Chapter 24
New York, one week later.
"What is she like?" asks Loretta as she and Abigail wait in the airport parking lot for Taylor to come out of the terminal.
"What?" asks Abigail, who keeps checking the time on her watch.
Ten minutes late. She knows it's not Taylor's fault, but she's nervous anyway.
"The girl," Loretta replies, "must have something captivating if you came to pick her up yourself."
Abigail lifts her gaze from her phone and her tormented look pins Loretta.
She does it intending to tell her to mind her own business and not dare judge her movements again, but the flashing colorful bows in her braids distract her.
So do the huge gold hoops dangling from her ears, stretching them so much the holes have turned into two slits.
"Do you like them?" Loretta asks with a coquettish gesture, touching the hoop with her finger. That's when Abigail realizes her nails are painted different colors.
"Why don't you wait in the car?" the executive asks.
"Oh, no, I'll keep you company, boss," Loretta says with a smile, crossing her arms.
She knows perfectly well that Abigail doesn't want company, that she got out of the car looking for silence, but she couldn't care less.
"Working with Mr. Cottet has been fine, but I prefer you," she says as she looks at her nails.
Abigail lifts an eyebrow, eyeing her sideways.
The statement surprises her. With how much Loretta talks and how much she loves human interaction, she's sure she had a blast with Liam, who loves talking as much as she does.
She's convinced Loretta told him her whole life story—she probably even introduced him to Vanessa, his wife, and to Mrs. Cottet.
Abigail has barely answered a couple of her questions in all the time Loretta has worked for her, so either the woman is lying to her, or she really does appreciate her for some reason Abigail can't explain.
"Oh, that must be her. What a smile," Loretta says suddenly, starting to walk. "I'm going to help her."
Abigail looks up and her mouth goes dry as if she'd eaten a box of tissues.
Taylor walks toward them dragging two huge suitcases stuffed with everything she could carry to start her new life in the big city.
She moves with purpose, wearing jeans and the same leather boots she wore for her concert.
Abigail has the feeling that in the week they haven't seen each other, that huge wild, untamable mane has grown a little more, rippling with each of her steps.
Taylor radiates all the sensuality she remembers, and she seems much more confident than in those last days, when she looked overwhelmed by everything coming at her and also by that strange feeling of loss Abigail sensed in her over what there was between them.
"I'm Loretta, honey. Let me help you," the woman says after giving her an effusive hug.
Abigail watches the scene in bewilderment, not understanding Loretta's ease in connecting with people. Taylor returns the hug with a mix of surprise and amusement and hands over one of her rolling suitcases until they reach the car.
"Hi," Taylor says, looking straight at her.
The executive can feel the heat of her eyes travel over her, but she's grateful that Taylor respects the new rule between them and only extends her hand in greeting.
"Hi, Taylor," Abigail says, giving her a short, firm shake that sends a tingle skittering through her whole body.
"You didn't have to come. I could've taken a cab," Taylor murmurs when they get in the car.
"Don't get used to me doing it," Abigail replies, opening her purse. "I just had time and wanted to make sure you got settled. Here, these are the keys to your apartment."
Abigail sets them in the space between them on the seat, as if she were afraid to touch her again.
"Thanks. What's the plan?" Taylor asks, studying the set of keys. "You could've put a keychain on it, right?" she says suddenly, looking at Abigail with that crooked smile she can no longer afford to let get to her and that, nonetheless, almost gives her a heart attack.
"If you want a keychain, buy yourself one," Abigail snaps.
Taylor smiles and slips the set into her pocket while Loretta watches them in the rearview mirror.
"There's nothing scheduled today; this is just to get you settled. Work starts tomorrow, so you'd better try to rest as much as you can."
"Okay."
The rest of the ride passes in silence until Taylor complains that she needs to use the bathroom.
"Can't you hold it?" Abigail asks, frowning.
"Depends how much longer."
"We're almost there, honey," Loretta says.
Taylor looks out the window and is impressed by the neighborhood.
"Is this where I'm going to live?"
"Yes," Abigail answers curtly.
"And where do you live?" Taylor asks.
Loretta holds back a laugh. She's too focused on driving, but she can imagine her boss's face at so many questions.
"Close by."
"Close by..." Taylor repeats. "Are you my neighbor?"
"Can you focus on not peeing in the car?" Abigail growls.
Loretta pulls up in front of the building, and Taylor grabs her suitcases to walk alongside Abigail toward the entrance after saying goodbye to the driver. They greet the doorman, and the executive guides her straight to the elevator, where the singer positions herself right behind her.
"Your apartment is 12B," Abigail says, feeling Taylor's breath brush her ear as the elevator ascends.
It feels like it takes an eternity until the doors finally open, and she almost bolts into the hallway. Abigail steps aside to let Taylor open the door and be the first to step into what will be her home for the next few months, left speechless as soon as she walks in.
