CHAPTER TWO
“The bagel, Abby!” Ronald hisses as he pulls the blackened bread from the toaster.
Crap. I burnt it.
“You’ve got to pay attention! I saw you staring off into space again.”
“I know,” I admit guiltily. “I’m so sorry.”
Ronald must be tired of hearing me say the words.
“You keep saying the words but your actions…” He lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Maybe this isn’t for you.”
“It is!” I rush out in fear of getting fired. “I’ll stay late to learn how to work the machines and I’ll figure things out. I’ll do whatever it takes. I need this job. Please. I promise I won’t mess up again.”
Ronald doesn’t look like he believes me.
“Swear,” I nod earnestly. “I won’t let you down again.”
“Just work the cash register,” he mumbles. “You can handle that without too many missteps.”
I choose not to answer and turn to stand in front of the register as someone comes up to place an order.
I plaster the fake smile on my face before I look up.
“Good morning,” I say. “What can I get you?”
It is unfortunate Ronald didn’t let me continue burning bagels.
Fuck.
Me.
It’s Michael bloody Sinclair.
Standing right in front of me in all of his magnificent glory. Unexpected desire shoots through my body as I smile awkwardly and try to straighten out the green apron I’m wearing. I’m immensely grateful I’m wearing the company hat today. I’m hoping it covers up my flushed cheeks.
If he’s surprised to see me working as a barista at the popular coffee shop it doesn’t show. I realize the last time I came this close to him was months ago at his younger brother William’s funeral when he was overcome with grief. We had barely exchanged three words.
Now, this.
Not exactly how I hoped I’d look or what I’d be wearing when I saw him again.
Mortifying!
“Abigail.” His voice is like velvet.
Rich. Delectable.
Heavenly.
Fuckable.
I look up at his ruggedly handsome face and suck in my breath. Good Lord, he is perfect.
He has a bit of stubble, and his blue eyes practically beam out of his face as he stares at me with the Sinclair intensity. He’s dressed casually in a thermal black shirt that stretches out over his broad chest, a puffer vest, and blue jeans. His black hair is longer than usual and held back with a hair band.
He looks delicious and dangerously appealing. Like one of those high-calorie, mouth-watering Frappucinos I’m forced to make every day and use all my willpower not to consume.
“Michael,” I give him a big smile, pretending like working at a coffee shop is the most normal thing in the world for me. “Nice to see you.”
“You too.”
“So what can I get you?” I know my voice sounds awkward. I really wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
“Just this,” he says as he hands me a bottle of water.
“It’s on me,” I tell him with a fake smile.
He hands me a hundred pound note.
“Take it,” he says.
“No,” I shake my head. “I insist. We’re family, after all.”
I know my face must be the color of a tomato with how embarrassed I feel. As if my life can’t get any more depressing.
Michael’s keen gaze meets mine for a long moment.
“Thank you,” he says then proceeds to drop the hundred pound note in the tip jar.
I see the gesture for what it’s meant to be.
Charity.
Michael feels sorry for me and this is his way to give back to someone in need. Exactly the way he does with his company—The Michael Sinclair Foundation. He runs one of the world’s largest charitable foundations—doing everything from helping children around the world have clean water, saving endangered animals, wildlife and marine conservation, researching climate change and fighting for Indigenous rights. Did he just add me to his list of those he needs to help?
To say I’m mortified is the understatement of the century.
But more than that, I’m angry.
Furious, actually.
I keep my smile plastered on my face, reaching into the tip jar to pull out the note to hand it right back to him.
“I think you made a mistake,” I tell him.
“I didn’t,” he tells me, raising an eyebrow like he’s chastising me. “It’s yours… cousin.”
Now I know my face has really changed color. I can hear the innuendo in the word. Like he knows it makes me uncomfortable as hell. I see the way his eyes flicker to my lips. Teasing me. Turning me on.
The image of his mouth on mine comes to mind.
Kissing cousins.
That’s what we are.
It’s not like we’re blood-related.
I’ll have to talk myself off a ledge in no time thanks to this man.
