Chapter 11 Abby
ABBY
Ismooth my dress, ensuring that it’s wrinkle-free.
I’m wearing one of my only designer outfits—a gem of a find from an upscale consignment shop off King Street.
The silky, royal blue material skims my modest curves, and the high halter-neck design is demure enough to make the garment classy despite the thigh-high slit at the left side.
The dress dips into a low V at the back, and the warm evening air caresses my bare skin.
I hesitate just inside the entrance to The Magnolia, the boutique hotel with a rooftop bar where I was supposed to meet Dane eight minutes ago.
This might be a mistake. Now that I’m faced with the reality of this meeting, I’m wracked with uncertainty.
Dane is a customer, and I’ll have to see him at the café even if this goes badly.
I’m still troubled by the fact that I’ve spent hours fantasizing about a dark villain that wears his handsome face.
He proved through his actions at the market that he’s truly a white knight, and as much as I crave that version of him, I can’t let go of my shameful imaginings.
I’m not sure if I want him to rescue me or to ravage me.
My fingers tighten around my small black clutch as I struggle to master my rising anxiety.
I only have a single twenty-dollar bill and a wad of ones inside the bag—just enough to cover two cocktails.
If I choose to go up to the bar and see this through, I won’t be able to rely on alcohol to soothe my nerves; I can’t afford it.
Dane is waiting. I should’ve ridden the golden elevator up to the rooftop already, but I can’t stop staring at the art that fills the hotel entry hall.
This space has been set up as a small gallery featuring work by local artists.
I love it here, and a stroll down the corridor always calms me.
Even if I will never be talented enough to have my landscapes included in the collection.
A pang twinges my gut—something between envy and longing—as I stare at the abstract expressionist piece that dominates the wall beside the elevator.
It’s a breathtaking study in various shades of red: fiery rage, sultry seduction, and the blush of innocence corrupted.
It evokes the full spectrum of passion, and I allow myself to become absorbed by the beauty of the painting to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.
The elevator dings, the sound jolting me out of my reverie like a reverberating gong. I startle, and the golden doors slide apart to reveal Dane.
He’s stunning in a sharply fitted black jacket paired with dark wash jeans. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the tiniest peek at masculine chest hair.
My gaze snaps from that little hollow between his collarbones to his wrist as he tugs back his sleeve to check his Rolex. He quirks a dark brow at me, and his expression is enigmatic for a heartbeat while he fixes me in a steady green stare.
I shift my weight on my strappy, black high heels, and my cheeks flush a shade of pink that matches a swatch on the painting beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, embarrassment softening my tone.
I hate being late. My mother is perpetually tardy, and the remembered shame of entering every social function over half an hour late heats my face. I never want to be like her.
Dane’s dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “It’s my fault,” he assures me. “I should’ve waited down here to meet you. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
He offers his arm like some sort of gentleman out of Regency England. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback by the formal gesture.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to forget the pretentious, genteel behavior that I was taught by my family from a young age.
But Dane’s suave bearing suits him, and I can’t help being charmed; he’s not putting on a performance to impress me.
This is just who he is. He’s chivalrous like one of the dashing princes out of my favorite movies.
My lips curve in a smile of my own, and I step into the elevator to join him. My arm slides through his, my fingers resting on his forearm.
For a moment, I flash back to the awful night of my debutante ball and the performative bullshit that masks the rot at the core of Southern “high society”.
I take a breath and force those memories away. I won’t allow them to taint this night with Dane.
Shock immobilizes me when he casually touches my hair, trailing his long fingers over the purple streak. It’s curled in a loose wave, and I intentionally keep it swept in front of my shoulder as a matter of habit.
“I like this,” he remarks, and his deep voice seems to rumble through me. “Why purple?”
“It’s my favorite color,” I reply.
“It suits you.”
I flush at his compliment and speak before I can stop myself. “My dad used to say he would disown me if I ever colored my hair.”
I’m babbling to dispel some of the overwhelming tension that’s building between us in the cramped space of the elevator. I’m anxious in a way I’ve never experienced before—it’s a fizzy sensation that makes my body feel strangely light even as my stomach flips with nervous energy.
