12. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The next week evaporates.
One upside of my job? It doesn’t leave much time to dwell. Not on thoughts, or people. Judy and I arrive first at The Box, meeting up with former coworkers turned stay-at-home moms. Their kids are finally babysitter-ready, and I’m excited to see them again.
The bar surprises me. Despite the underwhelming name, the place gleams. Polished brass, sapphire velvet, and soft golden light. It’s classy without being pretentious. Exactly my kind of place.
I’m in a black dress again, much to Judy’s exasperation. But the necklace Will gave me adds just enough polish to make it feel like a choice. I figured I might as well get some use out of it.
Just thinking his name knots my stomach.
One date. That’s all it took for me to spread my legs for him.
In the moment, it felt inevitable. With distance, it feels like weakness.
And Will…he’s relentless.
My phone buzzes constantly with messages I refuse to answer. He’s shown up at my office three times this week, forcing Andrea to cycle through increasingly creative excuses:
“She’s with a client.”
“She’s in arbitration.”
“She’s at the Supreme Court this week.”
At home, I sit in the dark. When he knocks, I never answer. But he keeps coming back. Night after night.
He’ll stop eventually.
It’s not about being rude. It’s about self-preservation. The way he wore me down? At this rate, I’ll be agreeing to marry him by the third date.
And I know he’s not trying to talk about the case. Case updates would come by email. So he can’t call me unprofessional.
I need to focus on my client. The case. Not him.
Judy sips her martini and grins. “Ninety followers now.”
I nod, half-listening to her foundation plans, until Anya and Carrie slide into the booth.
An hour later and the table hums with laughter, the clink of glasses, stories overlapping like they used to. Our old friends look happy—tired, yes, but fulfilled in a way that tugs at something in me. I press my thumb into the stem of my wineglass.
No one notices when I go quiet.
“…ten pounds. Thank god for the c-section,” Anya says, prompting a round of groans and laughter.
“Abigail.”
The voice slices clean through the noise. The table stills.
Will stands at the edge of the booth, hands on his hips.
Oh no.
“A word?” he asks, his smile tight, not reaching his eyes. Bad sign. But with everyone watching, refusal isn’t an option.
Judy and Anya slide out to let me pass. I smooth my dress and follow him. His steps are clipped. Mine drag.
We stop in a quiet corner, far from the booth. He looks at the necklace, and my skin prickles. I wish I hadn’t worn it.
“You really piss me off,” he says, shaking his head.
“What?” I cross my arms.
“‘What?’” he mimics, sarcasm dripping. “I’ve been calling. Messaging. Coming around.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You’re mad I didn’t fuck you?”
My spine stiffens. “Could you say it a little louder?”
I glance back. My friends are still talking, laughing, oblivious. But my cheeks are on fire anyway.
“I could,” he says, shoulders softening just slightly. “I’m trying to understand. We had a good date. A great night. I wanted to show you it wasn’t just about sex for me, and then you shut me out.”
“Maybe it was just about sex for me.”
“Bullshit.” His jaw tics. “Should’ve known you’d pull this.”
“Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out?”
“I know enough,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re skeptical about us. I get it. But I’m going to prove you wrong.”
“There is no us.”
I turn to leave, but his arm closes around my waist and pulls me back against him. My breath catches.
“I’m not done.”
His hold eases, though his hand stays at my hip. For a second, he looks as conflicted as I feel.
This is happening again.
I can’t keep letting him this close.
“Is that why you were mad? I just want you to like me before I fuck you. Is that really so much to ask?” His voice is quieter now.
“Why?” I ask, a little sharper than I mean to.
“I want to know it’s real. You might get confused otherwise.”
My eyes narrow. “Are you seriously worried you’ll be so good in bed I’ll think I’m in love with you?”
“It happens,” he says without hesitation.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Glad you think so.” He’s still holding my waist and I’m not stopping him. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” It disarms me, slices right through the armor I’ve been clinging to.
His fingers tilt my chin up. His eyes now hold something dangerously close to vulnerability.
“Come home with me,” he says. “I want to show you something.”
The air between us hums. Emotionally, we’re a mess. Physically? The attraction is blinding. Primal. He’s a bad idea I can’t quite walk away from.
“What do you want to show me?” I ask.
“You’ll have to come and see.”
I hesitate. The girls won’t stay much longer. They’ll head home to their husbands and kids. Anya’s already gotten two texts from hers.
Me? I’ll go home to silence.
“I’ll say goodnight to the girls.”
I’d imagined Will living in a high-rise penthouse downtown, and I wasn’t wrong. But nothing prepared me for this.
Top floor. Larger than my entire house. An actual elevator attendant.
I bite back at least three "wows" as he guides me through a space that feels more like an art gallery than a home. It’s flawlessly styled in neutral tones that draw the eye to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glittering skyline beyond.