“It’s actually ours,” Ronald says in excitement as he comes up to stand next to me. He’s obviously been listening in on our conversation. “We split tips. Wait. You guys are cousins?”
I want to scream and tell Ronald it’s none of his bloody business but I can’t—I need this godforsaken job.
“Through marriage,” I tell him quickly, and to my horror, I hear Michael actually laugh.
I turn to him.
“Great to see you, cousin.”
Michael gives me a mocking grin and doesn’t bloody move.
“When do you have your next break?” he asks instead.
“Now,” Ronald quickly answers before I can lie.
“No,” I shake my head at the red-haired devil. “I’ve still got a ways to go—”
“You’re off the clock,” he interrupts me, smiling at Michael like he’s enamored. “Go and grab something to eat with your cousin.”
“Wonderful,” Michael smiles charmingly and meets my gaze, almost challenging. He knows damn well how uncomfortable I am. “Let me take you to lunch, Abigail.”
I hate it when he calls me Abigail. Like he’s admonishing me for bad behavior.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know that,” he returns. “But I want to.”
And I want to do so much more with you…
“Just give me a minute,” I say to him after a long second, knowing I don’t have much of a choice. “I’ll see you out front.”
I leave the cash register and walk to a room in the back of the shop where we keep our belongings. I pull off my apron and hat and turn to look at myself in the mirror. I gasp when I see the image that stares back at me.
Oh, my Lord.
My long brown hair is in wild mess around my pale face. The heat from the coffee must have melted my mascara because it’s running down my cheeks like I’ve spent the morning crying, or worse, doing some type of illicit drug I’ve only read about.
I can’t help it.
I burst out laughing.
Like the crazy kind of laughter that tends to scare people off.
But look at me. Abigail Mary Walters. Once, a refined lady about to marry one of England’s richest bachelors—now, a hot mess.
I pull back my hair into a ponytail, smooth out my white shirt over my fitted jeans, and do my best to clean up the mess under my eyes.
I sigh as I take in my sad appearance. Unfortunately, it’s really not going to get much better than this. But what can I do? Michael already saw what I looked like. He is forcing me to have lunch with him. I might as well make him suffer through staring at the walking disaster I’ve become.
I grab my handbag and head out to face my lifelong crush. A shiver of excitement races down my spine as my traitorous heart pounds in my chest. It takes all my willpower to stay the course and meet him out front. For a moment I debate walking out the back door and ignoring him altogether, but I have a feeling that would not go over very well with him.
I make my way out of the coffee shop and find Michael standing outside with his hands in his pockets, waiting for me. When I reach his side, I feel especially small with him towering over me.
The look on his face is indecipherable.
“Sushi?” he asks as he studies me.
I really hope I got all the mascara out from under my eyes.
“Italian?” Michael goes on. “What would you like?”
“Indian.” My response is fast. “I’ve been craving it for some time. Unless you don’t care for it?”
Michael looks surprised.
“I love Indian,” he says.
“I know a great place that’s close by,” I tell him. “It’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food makes up for the lack of ambiance.”
“I’ll follow your lead.” He motions toward the sidewalk.
“It’s not far,” I reply as I start walking.
Michael falls into step next to me.
His arm brushes against mine, and I feel as though I’ve been burned by the gods of lust. I put a bit of distance between us since the last thing I need to be doing is rubbing up against this man in any way. It’s not at all safe for my sanity or my libido.
“So how have you been?” I finally ask in what I hope is my calm voice. “How are your parents doing?”
“As well as can be expected.” His response is curt.
There’s a long silence between us. I can imagine his brother William’s death is not a topic he wants to discuss. I don’t blame him at all, but I felt obliged to ask.
“How is Clayton?” I ask softly as I sneak a peek at him.
I’ve become email pen pals with Sophie, Clayton’s American girlfriend, who I met at my “almost wedding” to Dimitri. I really liked her, and we stayed in touch after she left London. I know Clayton’s been staying out with her in Los Angeles and from the sound of things, it seems like they’re both doing really well.
I’m happy for my cousin. Even when he was younger, he was always rigid and almost unapproachable, but since Sophie’s come into his life, he’s slowly become a whole new man.
