Chapter 2

Abby

I woke up yawning, stretching in my bed. The alarm clock was blaring, irritating me, but I smacked it to shut it up rather than throw it across the room like I wanted to. I groaned as I got out of bed, throwing on my clothes, and went into Paul’s room to check on him. He was awake, and when I saw the color of his brown eyes, so vividly described in my mother’s journal, I felt a knot form in my throat.

“Hi, Paul,” I said to him, approaching the bed where he was laying. “My name is Abby. Abby Mitchell. I’m the new nurse hired to hang out with you. How are you today?”

“Abby,” Paul said. “I knew a girl named Abigail once.”

I swallowed, the lump threatening to rise. I had to look away as tears stung my eyes. My mother’s name was Abigail, and Paul was the only man she had ever loved. I had found her journals the summer before—read about their passionate love affair, how they had been together in their youth despite the fact that both of their parents forbade them to marry each other. She died of cancer when I was six and I had never known anything about her, not before I found that journal and the love letters she’d received from Paul, letters that described a beautiful, passionate woman. I had wanted this job desperately the moment I’d seen the advertisement—getting close to Paul, getting to know him, would be like learning something about my long-lost mother, something that I craved to know and thought about every day.

“Who was she?” I asked him, but his eyes were now glazed over slightly.

“Who was who, dear?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Are you feeling OK, Paul? I’m going to bring you breakfast in a few minutes. Do you think you can eat?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m feeling fine.”

“Great,” I said to him brightly. “I’ll be right up with breakfast. I still haven’t spoken to Cohen about your full medical history, but I do know that you and I are going to get along well together. Cohen tells me you’re a very funny man.”

The man gave her a lopsided grin.

“Cohen thinks too much of me,” he said, waving me off. I laughed.

“I’ll be back with breakfast,” I told him, then left the quiet room. I had to take a moment to gather myself. I hadn’t expected to react so emotionally after just meeting Paul for the first time, but I was fighting back tears as I finished getting ready for the day. I cursed when I saw that it was 7:10 and that I was late for breakfast, and only hoped that Cohen wouldn’t be too hard on me when I got there.

I went into the dining room to find him sitting there alone, his fingers steepled in front of him. He gave me a disapproving look as I entered the room, meeting my eye. I felt a shiver run down my spine just looking into his cool gray gaze. He was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen: tall and well muscled—apparent even through his T-shirt—tattoos completely covering one of his arms. He had high cheekbones and a dark, prominent brow, eyes the color of steel and lips that were sensual, the shape of his mouth perfect.

“You’re late,” he said sharply.

“I’m sorry, Cohen,” I said to him. He raised his eyebrows.

“Mr. Ashton,” I corrected, giving him a little smile. That look on his face—one of command, one of hunger—was enough to make something flutter between my hips, something hot that I hadn’t been able to stop feeling even through the night. I had spent hours lying awake with Cohen on my mind, the way he had looked at me, that domineering tone in his voice and how it had instantly made my pussy hot and swollen, imagining other ways in which he would like to be in control.

“Did you check on Paul this morning?” he asked. He wasn’t eating, but seemed to be finished with his food. He sat there with me, though, his eyes on my face. I had trouble eating; his gaze was magnetic, so sensual that I couldn’t look away. The room was thick with a tension that made my body flush with arousal.

“Yes,” I said to him. “I did.”

“There is a list upstairs of his medication,” he said. “It should be given to him every two hours.”

“I saw it. I was wondering about his history, though. You mentioned in the advertisement that he has Alzheimer’s? How long has that been going on?”

“About a year now. It only now got worse. I was able to take care of him for the most part, but now he needs care at all times. I have to work.”

“Seems a man like you would stop working at this point,” I said. “Take it easy.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said.

“I know you’re a wealthy man. I know that you’re a—”

“Go ahead and finish that sentence,” he growled. “I dare you.”

I grinned at him, gazing at him through my lashes.

“So what if I do? What if I say that you’re kind of an asshole? Will you fire me?” I asked him, surprised at the words even as they came out. Something about his power, his dominance, made me want to push back against him, to tease him and come out on top.

He gave me an even look.

“Everything you say puts you deeper into trouble,” he said. “Just keep talking, Abby. Keep being disrespectful.”

“You’re just not used to women talking back to you, are you?” I challenged him. He gave me a half-grin, cocky, so sexy it made me ache.

“I’m very good at getting women to do what I want,” he said. “That’s not something I struggle with.”

I swallowed, closing my eyes for a second, my body flushing all over. I felt it creeping up my neck and into my cheeks as I looked at him.

“Well, I’m not going to do everything you say,” I said. “I’m here to take care of Paul.”

“You’re here because I hired you,” he said. I stood up then, and he sat there, his eyes traveling up my body. They lingered on my breasts for a moment, which were full and high, my nipples clearly hard through the thin bra I’d worn. I crossed my arms over my chest, wanting to hide it from him. Letting him know that I was aroused would only give him more power that I didn’t want him to think that he had.

“Something on your mind, Abby?” he asked, studying my face with that small, cocky smile.

“No,” I said quickly, loading up a plate with food to bring up to Paul. He chuckled and I knew he knew that I was lying. I hurried out of the room quickly, ready to go upstairs to Paul, to get away from the man who seemed to be crawling under my skin.

After I finished feeding Paul, I went into my room, opening my computer excitedly. I had an email from James—something fluttered in my chest when I saw it, excited to hear from him.

Gabriella,

I know I’ve never asked this, and I hope it’s not strange, but I want to know what you look like. Sometimes I picture you and I’m not sure if it’s real or not. I can see your smile, though. I want to see it for real.

You don’t have to send me a picture. Don’t. Just describe yourself for me.

James

As usual, I held my breath as I read the letter, smiling the whole time. Hearing from James always put me in a mood like this, giddy and excited. I exhaled when it was finished, closing my laptop. I had to think about my answer before I sent it. I wanted to tell the truth, but at the same time, my emails with James were a fantasy. I used my real name, which hardly anybody knew, and had always kept my true identity a secret. I lay back in bed, closing my eyes, thinking of a way to describe myself to James in just the type of humor he liked. Thinking about him made me feel better after my emotional morning, and I spent a long time daydreaming, also wondering what my secret pen pal looked like.