I shake my head—deny, deny, deny.
“Messy doesn’t scare me, I just don’t have time for it. I’m trying to accomplish something here—become something, not just for the family, but for myself as well. What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Luke says softly. “I just hate to see you close yourself off . . . from life. From joy. You have to give yourself a break once in a while, Abby, or you won’t be able to become all you want to be. That’s what Dr. Whitewater was really saying.”
“It doesn’t have to be messy,” Kevin adds. “I mean, you don’t want him to be your boyfriend—you want him to be your . . . professional banging buddy. There could be rules to keep it simple. If he wants you bad enough—and he’d be an idiot not to—he’ll agree.”
I take a moment to consider it—because Kevin’s plan sounds promising . . . and familiar.
“He said something to that effect,” I admit quietly.
“You didn’t tell me that!” Henrietta gasps. “What did he say?”
The image of Tommy Sullivan comes unbidden again. His heated, teasing gaze—his wicked, whispered words.
“That it could be simple with us. Uncomplicated.”
And good. Don’t forget so very, very good.
My skin starts to tingle—across my neck, up my thighs. The thought of Tommy Sullivan—of this—makes me tingle everywhere.
“It’s Saturday night,” Henrietta says. “I bet he’ll be at Paddy’s or Katy’s Pub. That’s where all the rowdy boys go.”
Henrietta knows her pubs, and beer . . . and boys.
“We could go there and you could lay it all out for him. See what he says. Come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
This does put a different light on things.
I wouldn’t be sleeping with Tommy Sullivan because he’s handsome as sin and probably has moves that could make my head explode. I’d be doing it to further my career. In pursuit of my goals. To become a better surgeon.
It sounds plausible. Permissible. Sensible.
And in that moment, I give myself permission to give it a go. To try. To step into the seductive whirlwind that is Tommy Sullivan . . . come what may.
The tingles are at full charge now and a thrilling, intense excitement pulses in my veins.
But then . . . a different, unfamiliar sensation swamps me. My palms go clammy and my heart rate picks up, and my face is suffused with uncomfortable heat.
“What’s the matter?” Luke asks.
I swallow past the constriction in my throat. “I’m nervous. I’ve never propositioned anyone before.”
Henrietta looks at me like I’ve said the silliest statement that’s ever been said.
“You have tits, Abby. They’ll do all the propositioning for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tommy
I DON’T BELIEVE IN REGRET. It always seemed pointless to me—a waste of time and energy. There’ve been mornings when I’ve woken up half-dead and sick as a dog, and wished I’d thought twice about the drinking I did the night before. When I was nine, I let it slip to my mum that I’d seen Arthur and Annie Donaldson humping out behind the shed—and afterward, while Arthur was giving me the beating of my life, I wanted to go back in time and keep my trap shut.
But when it comes to women, I find it easy to let go, move on, part amicably and not look back. No regrets. Like the great Dr. Seuss once said: Don’t cry because you’re not in balls-deep anymore—smile because you were. Or something to that effect.
It’s different with Abby Haddock.
The thought of her . . . sticks.
Hangs on.
Accompanied by a cold side serving of, not regret exactly, but disappointment at a missed opportunity. That feeling that one—a really fucking good one—got away.
And it’s not that I read her wrong or that she wasn’t interested—I’m still sure she was. What niggles at me is that she wasn’t ready to be interested. At least not that night. And that keeps me hoping. It keeps me thinking of her. Imagining in filthy, illicit, high-definition detail how damn hot it would’ve been between us.
Could still be.
When she’s ready.
“Turn your shoulders,” I instruct Owen from behind the bag, in the gym of the shop where I’m giving him pointers. “Don’t just hit with your fist. Put all your weight behind it.”
Owen jabs at the bag again.
“Better.”
He does a dozen more repetitions before we call it a night, lock up and head out.
Lo and I alternate driving days to save on gas and today was my day to drive. We pull up to the front of his house—a two-story, brick home that he built himself. As we get out of the car Ellie comes skipping out the door in a fuzzy sweater and leggings, her blond hair bouncing as she meets us halfway up the front walk.
Well—she meets Logan there—jumping up into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist, gazing at him with baby-blue eyes like he’s the only man in the whole world.