“He sounds like he’s doing well,” Michael says. “But I’ll know for sure when I go out and visit him.”
“Do you have a trip planned to Los Angeles?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Michael shrugs and looks over at me. “I guess it depends on how much longer my brother will be staying out there.”
“Well, it sounds like he’s doing well and I’m very happy for him,” I say. And I mean it.
“Me too,” Michael admits then turns to me and laughs. “There’s hope for me yet, Abby.”
“Hope?” I question.
“Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a woman to change me too.”
My heart sinks in dread at the thought of any woman other than me reforming Michael.
“Watch where you’re going!” Michael calls out as he grabs hold of my arm and pulls me out of the way of the telephone pole I’m an inch away from plastering my face into.
“Thanks,” I stammer, pulling myself out of his grip.
I’m angry at myself for being annoyed at the possibility of Michael settling down. He is not my boyfriend. Nor has he ever been. And besides that, I should want him to be happy. He deserves the best because he is a good man. He deserves to find love.
But can’t he find all that with you? My inner voice asks the question that’s plagued me from the first moment I set eyes on him.
We reach the entrance to the Indian restaurant, and I’m thankful for the distraction.
“We’re here,” I tell him.
We walk in the small family-owned restaurant, and since there are only a few tables, we seat ourselves in the intimate space. Pictures of famous views in India and a collection of off-season fairy lights have been hung up but other than that the décor is pretty bare. The smell of Indian spices fills the air and my stomach growls in anticipation. Michael looks around and shakes his head.
“Do you come here often?” he asks in disbelief.
“I do,” I admit, noticing the startled look on his face. “Why do you ask? You seem surprised.”
“I am,” he admits slowly. “This is just not the kind of place I’d picture you eating at.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a Sloanie.”
My back stiffens.
“Come on, Abby,” Michael laughs as he takes in the look on my face. “If there were a picture of proper in the dictionary, it would be yours. Can you deny you spent your teens in and out of high-end retail stores, running around in A-list social circles, all while hoping to make the match of the century? A husband to outdo all other husbands?”
“Is that what you think of me?” I’m horrified even though his observation about my life isn’t far from the truth. The only thing I didn’t do from his list is the search for the match of the century. That was a duty I left to my mother.
Michael pins his gaze on me.
“Am I wrong?”
“I’d like to think my life has had a bit more meaning,” I return curtly and try my hardest not to let on that I’m hurt by his words. “And I’m not always so proper.”
The waitress comes to stand next to our table.
“I’ll have a green tea,” I say without missing a beat. She nods and looks over at Michael.
“I’ll take whatever beer on tap you have.” I watch as the woman’s eyes light up when she looks at Michael. I try not to roll my eyes. It’s annoying that no female seems to be immune to his charms.
“And we’ll just need a minute to look over the menu,” he continues as he gives her a charming smile.
The second she turns and leaves us, Michael’s hand reaches out and grabs mine. The single gesture sends a surge of electricity through my body. I try to pull my hand back, but he won’t let me.
“I apologize if I hurt your feelings,” he says sincerely. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“I’m fine,” I shrug and do my best to keep eye contact.
“Are you?” he asks, studying my face.
“Perfect.”
We stare at each other for a long time, and I wonder if Michael Sinclair can see into my soul. If he can see all my insecurities, fears and doubts. Because he’s absolutely right.
I am not fine.
I am the opposite of fine.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
I tug my hand and this time he lets me pull away. I pick up the menu and stare blindly at the items.
“What do you recommend?” he asks after a moment.
“Everything is really good here. You can’t go wrong.”
“Then I’ll let you order,” he says to my surprise as he leans back in his chair.
The waitress brings our drinks, and I order a few of my favorite items. When she leaves us, I take a nervous sip of my tea and try not to openly gawk at his gorgeousness.
“So how’s work treating you?” Michael asks, lifting his beer to his lips.
I watch the way his bicep flexes against the thin material of his shirt when he brings the drink to his mouth. Oh dear. I hope I’m not drooling. Now that would not be very proper of me.
“It’s great,” I shrug indifferently.
“How long have you been working there?”
“A little over three weeks.”
