Chapter Twenty-Six
Jacob
Inodded to the guards at the door and stalked back to the elevator. Rachel was still at her desk in my office. She looked up and hid her surprise at seeing me return so soon after I'd told her I was gone for the day.
I ignored her, and wisely, she did the same for me. I just barely stopped myself from slamming my office door. Instead, I closed and locked it behind me.
Helping myself to a glass of Macallan single malt from the bar in my office, a bottle reserved for guests, I shot back the first pour and refilled it, slamming the crystal decanter back on the bar.
I paced my office, glaring at everything in sight, especially the chair opposite my desk. The chair Abigail had sat in that first day she'd come to me for help.
What the fuck had I been thinking? It had seemed so simple at the start. I knew what I'd been thinking.
I'd wanted to fuck Abigail Jordan. She needed help, and I wanted to get her naked. It didn't get much more simple than that.
So how the fuck had it gotten so complicated? And what was it about Abigail that turned me into such an asshole?
I'd been trying to ignore our situation from day one. Maybe if she hadn't so enthusiastically participated in everything I'd suggested, it would've been harder to pretend.
But it turned out that sweet, innocent, gracious Abigail Jordan had a kinky side. She loved everything, the spanking, the nipple clamps, eating dinner naked—everything I did with her, to her, she loved. So I fooled myself into thinking that made it all okay.
I didn't want to admit she was right. I'd been telling myself I could just order her to stay in my room and things would change between us naturally. But Abigail was right.
I had all the power, which meant that nothing between us could evolve naturally. I'd wanted to buy some time, time to figure out how to fix things. And, yeah, I won't deny it. I thought if I could talk her into bed, she'd forget she was so pissed at me.
At the flat, empty look in her eyes, I'd realized I was wrong.
Sex was not going to fix this.
Sex was the last thing we needed. Who would have thought I'd ever say that?
I'd stared at her, realizing she wore nothing more than a fluffy cotton bathrobe, and I'd watched her face go blank.
In that second, I knew. I understood exactly what she'd been trying to tell me.
As long as her mother was alive, as long as Big John and the Raptors were after her, she would never be mine.
She might give me her body, but I'd stolen her choice. I'd already figured out I wanted far more from Abigail than just her body.
I wanted her heart.
Her soul. I wanted everything that made Abigail, Abigail—her loyalty, her love, her affection. And I wouldn't get any of it unless I figured out a way to get both of us out of the mess I'd created.
I swallowed the rest of the whiskey, silently apologizing to the gods of alcohol for treating thirty-year-old single malt Macallan like cheap swill, before pouring myself a third and final glass and taking a seat behind my desk.
Picking up my phone, I said, "Rachel, put me through to Dave Price."
The receiver clicked twice before I heard ringing on the other end. If I knew Dave, he'd still be in the office. I didn't care what it cost. I'd give him whatever he wanted to draw up the papers I needed.
He couldn't help me solve all of my problems. A lawyer wouldn't help with Big John or the Raptors, but Dave was a start.
He picked up the phone, and I explained what I wanted. I hung up twenty minutes later, knowing at least one of the problems standing between Abigail and me was under control.
Sitting back in my chair, I surveyed my office and sipped the remainder of my scotch, trying to figure out what to do about Big John. I didn't think Abigail would leave Atlanta with her mother so weak.
That goddamned voice, the one I'd been running from since Abigail had walked into my office, the one that sounded suspiciously like my usually quiet conscience, piped up.
You could just tell her you're in love with her. That would fix everything, you fucking pussy.
I could. It wouldn't be a lie.
The more I ran from the idea, the more certain I was that this wasn't lust and it wasn't affection.
I was in love with Abigail.
Telling her should have been easy. But then, I was pretty sure she was in love with me, and she hadn't said a thing when we were fighting in my office.
Again, that fucking voice piped up—That's because you have all the power. If someone's gonna say it, it has to be you.
It occurred to me that if I manned up and told Abigail I was in love with her, maybe that fucking voice would shut up. I shook my head and took another sip of the scotch.
Easier said than done. I could count on one hand the women I'd said those words to, and I was related to every single one. I'd never said it to a girlfriend. I'd never had a reason to.
I looked at the stack of papers on my desk, evidence of the work I'd been ignoring over the past week.
I would deal with Abigail, and my unexpected feelings for her, later. I wasn't going home for dinner. I wasn't going home at all until I figured out what to say to her.
As it always did, work sucked me in. Rachel went home at least an hour after the rest of the office emptied. Dinner time passed, and I grabbed a sandwich from the fridge in my office, wishing Abigail had made it instead of the deli down the street.
No one cooked like Abigail. I ignored the impulse to go upstairs and beg her forgiveness, forcing myself to get back to work.
I'd caused enough trouble by being impulsive. I wasn't going to confront Abigail until I was sure I could win her over.
Seduction, I could handle. Baring my heart and soul to win the woman I loved?
I had no clue.
I might have stayed there all night, buried in work and avoiding home, if it hadn't been for the explosion.
At 9:13 pm, the building lurched with a violent surge of energy, and fire erupted in the street below.
It looked like I wouldn't have to figure out how to draw out Big John.
He was here, and he had a plan of his own.