“But I’ve wanted to do it since I was thirteen,” I continue. As soon as I dropped out of college and started my new life two years ago, I made sure to dye in my amethyst streak. “So, I’m glad I did. My manager at the café doesn’t mind. Another advantage of avoiding a corporate job.”
“Beautiful.” Dane isn’t looking at my hair anymore, but he keeps the curl loosely curved around his forefinger. Those verdant eyes are fixed on my face, flicking over each of my features as though he’s memorizing me.
My cheeks heat again, but not from embarrassment this time; I’m gratified at his intense attention.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, even if the question is a bit inane.
“Blue.” He’s staring into my eyes now, as though he can peer straight into my soul.
My head tips back, and I sway toward him, drawn in by his hypnotic gaze.
The elevator dings, breaking the intimate moment. His fingertip traces the shape of my purple curl almost regretfully, then he withdraws.
He steps out of the elevator and guides me onto the rooftop.
The bar is to our left, the area covered with a black awning that shields our eyes from the setting sun.
To our right, the golden syrup sunlight bathes the open rooftop with waning summer heat.
The sky is turning a stunning shade of pink at the horizon, framing the historic church steeples that define the Charleston skyline.
The familiar artistic urge to drink in the vista tugs at my heart like a cord toward the railing that surrounds the rooftop, but my hand might as well be glued to Dane’s arm. I can’t bring myself to put distance between us, not after that magnetic interaction in the elevator.
A reckless, giddy thrill thrums through my system. The strange high should be slightly alarming, but it’s too addictive for me to question it.
We reach the bar, and Dane summons the bartender with a single nod. The gesture is almost imperious, but the air of authority suits him.
I’m so caught up in his commanding bearing that I don’t immediately protest when he orders an old fashioned and a glass of champagne. It’s not until the crystal flute is placed in front of me that I realize he’s ordered for me.
I shoot him a small frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was going to order something different.”
I can’t afford champagne, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I intend to pay for my own drinks, but this means I can only have a single glass of bubbly on my meager budget.
A dark brow lifts. “Oh? Don’t you like champagne?”
I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “I had planned to order a strawberry daiquiri.”
He huffs a laugh, and the rich sound surrounds me like I’m being submersed in warm honey. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known you’d want something sugary.”
I tilt my chin at him, puzzled. “And how would you know something like that?”
His half-smile is a touch indulgent. “Those badges you wear on your apron,” he explains. “I particularly like the happy donut.”
I release a small laugh of my own—a shy, girlish giggle I’ve never heard issue from my own throat before.
“I didn’t realize you pay so much attention to my pins.”
“I want to know you.” He gestures at the glass of champagne. “Leave that. I’ll order a daiquiri for you instead.”
“That’s okay.” I say quickly. I definitely can’t afford to waste the precious bubbly. “I like champagne.”
His expression firms to something slightly stern. “I’ll get whatever you want, Abigail.”
I meet him with my own steady stare, standing my ground. “I want the champagne. You don’t have to order for me.”
“What if I like ordering for you?” he replies with a small smirk that makes my belly flip. “What if I want to take care of you?”
There’s a teasing edge to his questions, but his smoldering gaze is pure temptation.
I sway toward him for half a heartbeat, drawn in despite my independent sensibilities.
I find the willpower to pick up the champagne flute and tip my glass at him in a sardonic toast. My heart is fluttering, and my fingers tingle against the cool crystal. My entire body feels alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Thank you, but I can take care of myself. I’m happy with the champagne.”
His eyes spark, and his nostrils flare slightly—like a predator that’s caught the scent of its prey.
A giddy high floods my veins, and my arm practically floats upward as I lift the flute with a teasing smile of my own.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his.
His smirk sharpens to a grin that’s almost feral, and he silently lifts his own drink. It’s not a capitulation; he’s indulging me. I’m not the only one caught up in this wild energy.
“Come on.” His hand abruptly engulfs mine, and he tugs me away from the bar. “You’ll want to watch the sun set.”