“I can’t say I’m not surprised,” Michael says.
“That I’m actually working or that I’m a barista?” I’m sure he can hear the annoyance in my voice.
“By both.”
“Aren’t you just full of compliments this morning,” I remark sarcastically.
“Abby,” Michael leans forward and stares at me with those sexy eyes of his. “Come on. Your current predicament is a far cry from being the fiancé of a Russian oligarch.”
“Things change.”
“Things don’t change,” Michael says firmly. “People do.”
“Then I guess I’m different now,” I say defiantly.
It annoys me, really.
Michael thinks he knows me so well. But he doesn’t. He only knows a picture. A facade that I carefully put up through all the years. An image for people to see. It’s a far cry from the real Abby.
Unfortunately, I don’t even know who that woman is yet. I’m still trying to figure that part out, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever really know. But at least I feel like I’m finally on the right road.
My own path.
In charge of my destiny.
Finally.
“Why did you break off the wedding?” I’m not surprised when he asks.
“It’s not something I’d like to discuss.” It’s my go-to answer for anyone who asks the obvious question. And it’s the truth.
“I’m curious.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Was he unfaithful?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt you?” His tone is protective, and it touches me.
“No,” I shake my head. “He did not.”
“So there’s no need me for me to avenge your honor?” He sounds serious.
“You can put the pistols away,” I tell him with a laugh. “I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re both better off, and I’m sure he sees that now. It’s a chapter I’ve closed in my life that I don’t ever wish to revisit or even discuss. It’s over. That’s all there is to know.”
“So you say,” he says as he leans back in his chair, his face impassive.
I hope he’s satisfied with my answer.
“I can only assume your mother didn’t take the news too well?” he says, half joking.
“Not at all,” I try to laugh it off, hoping I don’t come across like I care. Even though I do. No matter her flaws, she’s the only mother I have, and it hurts to know that I’ve disappointed her.
“She wasn’t thrilled with my decision,” I say to him. “To be honest, she’s barely speaking to me.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Michael admits, looking at me with concern. “Has it been hard for you?”
I can feel my body tense at his words. The only person who ever asks how I’m doing is Georgie.
It’s nice to hear someone worry about me.
Especially him.
“It was at first,” I admit to him with a shrug. “But then, I got used to it. It’s not like I’m surprised by her behavior.”
“You should be.” Michael’s voice is harsh. “She’s your mother.”
He’s right, I know. But then, he didn’t grow up with her.
“It’s all right,” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m resigned to the fact that I can’t ever seem to make her happy.”
“You shouldn’t worry about making anyone but yourself happy, Abby. That’s all that matters. Trust me.”
The genuine concern and empathy I hear in his voice is nearly my undoing.
“Well, you can rest assured that I’m happy with my decision,” I tell him with as much composure as I can muster. “And I really have no regrets.”
“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs before his eyes flicker to my lips, causing my thoughts to drift away from my mother and enter into a more sinful zone.
“If you’ll humor me,” he says softly, “I just have one last question for you.”
“What’s that?” I ask, hoping I sound calm.
“I’m really hoping you’ll answer this time,” his voice lowers seductively.
“This time?” I all but whisper back.
Michael tilts his head and gazes at me.
“Was he good in bed?”
Unfortunately, it just so happens I’m taking a sip of my green tea when he asks that question. I spit the liquid out clear across the table. Remarkable really, how far my spit flies. Michael has a good chuckle before busying himself with wiping away my mortifying mess while I gasp for breath and try to think of a suitable reply.
“That’s quite a response,” he says with a smirk.
“That was quite a question,” I reply indignantly.
“I’m trying to understand why you’d agree to marry him.”
“That question is still as completely inappropriate as it was the last time you asked!” I growl, crossing my arms.
Memories of the kiss we shared at my engagement party flood my mind. How good would it feel to have those strong hands of his all over my body right now? It’s shocking really, just how turned on I am in a matter of seconds.
“Then why would you want to stay with him?” he prods, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s causing.
“People can make mistakes.”
Michael watches me intently.
“They can,” he agrees. “But you. You’ve always been in control. So wound up—”
“Wound up?” I interrupt in surprise.
