I wonder if she’s wearing it for my benefit or if she just likes walking around in a cocoon.
Abby sets herself a rather formal place setting at the dining table—fabric napkin, sterling silver forks and knives—all carefully placed in the proper order. In the kitchen, she heats a premade plate of bland fish and vegetables, with a dry salad on the side. And to wash it all down, after a long, hard day . . . water.
With no ice.
Christ, this girl needs to loosen up. It’s fucking heartbreaking.
She’s in the prime of her life—beautiful, obviously brilliant—and she spends her nights alone, eating food like a granny who needs to mind her dentures, without even background noise for company.
I was raised a strict Catholic, but more than that, I believe in God—those two are not always mutually exclusive. I believe God has a plan for all of us, a purpose. And now, more than ever, standing in this dreary flat, watching this stunning girl eat her sad, lonely little meal—I believe God wants me to screw some joy into Abby Haddock’s life.
Lucky for me, the Almighty’s desires coincide with my own.
And I’m more than up to the task.
A gentle quiet settles over the room as Abby eats her dinner, save for the occasional hushed scrape of her flatware. Some clients struggle with personal security—it makes them uncomfortable having someone present who’s all up in their business all the time. But I don’t sense any awkwardness now. Because Abby was raised amongst servants—and because I think she’s accustomed to the quiet. To being alone.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Sullivan?” she asks shyly—like she was debating if she should pose the question. “My personal chef, Miles, prepares my meals several times a week. There’s plenty to eat if you’d like some.”
She’s being polite. Because she’s stuffy in every sense of the word . . . but not rude. There’s a natural friendliness to her that, for some reason I haven’t figured out yet, she tries so very hard to suppress.
“It’s nice of you to ask. But I’m good.”
I’d like to share a pint with her—or a bottle of anything—wine, whiskey, champagne. I bet piss-drunk Abby would be hilariously adorable. I’d love to see her take a swig straight from the bottle—loose and laughing and lovely. And I make a promise to myself that I’ll make that happen . . . but it won’t be tonight.
I hear Bea’s approaching footsteps out in the hall before she knocks on the door. Abby follows behind me as I move to answer it, and Bea walks in wearing the standard uniform—dark trousers, dark blue blouse and her own personal touch—black combat boots.
I make the introductions and Abby holds out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bea.”
“Why is she a pleasure?” I complain. “I’m so much more of a pleasure than she is.” I give her a wink. “I’ll have to work harder at making our time together more pleasurable for you—I have a few ideas.”
Abby shakes her head. “And there you go being professional again.”
Bea jerks her thumb in my direction, telling Abby, “Professional bodyguard and a professional charmer, this one—don’t take anything he says seriously.”
Abby’s glittering green eyes meet mine—almost playfully, and her lips tease the hint of a smile.
“That makes so much sense.”
Then Bea amends her statement.
“Unless he tells you to get down or run or don’t move—that sort of thing. Then you should definitely listen to him.”
I don’t take my eyes from Abby’s because . . . well . . . she’s just damn nice to look at. And it’s even nicer when she’s looking back at me.
“Much appreciated, Bea.”
“Always trying to help, Tommy.”
Abby squares her shoulders and straightens her robe, even though it didn’t need straightening. “Well, good night then, Mr. Sullivan.”
I dip my chin and soften my voice. “Sweet dreams, Abby.”
* * *
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Abby Haddock rides a bicycle.
“Not in the least.”
A ridiculous bicycle—bright yellow with a light and a wicker basket in front and a silver bell attached to one handlebar—that she wants to ride to the hospital.
“It doesn’t seem very sensible.”
I discover this the next morning when I relieve Bea of duty outside Abby’s building.
“It’s perfectly sensible. We each need to do our part to help the environment—too many cars will be the death of us all. Also, surgical residency involves insanely long hours; I have to squeeze in rigorous physical activity where I can.”
She completely set herself up for that one—I just can’t resist.
“I know some rigorous physical activities that are a hell of a lot more fun than riding a bike.”
When that doesn’t get a reaction, I lean forward, whispering. “I’m talking about fucking. The really good, sweaty kind.”
It’s all good—long, hard, sweet or sweaty—any which way will do.
Flirting is fun. Teasing is foreplay. And playing with Abby like this—making her laugh and blush and frown—is all part of warming her up and breaking her down. How I’ll enchant her and charm her and show her what an irresistible man I am.