18. Abigail
ABIGAIL
It’s first thing Monday morning, and Neil slams my office door with enough force to rattle the frame. His tirade rings in my ears. Hack, untrustworthy, Pinnacle disaster. But for once, the words don’t burrow under my skin. They slide off me like rain on glass.
Mostly because I’m spent. Blissfully so.
This weekend, Will and I floated between his place and mine, a haze of tangled limbs, half-eaten takeout, and whispered nothingness.
No obligations. No deadlines. Just slow mornings in bed and long afternoons with his hand on my thigh.
Although we’re official, he’s reluctantly agreed to keep things under wraps, for now. Just until the case is over.
Before I can exhale, Judy slips inside, shutting the door with a soft click.
“I heard him next door,” she says. “Are you alright?”
Surprisingly, I am. Even the part where Neil leaned over my desk, spitting accusations about my idiot friend answering the phone, didn’t rattle me. I played dumb. He bought it.
“I’m fine,” I say, and a smile slips out before I can stop it.
It takes Judy all of ten seconds to pry the truth loose. About Will. About the date, the relentless texts, my case file, him showing up at the courthouse. It’s official now, so why not tell her?
Her eyes light up as she leans in. I knew it. The way he looks at you? It’s so obvious.”
I bite my cheek, trying to temper the flutter in my chest. It’s early days, I remind myself. He could wake up tomorrow and decide this isn’t for him. But for now, I’m letting myself enjoy it. No expectations. No overthinking.
“I’m meeting his brothers this weekend,” I say, the words coming out more casually than they feel.
It’s a little soon, honestly, but Will wouldn’t drop it.
Dean is opening a new nightclub, and he wants me there with him.
I reminded him we were supposed to be keeping a low profile, but one look at his face was all it took to melt my resistance.
And really, what are the chances anyone would recognize us in a packed club full of strangers, in low lighting and loud music?
“Have you met any of his brothers?” I ask, glancing up.
Judy leans against my desk, her mouth already pulling into a grin.
“Henry hosted a charity auction last year,” she says. “He’s beautiful. And he knows it.” She laughs, shaking her head. “He spent the whole night making these sharp little remarks, and somehow, no one seemed to notice.”
“Like what?”
“One stuck with me. He said, ‘Philanthropy is so much more fun when it’s performative.’ The room just nodded along.”
Before I can ask any more questions, she glances at her watch and slips out for a meeting.
I hesitate.
I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
I type Henry Carter into the search bar.
He’s objectively handsome. Tall, dark, with razor-sharp cheekbones and those brooding blue eyes that seem to look straight through the lens. I pause on a poolside shot.
Jesus.
Will is lean, but he has the body of a genetically gifted office worker. Henry clearly knows his way around a gym.
I click out of the picture before I start outright ogling my boyfriend’s brother.
Henry’s digital footprint is minimal. No social media, just a sleek professional bio. A few mentions in business journals, a few event photos. All very polished. All very controlled.
While I’m at it, I move on to Dean.
He shares Will’s strong jaw and dark brown eyes, but the resemblance ends there.
His features are more severe. Clean-cut, with tousled dark hair and a brooding expression that doesn’t invite questions.
He looks broader than both Will and Henry, wider shoulders, a heavier frame, though just as tall.
There’s a sleek, dangerous polish to him, like a wolf in a tailored suit.
Articles praise his entrepreneurial success, but beyond the press coverage, he’s practically a ghost online. No social media, no personal details, not even candid photos from events.
Finally, I search Max Carter.
He’s the outlier. Light brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and a Hollywood smile so bright it looks airbrushed. Unlike his brothers, Max is everywhere. On every platform, with tagged photos from every rooftop bar in the city.
A DJ-slash-real-estate-agent, his feed is a nonstop highlight reel of poolside parties, neon cocktails, shirtless selfies, and oceanside vacations. He radiates frat-boy energy and sculpted charm, all dimples and mirrored sunglasses and perfectly casual captions.
I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. Four brothers. Same blood, completely different energy.
Will is sharp. Quiet, intense, always thinking.
Henry comes across as calculated, precise, unreadable.
Dean looks like the muscle. Bigger, broader, rougher around the edges.
And Max? Max seems like the kind of guy who walks in, grins, and gets exactly what he wants.
It’s fascinating, honestly.
My phone rings, snapping me back to reality. I never know if Anthea is announcing someone or not, so I always answer with my name.
“Abigail Reed,” I say.
“Hey, it’s Donovan,” he replies. “Returning your call.”
Right. Mediation is next week.
We’ll have a better shot if he stays home. Last time, his jittery energy made us look weak.
“I sent over the meeting details,” I say, keeping my tone breezy. “But honestly? I’ve got this. No need for you to make the trip.”
There’s a pause. I press the phone a little closer, waiting.
“Honestly?” he says at last, letting out a breath. “I’m relieved. Their lawyer gets in my head.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. Mine too.
“I’ll fill you in afterward.”
Late that night, I open the door to find Will leaning casually against the frame, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. His tie is loosened, his grin lazy and self-satisfied.
“What’s this?” I eye the bag with suspicion.
“A gift. If you want it,” he says, stepping inside. “For the opening. Thought you might like to wear a Carter.”
I hesitate. My recent history with surprise garment bags hasn’t exactly been stellar. But curiosity wins out.
“Let’s see it.”
In the living room, he unzips the bag. Inside lies a sleek black dress. Backless, with delicate straps and a silhouette designed to hug every line before flowing away from the hips.
“Wow.” The word slips out before I can stop it.
Will rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little shy. “You don’t have to wear it. You always look—”
I kiss him mid-sentence. “It’s perfect. Sit. I’ll try it on.”
The dress fits like it was made for me. Every seam lies flawless, every curve perfectly framed. The black is bold against my skin, and to my surprise, it’s impossibly comfortable.
When I step out, Will straightens immediately. I turn in a slow circle, letting the fabric catch the air. Then I pause, glancing at him over my shoulder, the low back dipping to the base of my spine.
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” he says.
My stomach dips. “Oh?”
“Every man in the room is going to look at you the way I am right now,” he says. “I’ll end up starting a fight.”
I sit on the couch beside him. “Should I wear a potato sack instead?”
“You’d start a trend.” His hand finds my waist.
“Do you think your brothers will like me?”
“Course they will. But they’re dickheads. Who cares what they think?”
“You?”
He softens. “I only care what you think.”
A beat passes. Then, lower, darker: “You better take that off before I lose control.”
I arch a brow. “Struggling, are you?”
I go to stand, but he moves faster. One sharp tug and I’m against him. Then under him. His mouth finds mine, urgent, unrelenting, stealing the air from my lungs.
Before I can protest, his fingers slide beneath the dress, hook into my underwear, and pull them aside. Then he’s between my thighs, his breath hot against my skin.
My fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth finds me, tongue, lips, everything, and a gasp rips free from my throat.
In that suspended moment, pleasure rising fast, I think: How is this mine? How is he mine?
And then his rhythm deepens, and I can’t think at all.