“Very,” Michael’s smile is slow, seductive. “That’s why I’ve been so curious to know if Dimitri was able to break that perfect composure of yours...”
In bed.
I know that’s what he’s implying.
It’s almost impossible for me to get my thoughts under control. It’s not fair how fast Michael always ends up making me feel so confused.
“That wasn’t very proper of me, was it?” He lifts a brow with a mischievous grin, and now I know he’s playing with me.
“It’s fun breaking the rules,” he goes on. “You should try it sometime.”
I don’t even know how to respond to him. Is he just teasing me? Is it just fun for him to see how far he can push me?
I can feel the heat rush to my face as his penetrating gaze continues to study me.
“What?” I finally say after I can’t bear the silence any longer.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” He grins teasingly.
“Absolutely not,” I lie with as much bravado as I can muster.
Michael throws back his head and laughs.
“I think you’re lying,” he tells me.
“I think your ego would prefer I was,” I counter.
He shrugs and gives me a sexy smile.
“Maybe.”
I can feel my heart pound in my chest. My only hope is that he can’t tell what he’s doing to me. How thoroughly turned on I am.
Wet.
Literally.
Wet.
I wonder how much more of this torture I can take.
“So if this is the new and improved Abby,” Michael says after a moment, “come and work for me.”
My world stops.
“What?”
Is he serious?
“You’re not a very good barista,” Michael points out the obvious. “And I don’t mean to be insulting because I’m only telling you what the entire line of customers were witness to.”
He has the audacity to deliver that insult with another one of his sexy smiles. I should be offended, but instead, my libido goes into overdrive.
“I’m still trying to get the hang of it,” I finally manage to say as it dawns on me that his opinion of me might not be very high.
I want to tell him he’s wrong.
But the odds are stacked against me.
I’m a grown woman who’s never had a job. Who can’t manage to make a proper cup of coffee on her own and who was willingly engaged to a man she didn’t love.
What an attractive package I must appear to him.
“Come and work for me, Abigail.” Michael’s voice is forceful.
“You’re serious.”
“Quite,” Michael watches me with an unreadable look. “My PA has left me and I need to replace her. You need the money. It’s actually a perfect situation.”
Perfect?
Becoming Michael Sinclair’s PA is not exactly what I picture for my future. Not that being a piss-poor barista is, but still, at least I’m in charge of my destiny. Calling the shots. Answering to a boss that doesn’t know a thing about my old life or self, who only knows me as I am now. Who only judges me based on my skills or lack thereof…
“And besides, we’re family.”
I can feel my heart pound in my chest.
Family.
I don’t like the way his words make me feel.
“It’s a generous offer,” I tell him slowly. “But I’ll have to decline.”
“Why?” Michael demands. “And this time look me in the eyes when you answer the question.”
My blood simmers as I meet his gaze dead-on and feel the familiar rush move through my body. Damn him. And damn this undeniable attraction I have always had for him. The desire to jump across the table and rip his clothes off and lick every inch of his tanned body. I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.
I’m pretty sure the odds are very unlikely.
“I don’t think I like your tone,” I finally say.
“Well I don’t like your answer,” he returns.
“Because you always get your way?”
His silence is telling.
“It’s a generous offer,” I say appreciatively. “But you and I both know, I’m not right for the job.”
“If I didn’t think you were right for it, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Michael—”
“Do you think you’re right at being a barista?”
It’s hard not to miss the sarcasm in his voice.
“I’m learning.”
“Come and learn from me.” Michael’s tone changes. It’s almost seductive. “I know I can teach you a few things. And I promise you’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
My stomach does a somersault, then a high kick, as I am undoubtedly sure he can teach me many things.
But what I’d like him to teach me and what he has in mind are two completely different areas of expertise.
“Take a chance, Abby,” Michael goes on. “We’ll have fun together.”
Fun?
Together?
For a moment I’m tempted, but then a picture comes to mind… me sitting outside his office door behind a desk taking calls from all the women in his life. Setting lunch dates. Dinner dates. Travel plans. I wouldn’t be able to run from it, pretend it wasn’t happening because I’d know exactly where he was and who he was doing it with at all times.