But it’s not the penthouse that distracts me.
It’s him.
The way his fingers graze my arm. My back. Barely there touches that feel anything but accidental. Like he’s trying not to touch me and failing miserably.
We stop in a guest room.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he says, nodding toward a painting beside me.
Up close, the brushstrokes are wild and chaotic.
Greens that pulse with life. Restless blues.
A feverish streak of yellow cutting through like sunlight breaking storm clouds.
But when I step back, the chaos resolves.
A meadow, windblown and alive. A sky layered in indigo, lavender, the faintest streak of rose where the clouds part.
It’s breathtaking, but I don’t understand.
“Why did you want to show me this?” I ask.
“It’s the painting I told you about. Dean’s. He didn’t want it.”
“You’re telling me a twelve-year-old painted this?”
“Told you he’s talented.”
I don’t believe him, until I spot the signature in the corner. D. Carter.
“It’s a shame he gave it up,” Will says, tone dipping. “Just like it’s a shame you won’t date me because of the case.”
Before I can reply, he adds, “Come on. Let me show you the view.”
We head back to the living room. He slides open the balcony doors, and warm night air rushes in. The city stretches out beneath us, glittering and unreal. Like something from a dream.
It’s hard to believe this is what he wakes up to every morning.
“Sometimes I forget you’re you,” I say. “A Carter.”
He brushes it off with a shrug and steps in behind me, arms sliding around my waist. His chest presses against my back and for a moment I tense, instincts kicking in.
But then his heat seeps into me and I melt.
His chin rests lightly on my shoulder, his breath stirring the strands of my hair.
“I missed you,” he whispers, lips brushing my neck. “I had lunch with a colleague this week,” he adds. “She snapped at the waiter over a wrong order. And all I could think was...you’d never do that.”
His teeth graze my earlobe, teasing. “You’re kind to everyone. Except me.”
“I’m not that nice,” I reply.
“You are.” He pauses. “How many people walked past that little girl crying in the lobby and did nothing?”
I turn, caught off guard. I didn’t think he believed me.
“I saw the security tape,” he says. “Everyone else looked away. But you didn’t. You didn’t hesitate.”
He looks at me like I’ve done something extraordinary. All I did was stand with her.
“Why were you watching the tape?” I ask.
“I wanted to know who I was dealing with.” He grins slowly. “Big mistake. Now I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Then he kisses me.
And it’s just like before. Like a switch flipping. Every hesitation, every excuse, gone. All that’s left is heat. Need. Him.
The shift from standing to tangled in his sheets happens in a blur. All I know is his hands are on me, his skin against mine, and I’m straddling him, drunk on want. I palm the length of him through his trousers and the hitch in his breath tells me he needs this just as badly.
“I like you,” I whisper, fingers moving to his belt.
But he catches my wrists.
“Sorry,” he says, biting his lip. “New rule. I only fuck girlfriends.”
“You do not—” I start, but he cuts me off, gripping my hips and flipping me beneath him in one dizzying motion.
“I do now,” he says. “But there’s an easy way to get what you want.”
Be his girlfriend? Now?
“No,” I say, twisting beneath him. But his grip holds.
“I didn’t say you have to go.” He shifts between my thighs. “Let me take care of you.”
“And what—you get nothing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lowers his mouth to my inner thigh, dragging his lips along the skin slowly.
“I’ll wait,” he says, “until you’re mine.”
Before I can speak, he hooks a finger under my underwear and slides it aside. His tongue follows. Not quite where I need him, but close enough to make me moan. My hips jerk. He’s teasing. Tormenting. Reading my body like a familiar language.
When my hand reaches down, desperate for more, he catches it. Pins it to the bed. Then his mouth seals over my clit.
Thirty seconds. That’s all it takes.
My fingers curl into his hair as I shatter. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even hesitate. Just drinks me down like he’s starving.
“Again,” he says.
“I can’t—”
His fingers push deep, curling in that perfect spot while his mouth gentles, teasing delicate strokes around my oversensitive clit. But his fingers never let up, driving into me with a rhythm that steals my breath.
The second orgasm doesn’t crash over me; it builds. My thighs tremble, and a broken cry escapes as it sweeps through me. Will doesn’t stop until I’m limp beneath him, until every twitch of my body is pure aftershock. A kiss brushes my thigh before he disappears into the ensuite.
I don’t move. Can’t. The air is thick with the sound of my ragged breathing, my skin still electric, every nerve alight.
Alright. So I did it again but never—ugh—who am I kidding? I can’t even pretend anymore. He can do that whenever he likes.
A moment later, he’s back. He slides in behind me, pulling me close. His breath is minty. His body, warm and solid. His very noticeable erection presses against my back.
“You really want to wait?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“It’s not about that for me,” he says, lips grazing my ear.
I melt into him.
“Now,” he says, “tell me what’s happening at work.”