Chapter Twenty-One
Abigail
Iwas stirring a huge pot of Bolognese sauce when Jacob's office door opened and an older man stormed out, sending me an icy glare as he half-stalked and half-fled through the penthouse and out the front door.
The other occupants of the kitchen looked startled at his rushed exit but didn't comment. We were all trying to ignore the awkward conversation we'd overheard.
I had no doubt the older man was the source of the most scathing accusations about me, mostly because the other voice had been too young and too calm to belong to that harried, angry man.
I couldn't quite believe I was cooking dinner for Jacob's family. I'd woken to the sound of their voices, and after cracking the door to make sure there wasn't an emergency, I'd ducked back into Jacob's room to change into something more appropriate for guests.
My clothes had been hung in Jacob's expansive walk-in closet opposite his own so that we each had our own side.
It looked too cute, the shared closet, and I might have stopped to absorb the strangeness of it, but I felt as if I needed to know who was in the penthouse.
Quickly, I'd brushed the tangles from my hair and twisted it into a simple spiral bun, a style I loved because it was easy, once I got the hang of it, but it looked somewhat ornate.
A little makeup and a simple linen sundress in poppy red with matching patent leather flip-flops, and I was ready.
It was casual enough to wear around the house, yet tailored enough that it provided me with armor to face whoever had invaded our sanctuary.
I emerged in time to hear Jacob's office door close. Three men were in the kitchen, and I was relieved to see I knew at least one of them.
Tate. The other could have been Tate's twin, except for his dark brown eyes. The third man shared Tate's vibrant blue eyes and bone structure—definitely another Winters male—but he had dark blond hair, cut close on the sides and messy on top, and had a heavier build than the other two.
He wasn't so much taller as packed with muscle. Well-developed shoulders and biceps strained the fabric of his worn T-shirt, and I couldn't miss the colorful tattoo sleeve on his right arm.
Not the normal type of Winters, then. This must be Vance, the artist. I couldn't see this man in a board room. There was something a little wild about him, though maybe that was just the tattoos.
Straightening my spine and pasting a serene expression on my face, I entered the kitchen with a smile and said, "Tate, it's so nice to see you again. How are you?"
He knew what I was asking and grinned at me, breaking away from the other men to come forward and take my outstretched hand, tugging me into a quick hug and dropping a kiss on my cheek. "I'm great, thanks in part to you."
"Really?" I asked. "You worked things out with Emily?"
"I did. Actually, she's downstairs with Holden's girl, Jo. We thought we'd see what you were up to before we dragged them along with us."
The Tate clone stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and said, "Tate has no manners, but I'm Holden, his cousin and Jacob's brother. This is Vance, Tate's older brother. Don't let the tattoos scare you off."
I shook Holden's hand and turned to Vance to take his, surprised when he lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them in lieu of shaking.
Blushing a little, I said, "It's nice to meet you, Holden, and Vance, I've seen your work. You're very talented, but I'm sure you know that. I particularly like the piece on the terrace at La Mystere. It anchors their whole aesthetic. Did you make it on commission or did they design around it?"
Not releasing my fingers, Vance turned to his brother and cousin and said, "I like her. Maybe I'll steal her away from Jacob."
Tate winked at me and said, "I would love to see you try."
Gently, I extracted my fingers from Vance's grip and took a discrete step away, raising my eyebrow to let him know I was waiting for him to answer my question.
He gave me an almost imperceptible nod and said, "They designed around it. The owner had purchased it a few years before he planned the restaurant and moved it from his own garden to the dining terrace."
"I'd always wondered," I said.
The French bistro was one of my favorite restaurants in the city. Their outdoor eating space had an overgrown, wild quality that formed the perfect counterpoint to the almost muscular, oversized metal sculpture at its center.
I knew Vance's name, but I'd never seen him up close. Now that I had, I could imagine this man—with his powerful arms and colorful tattoos—creating the piece.
He reminded me of a debonair Viking, if such a thing were possible.
I looked at the clock and realized we were nearing dinnertime. I didn't know what Jacob had planned, but if everyone would be happy with a simple meal of pasta with Bolognese sauce, I'd stocked the ingredients in the pantry and freezer, just in case we needed an emergency meal.
"Do you all have plans for dinner?" I asked, not sure if I wanted them to stay or go.
