The Real

“Abbie, you worked hard for all that success, and you need to remember that when you get invited to watch another wedding.”

She knew. Of course, she knew. “How did you know?”

“I can hear

it in your bitter voice.” She laughed. “Who is it this time?”

“Rhonda Ziglar, and she’s thirty-two, so it gives me hope. Another bridesmaid dress. Another partner in crime gone. Mom, all my rowdy friends are settling down.”

“Abbie, look at it this way, if you were a shitty person, no one would want you in their wedding.”

“I’m going to give a terrible toast. Maybe it will scare the others away,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll have a closet full of dresses like that chick in that movie.”

“I don’t watch movies and you know it. Come over. We’ll eat lasagna, plot your speech, and drink too much of your father’s expensive scotch.”

Shoulders slumped, I nodded though she couldn’t see. I didn’t know how it was possible, but my mother was cooler than me. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

The following Saturday—deciding to postpone slob day for Sunday—I sat at my favorite table at Sunny Side wearing a cream sweater dress, skin-tight jeans, and comfortable slip-on Uggs. I’d powdered my freckles and used my favorite shimmering lip gloss. With my tresses stacked neatly and tied up, I sipped my caramel latte—extra foam—and powered up my Mac, just in case. I hadn’t seen Cameron waiting when I walked in and ignored the slight sting of disappointment. Maybe he’d found someone in that suit he wore who’d said yes to a drink and seemed less complicated than me. I had to brush it off. If it wasn’t Cameron, maybe it was someone else.

Abigail, today you will be open to possibilities. You’ll leave your cynical and bitter bitch face at the door. You will visualize what you want and go for it with eyes wide open and a clear mind. You are crazy. You’ve lost your damn mind and you sound like a self-help book. Help yourself by realizing you are crazy.

I buried my face in my hands and sighed before I killed the pessimist for the moment. Two cups into my workload, it happened.

Cameron’s Mac: Hi. Sorry I’m late.

I peeked over my screen to see a waiting smirk. The man looked like a cologne ad. I wanted to rip him open, scratch, and sniff, but not in that order. My belly dropped as the soft buzz of his presence drifted over my skin. He was wearing a thin sweater over a button-down, dark jeans cuffed at the bottom—which I found sexy—and brown leather boots.

Amused eyes studied me as his black lashes flitted over his cheeks and he tilted his head in admiration. His expression was as alluring as his threatening dimples. I had to rip my eyes away to respond.

Abbie’s Mac: Hi. It’s okay, I was just catching up on some work.

Cameron’s Mac: What do you do?

Abbie’s Mac: I’m a corporate financial consultant. It’s a pretty boring conversation starter. But I’ve got a thing for numbers.

Cameron’s Mac: Nothing boring about it if it’s your thing. You look like you’re in a better mood today.

I gave him a cheeky grin.

Abbie’s Mac: Opposed to?

Cameron’s Mac: The witchy one you were in last time we were here.

I opened my mouth in mock shock and pointed at myself.

Abbie’s Mac: How rude!

Cameron’s Mac: Yes, you were. Even so, I bought your coffee.

Abbie’s Mac: I did say no. I was polite about it.

Cameron lifted his mug that read Surely Not Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting. I laughed and shook my head. The air shifted. I let myself sink into the small amount of comfortable playfulness between us. I could do this.

This could be easy. And dare I hope, fun?

Abbie’s Mac: I’ll let you buy me a cup today, but there are rules.

He frowned.