27. Abigail
ABIGAIL
After dinner, Will and I sink into a pair of low, cushioned chairs on the balcony.
Below us, the city glows soft and alive, lights blinking in the warm night air.
A breeze drifts past, carrying the fading scent of my pina colada.
Behind us, the dining room hums with quiet conversation, dulled by the glass doors and the tall row of potted plants that shield our little corner from the rest of the world.
Will slides his chair closer until the sleeve of his shirt brushes my arm. The knot of tension I’ve carried for weeks has finally loosened. I feel lighter. Like I can breathe again.
Technically, Pinnacle won today. But I don’t care. Maybe Will doesn’t either. We haven’t talked about the case. Maybe we never will.
I lean back, full and warm. For the first time in weeks, I feel truly satisfied.
I finished my main course and nearly demolished the cheesecake.
Will kept nudging the plate toward me, that maddening grin daring me to take just one more bite.
Now his hand rests lightly over mine, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles across my knuckles, like neither of us has anywhere else to be.
“It’s a lovely view,” I say.
“Certainly is.” But he’s not looking at the skyline. He’s looking at me. I turn toward him just as he lifts my hand and presses a soft kiss to my fingers.
I could sit here with him like this for hours.
My bag buzzes beside me. I groan, reaching to grab my phone.
A video call lights up the screen: Mom. We haven’t scheduled anything.
Will notices. “Answer it,” he says gently.
Before I can object, Will swipes across the screen with one finger.
Mom and Celia appear in the frame, glowing and sun-kissed, their hair tousled from whatever breezy beach they've been lounging on.
Palm trees sway gently in the background, and the late afternoon light makes everything behind them look golden and effortless.
“Darling,” Mom begins, her voice smooth with warmth and practiced charm, “we just wanted to update you about the engagement party—” She trails off as Will leans into view. Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Oh…hello.”
Will flashes that practiced, too-perfect smile.
Celia tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she studies him. Her lips part, and then:
“Oh my God. Mom. He’s a Carter. From the fashion house. He’s one of the Carters.”
Heat floods my cheeks. Subtlety, as always, is not my family’s strength.
“Mom, Celia,” I say, “this is Will—”
“Carter,” Celia interrupts, loud with disbelief. “You’re dating a Carter?”
How many times can she say “Carter” in one breath? I don’t get a chance to respond.
“Are you two working together?” Celia barrels on. “Is this some kind of business dinner?”
Will glances at me. There’s a flicker of something unreadable, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears. I haven’t told them yet. In my defense, the last time we spoke, Will and I weren’t even officially together. And when I do try to share anything, I can barely get a word in edgewise.
“We’re together,” I say simply.
The silence that follows is immediate and charged.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Celia blinks. Mom leans closer to the screen, as if she’s trying to read between the lines.
“How did you two even meet?” Celia asks, her voice sharp with disbelief.
“We were on a case together,” Will starts. “I realized pretty quickly that I’d met my match. In more ways than one.”
Mom’s eyes sharpen, locking onto me.
“Abigail. Why didn’t you tell us you had a boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Celia chimes in, her tone dripping with mock concern. “Why keep this a secret?”
I open my mouth, ready to give some sort of explanation, any explanation, but Will beats me to it.
“She wasn’t sure about me at first,” he says with a calm smile. “Took some convincing.”
“Abigail…” Mom repeats my name slowly, as if she’s turning it over in her mind, searching for a missing piece.
Will glances at me again, then adds, more quietly, “But I’m glad she came around. Because I’m completely in love with her.”
The words hit me like a rush of heat to the chest. My breath stutters. I wasn’t ready for that. Not now, not in front of them. It feels too big, too real.
“We should go,” I say quickly, and end the call before either of them can respond.
“Weren’t we supposed to tell our families?” Will asks right away.
I bite the inside of my cheek, searching for the right words. It’s not like I meant to hide it. I tried, once, back when we first started seeing each other. But the moment passed, and I let it.
“I just haven’t had the chance.” Even as I say it, I hear how hollow it sounds. We’ve been together for months. I’ve had chances. Plenty.
He looks at me. Then his expression softens. He’s not disappointed. Just patient. Like he’s waiting for the truth, and willing to wait as long as it takes.
I look down at my hands, ashamed of what I’m about to admit.
“They don’t really ask about me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me, waiting.
My throat tightens. I swallow hard. “They don’t care.
Not really. I’ve always just been background noise to them.
” The words come out brittle. Saying it makes me feel exposed.
Raw. like I’ve just ripped something open that I’ve spent years stitching shut.
I’ve never told anyone this before. I was always too embarrassed.
Because if your own family can’t love you, what does that say about you?
Will reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. “Their loss,” he says.
Something inside me cracks open, something heavy I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. And just like that, I let it go. I meet his eyes and see nothing but warmth and understanding.
I focus on him. He’s always there, even when I push him away. He sees me, not as a burden, not as someone to tolerate, but as someone to love.
Months ago, I thought he was an arrogant fool. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
But now? Now I see him clearly. He’s a good man. A kind man.
“I love you too.”