"We do now," Vance said. "Can we help?"
I shook my head. I was still a little wobbly, but I could make pasta with Bolognese sauce in my sleep.
I even had a loaf of bread in the freezer from the week before when I'd made too much and realized it would go stale before we could use it.
"I'm calling the girls," Holden said, pulling his phone from his pocket. I was taking the defrosted meat from the microwave when a knock sounded on Jacob's door.
Tate went to answer it and returned, followed by two women. They were a few years younger than me, one dressed casually with long, dark blonde hair and pretty blue eyes.
She was curvy, though her t-shirt and jeans didn't show off her figure as well as they could have. Holden grabbed her arm and pulled her into him, sliding his hand over her hip in possession as he kissed her. She must be Jo.
That meant that the brunette tucked into Tate's side was Emily. She gave me a shy smile, her shiny, dark hair falling into her unusually clear gray eyes.
Like Jo, and like me, she was all curves, her figure soft and well-rounded. It seemed the Winters men had a type.
We were in the midst of greeting each other when an older man's voice cut through from Jacob's office. We couldn't hear every word, but the sounds of my name and 'damaged goods' were clear, as was the word 'tainted', repeated twice.
I swallowed and pretended not to hear, saying, "Holden, there's a loaf of bread in the freezer. Would you get it out and defrost it in the microwave?"
"For garlic bread?" Jo asked. "I'll make it, if you don't mind."
"Jo makes fantastic garlic bread," Emily said, smiling at me to cover the awkwardness left by the words we'd all overheard.
"Thank you, that would be great," I said, hanging on to my smile and their friendliness as we heard a younger voice cut in, too low for the words to be distinct, then Jacob, again too low to make out.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
We fell into a rhythm of cooking, me putting together the sauce as Jo and Emily poked in the fridge and set the bread to defrost, when the first voice shouted, "Jacob, stop acting like a horny teenager. There are more important things at stake here than your cock. Find some other woman. Abigail Jordan is already reflecting on this family. People are talking, and it’s unacceptable—"
Tate swore and whirled out of the kitchen. I started to tell him not to bother when Holden's hand landed on my shoulder.
"Let him go. That's uncalled-for." Holden's dark eyes were thunderous.
Vance leaned against the counter, thick arms crossed over his chest, his expression just as pissed as Holden's. He shook his head.
"Fucking William. He's like family, but he can be an ass. Ignore him."
I looked from Holden to Vance. "Are people talking?" I asked.
Both men shared an uncomfortable glance. Vance shook his head at me, less in denial than in commiseration.
"A little, but it's not bad, and it's nothing we can't handle. Don't let William bother you."
"Do you know who I am?" I asked.
If he knew who I was, he might agree with William and wish me gone, my tainted past far away from his cousin.
Without a flinch, Vance met my eyes and said, "I do.
I know exactly who you are, Abigail Jordan, born Abigail Wainright to Gerald and Anne Louise Wainright.
I don't give a shit about gossip, but I do pay attention to my family.
I also trust Jacob's judgment. I'm sure he knows everything about you.
He probably knows things you've forgotten. "
"Cooper," Holden cut in. "Jacob would've had Cooper Sinclair run a report. Don't take offense. It's habit. Aiden's probably already run one on Jo and Emily."
"What?" echoed from both women on the other side of the kitchen. "He ran a report on us?" Jo said.
Holden gave a sheepish shrug and said, "Just let it go, love. Both of them are control freaks. It's easier to let them invade your privacy a little so they feel better and back off."
Emily shook her head, and Jo let out an irritated huff, but they both dropped it. I looked back to Vance, waiting for him to finish making his point.
"If Jacob has you living with him, when no other woman has been invited to do more than spend the night, and that only rarely, then he must have a good reason. I trust his judgment. Besides, you recognize my talent, so clearly, you're intelligent."
Not sure how to thank him for his reassurance, I said, "It's good to see that you're not plagued by insecurity like so many artists."
Vance winked at me—definitely a debonair Viking—and Tate said with a laugh, "Insecurity? If Vance didn't have Magnolia around, his ego would blow up so big it would carry the entire city away."
"Magnolia?" Jo asked. "I didn't know Vance had a girlfriend."
Vance let out a scoffing grunt and ignored his brother, going to the refrigerator for a beer and saying, "I'll put water on for the pasta."