“No,” I reply sharply, realizing I wouldn’t be able to handle working for him in this capacity. “My answer is no.”
“Why?” Michael frowns as he leans forward and crowds the table with his energy. I move back in my chair and try to keep as much distance from him as I can.
“Stop asking why. I don’t have to give you a reason. I can just say no.”
“I’ll pay you well,” he continues forcefully. “You won’t have to worry about money.”
If anything that makes me want to refuse the job even more.
“It’s still no.”
I almost cringe when I see the hard glint in his eyes.
“Are you afraid?” Michael asks in a low voice.
“What?” For a moment I think he knows exactly why I want to keep as much distance as I can from him.
“Are you afraid I’ll be hard on you?”
Oh, Michael, I’d love for you to be hard inside me… That’s the fundamental problem here.
“No, of course not.”
“Aren’t you up for the challenge? Something different?” Michael continues. “The adventure.”
Adventure.
Wouldn’t that be lovely?
The idea of an adventure is too enticing for words.
To be honest, at this very moment in my life, adventure sounds like everything I need. Unfortunately, I know it’s not a safe bet with Michael since it will only serve to turn my life into more of a crazy mess.
“My answer still stands.”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s too good at masking his thoughts.
“All right,” he finally says, sounding disappointed. “But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Michael actually smiles.
“We’ll see.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s a statement of fact,” he says.
“Have you always been so arrogant?” The words come out before I can stop them.
Michael bursts out laughing.
“Probably.”
Before I can give him a proper letdown, the server brings our food.
“Smells delicious,” Michael says as he looks at the assortment of Indian cuisine.
He serves me a generous portion before helping himself.
“Eat up, Abby,” he orders. “I think your lunch break is almost up. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you get fired.”
***
When I open the door to my two-bedroom flat later that evening, I’m mentally and physically exhausted. Ronald couldn’t have been nicer when I returned to work. I gathered it was because of Michael’s more than generous tip. Whatever it was, I’d take it if it meant he’d be less irritated with me.
My apartment, a quintessential Victorian, is my sanctuary. It was the last gift my father had left for me, and one I’m eternally grateful for. He purchased it when he was a bachelor, right before he met my mother in America. We had updated it through the years, but I really wanted to keep the bones the way my father found it.
It makes me feel closer to him.
With high ceilings and a generous view of Hyde Park, it’s the perfect space. My taste in furniture is very English and traditional. I inherited all of my father’s historic art and antiques, pieces that have been in the family forever. Mixed in with modern furniture I’ve purchased, it makes my home feel both cozy and up-to-date. I’m a fan of neutral color themes, crèmes and whites with velvet and floral cushions placed on the couches. My friends tell me I have an eye for interior design, and I must admit, I did enjoy putting my home together.
Since my mother believed I would be marrying Dimitri, no expense had been spared. I wonder if she now regrets being so extravagant.
“Enfin te voila!” I hear my best friend, Georges de Banville, in his thick French accent calling out to me from my kitchen. “You’re late.”
I walk to the kitchen and find Georgie—which he prefers to go by—opening a bottle of champagne. I smile when I take in his appearance.
He’s always dressed in designer clothes from head to toe. The cost of one of his outfits could feed a family of four for a month. And not only that, but his looks also fit the part as well.
Georgie has dark olive colored skin and a face that should have been in fashion magazines. He’s beautiful. I’ve always thought he looked like an underwear model. Like an ad you’d see for Calvin Klein.
Georgie pours the champagne into two glasses and hands me one.
“Abby,” he begins as he takes in my appearance and shakes his head in dismay as he dramatically motions to my outfit. “We need a spa day. It’s an emergency situation for you. Look at those nails!”
“Like the good old times,” I tell him drolly. I take a sip of the champagne and sigh in pleasure. “This is delicious. And so needed after the afternoon I’ve had.”
“Oui,” he says. “Now tell me, was he as beautiful as ever?”
After Michael walked me back to the coffee shop, I had immediately texted Georgie and told him the news. He wrote back instantly, and since he carries a spare key, he told me he would meet me at my apartment that evening.