He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. Then he pulls me into a slow, tender kiss. Everything else fades.
I lean in, my lips brushing against his ear.
“Let’s get out of here.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice.
Back at his place, water pours over our bodies in a warm cascade, steam rising thick around us. The scent of his soap clings to my skin. His hands move over my back, working the lather in, thumbs pressing into the tension along my spine until it starts to melt.
There’s no rush, no frantic need. Just a steady, focused intimacy that feels real. Like it’s not going anywhere.
That’s how it feels to me, at least.
Will’s eyes still burn, dark and wanting, as his hands explore me. His fingers trace over my ribs, my stomach, his thumb grazing beneath my breast. Heat pulses low, my nipples hardening under his touch.
“You’re perfect,” he says.
The words land with surprising weight, heavier than lust. I turn in his arms, water rushing between us. I could stay like this forever, held in heat, in the way he looks at me like I’m all he sees.
But then I feel him, solid and insistent against my body.
A slow ache builds inside me. I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
His mouth opens to mine with a soft groan as his hands slide down to grip my hips, pulling me in.
The friction is maddening. I rock into him, just to feel the way his breath catches.
There’s nothing more addictive than watching him come undone for me.
One hand tangles in my hair, tipping my head back as his mouth moves to my neck, sucking lightly below my ear.
His teeth graze my skin, and a shiver runs through me.
His other hand slides down my side, over my hip, then between my thighs.
His fingers glide through slick heat, circling my clit in slow, steady strokes.
My knees nearly give out. He holds me up, his body pressed tight to mine, grounding me while the pleasure builds.
“Hands on the wall,” he says.
I obey. My palms flatten against the tile as he adjusts my stance.
Spreading my legs, tilting my hips. Then his fingers slide inside me, curling in just the right spot.
I’ve never been into hands before. They seemed too impersonal, too clinical.
But with Will, it’s different. He knows exactly how to use them, how to turn them into an extension of everything else he gives.
He fucks me with slow, controlled thrusts, fingertips pressing deep, brushing that spot that makes everything blur.
The water keeps falling but all I feel is him, his fingers coaxing every sound from my throat, the way his grip tightens on my hip, how his breath rasps against my shoulder like he’s barely holding it together.
“I love it when you fall apart for me,” he says.
His voice is rough, his words cutting straight through me.
His fingers press harder, and the way he says it, like it’s something sacred, pulls me deeper into the spiral.
His mouth meets mine again, swallowing my moans as he works me with perfect rhythm.
The pleasure coils tighter with every stroke, every kiss, every word.
And when I come, it’s a full-body collapse. He holds me through it, arm tight around me, lips brushing my temple like a promise he’s not letting go.
By the time we step out, the bathroom is thick with steam. Will towels me off with a quiet tenderness that tightens something in my chest. He presses soft kisses to my shoulder and neck, then wraps his arms around me and carries me to his bed like it’s nothing.
The sheets are cool beneath me. His body is still warm from the shower. He kisses me again, his hands roaming with quiet certainty. There’s no hesitation in his touch, only devotion. Only need. His mouth trails down my body, and I arch into him, my fingers twisting in the sheets.
I know what he’s about to do. He’s going to use his mouth.
The thought alone makes my thighs tighten. Sometimes I wonder if it’s more for him than for me. The way his breath hitches before he touches me, the low groan he lets out when I move against his tongue. Like he’s savoring me.
But tonight, I just want him inside me.
My hands tangle in his hair. He looks up. I don’t have to say a word. He knows what I want. A smirk tugs at his mouth as he climbs up my body, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
“You’re the boss,” he says.
He reaches for the nightstand, tears open the foil, and rolls the condom on. I hook a leg around his hip and pull him closer. He groans as he sinks into me, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth. Even now, he reacts like it’s the first time. Like I ruin him just by being here.
He stays still for a moment, forehead resting against mine, breath heavy. Then he begins to move. Slow at first, then deeper. I feel every inch of him, every drag and thrust. His fingers dig into my thigh as I match his rhythm.
“Look at me,” I say.
His eyes lock on mine, wild and hungry. I know I’ll never get enough of this man. He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, his grip firm as he drives into me harder. His mouth captures mine, swallowing every sound.
“I can never last with you,” he says, voice tight and close to breaking. It hits harder than any touch. The way he says it, like he’s helpless against what we have.
His rhythm holds steady as he whispers filthy praise against my skin, each word pushing me closer.
My back arches. I’m close. So close. My eyes begin to flutter shut—
“Stay with me,” he commands.
I open my eyes. And he’s right there. All of him. His body, his voice, his hunger, his love. It’s wrapped around me.
Then his hips roll just right, and I fall apart.
Not a slow unraveling. A freefall.
My nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure crashes through me. Every nerve is lit up. Every thought disappears.
He watches me fall apart, his control slipping as I pulse around him. His rhythm falters, then breaks completely with a deep, ragged groan. He spills into me, burying his face in my shoulder, his breath shuddering.
We stay there, tangled together, the silence filled only with our breathing and the pounding of our hearts.
His lips brush my temple.
“I love you,” he says, hoarse but certain.
“Me too.”