Yankees T-shirt he’d covered her in. “He’s just a mouthpiece for my stepmother, delivering bad news so she doesn’t have to feel guilty.”
“Okay.” He breathed the word, relief showering down on him like an epic rainstorm. He was selfish for being relieved when her problems still existed, but seeing her with another man would have broken him, rendering him useless to help her. At least now he could breathe. “Tell me the rest.”
She dropped onto one of the deck chairs, wrapping two arms around her raised legs. “My father is undergoing psychiatric treatment. The stress caught up with him about a month ago, and he’s unable to run the company right now.” She lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. “I’m just stepping in until he gets back on his feet.”
It took a moment for Russell to process the implications of that. “You’re running a multimillion-dollar hedge fund?”
“No, I’m running a billion-dollar hedge fund.”
“You’re making light of this?”
“No.” Her brows drew together. “No, I’m not making light of it. My father isn’t well. I don’t really know to what extent because he won’t even see me. I’m one computer keystroke away from losing millions of dollars every second of the day. So, no. Not making light.”