So here he is.
Waiting to hear all the details.
I don’t leave anything out. And I do go on for a while about how ridiculously beautiful Michael looked. Sometimes I think Georgie is as obsessed with Michael as I am.
“Abby!” Georgie says, when I’m finally done with my story.
We are sitting on the couches now, with our feet propped up on the fluffy ottoman.
“If you don’t take the job with Michael, I might,” Georgie says in excitement. “I can’t think of anything more enticing than seeing that perfect specimen every day.”
“I can see it now,” I laugh just picturing the image of Georgie bringing Michael a coffee in the morning. I doubt he’s ever even toasted a slice of bread. He has a full staff that takes care of his every need. Georgie is a trust fund baby, and what his parents failed to provide in the emotional department they made up for financially, ensuring he will never have to work a day in his life.
“Tell me again so I can understand,” Georgie says as he takes a piece of cheese off the plate I had put together and pops it in his mouth. “Why on earth did you turn him down?”
“I can’t work for him.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“It’s a recipe to finally get you into bed with him,” he counters. “Sex, Abby! Think about the office sex you can have with him. On his desk. Servicing him under his desk. On his couch. Against a door. How sordid and wonderful, and just what you need.”
“Georgie!” I can feel myself blush as I try to admonish him, but the picture that comes to mind from his words excites me.
Tempts me.
“I speak only the truth,” he says. “And I am only verbalizing the thoughts and words that lie dormant in your heart. I really dare you to deny it.”
“I won’t,” I counter. “But whatever the case, we both know that I cannot work for him.”
“Cannot?” Georgie says with a cocked brow. “Non, ma belle… you will not.”
“Imagine if I have to set dates with women—” I argue.
“You will. Undoubtedly, that will happen,” Georgie agrees quickly. “But then you will be the master of his domain.”
“What?”
“You will hold the keys to his kingdom, Abby,” Georgie says with a great deal of gusto. “Think about it.”
“I’m not following—”
“You can finally see him for who he is,” Georgie continues as if I haven’t spoken. “You will get to live with him in his world. See every part of his personality. Maybe he isn’t what you think, maybe, you will finally rid yourself of this dreadful crush.”
“Dreadful?”
“It has handicapped you in many ways,” he points out the obvious. “You’ve lived your life pining after him, even when you were in a relationship with other men. You’ve compared every man to him. Everything has always come down to Michael Sinclair.”
“That’s not fair,” I argue.
“How many nights have we spent talking about him?” Georgie counters. “How many nights have we spent dissecting his words, his actions, his looks even?”
“Some…” I shrug defensively.
“Some?” Georgie raises a brow in disdain. “Most. We have searched the internet for him. We have found pictures of the women he dated and picked them apart. We have gone to restaurants, clubs, and pubs, that you believed he might be at so that you might casually run into him.”
“All right—” I try to stop Georgie from speaking any more.
“Not only that, ma belle,” he continues dramatically, sounding almost horrified. “We have stalked him like common criminals. I, Comte Georges de Banville, have been an accomplice to your insanity!”
“Georgie!” I gasp. Just hearing him paint the picture makes me seem almost—
“Oui, Abby,” my friend says as if he can read my mind. “He makes you crazy. What is more, I feel that unstable, Single White Female alter ego of yours has the potential to rear her ugly head at any time. All because you are hoping that one day he will turn to you and admit his true feelings.”
It’s really sad that I can’t deny his words.
“I’m not that bad,” I argue.
Georgie’s look stops me from saying any more.
“I think of this as your chance,” Georgie says with a wave of his hand. “You can test the waters in an opportunity that was never given to you before. It’s not like seeing him two times a year and briefly flirting and dreaming about that flirtation for the next six months of your life. You will be with him every day, Abby.”
Every day.
I can’t deny it. The thought thrills me.
“You will see him for who he is. You will know him in every way. And you will finally be given a chance to see if he is as attracted to you as you are to him. Or sadly, if you are just crazy and cursed with an overactive imagination.”
Georgie smiles at me.
“I wouldn’t say no to his generous offer just yet.”