The windows take up an entire wall, offering a panoramic view of Central Park straight out of a movie. The furniture is modern yet cozy, all in neutral tones that blend perfectly, and there's a sense of space and light that makes Taylor feel as if she'd stepped into another world.
"It's gorgeous," she murmurs, leaving the suitcases by the door.
Abigail says nothing; she simply walks toward the hallway and starts showing her the rooms.
"The master bedroom is this one. It has an en-suite bathroom and a walk-in closet.
There's another bathroom at the end of the hallway and a guest room there," she says, pointing to one of the doors.
"The kitchen is fully equipped, though I don't think you'll spend much time cooking.
Patricia has made sure to stock your fridge with basics," she says, opening the door.
"Wow, thanks," Taylor murmurs, more and more impressed.
Abigail sets her purse on the island and takes out her planner before taking a seat on a stool.
"The building has 24-hour doorman service," she explains as if she'd memorized it all. "There's a gym on the ground floor and laundry service. Patricia has opened accounts for you at the corner supermarket and the pharmacy. The bills will be charged directly to the agency."
Taylor nods, trying to absorb all the information because she knows Abigail isn't going to repeat it.
"If you need anything, Patricia's number is on the fridge. Talk to her."
Taylor grimaces. She'd rather talk to Abigail about anything at all, but she understands they've stepped into another world, that here, in New York, Abigail runs at a different pace.
The screen of her phone keeps lighting up with notifications she skims, messages she answers quickly, and calls she silences and that Taylor assumes she'll return as soon as she leaves.
She doesn't have the calm she had in Smithville, and Taylor probably won't either.
"As for tomorrow," Abigail continues, after checking her wristwatch because if she doesn't leave in under ten minutes, she'll be late to a meeting.
"You'll have your first vocal training session at nine with Demian Flores.
It lasts two hours. Demian is one of the best producers in the city.
He's worked with some of the most well-known artists.
After that, a quick lunch and a studio session at two. "
Taylor sits across from her, taking notes on a pad Patricia has left in the kitchen.
"On Wednesday we have a meeting with the Meridian Music executives. Thursday, another studio session. Friday…"
"Wait, Abby," Taylor asks, without lifting her eyes from the page she's writing on.
Abigail stops talking and looks at her. She follows the movement of her hand as it glides over the page, but her damn mind repeats only one word.
Abby, Abby, Abby…
She should tell her not to call her that again, that she can't, that that kind of familiarity no longer exists between them. But she's sure Taylor said it unconsciously, so she can play dumb and savor it a little, because Abigail's chest tingles when Taylor says those four letters.
"Okay, go on," Taylor says.
The singer lifts her gaze at Abigail's silence, who seems to have forgotten what she was talking about, and she decides to linger on the open buttons of her agent's shirt, on the suggestive line of her breasts.
Taylor loved holding them in her hands, weighing them and reveling in their feel.
She shivers and looks down when she feels Abigail's greenish gray eyes on hers.
"On Friday we'll have lunch with a freelance journalist who sells his interviews to the most well-known music magazines," Abigail continues.
"That's it for now; if anything new comes up, Patricia will keep you updated.
And you don't need to write anything down—she'll send the full schedule to your email," she says as she finishes.
Taylor looks up and frowns.
"Why didn't you tell me that at the beginning?"
"You didn't ask," Abigail replies, closing her planner and getting to her feet to leave.
"Aren't you going to ask me how I am or something like that?" Taylor asks with a cheeky smile.
Abigail looks at her and sighs sharply as she slings her bag over her shoulder.
"How are you?" she asks as if she were a robot.
"Fine, thanks," Taylor answers with the same cheek she showed the first day they met. "And you?"
"Perfect. My assistant will pick you up tomorrow."
Abigail turns around, leaving a cold wake behind her.
"Patricia or Loretta?" Taylor asks.
"Adam," Abigail answers. And Loretta isn't my assistant; she's my chauffeur.
Taylor follows Abigail as she walks toward the door, intoxicated by that soft perfume that's hard to catch but that she would recognize anywhere.
"How many assistants do you have?" she asks, intrigued.
"As many as it takes," her agent answers without turning, hand on the doorknob.
"Abigail." Taylor's voice cuts through her like that Andalusian wail that comes out when she sings.
Abigail stops and turns only her head.
"I get the new situation, but I've missed you, and that's not going to change," Taylor says.
The executive looks at her for just a moment before stepping through the door and closing it.
Taylor smiles when she's alone, then sighs, trying to dissolve the knot of nerves she feels.
Abigail still stirs the same sensations in her as a week ago.
She nearly threw up her heart when she saw her at the airport and, although she promised she'd keep the professional distance Abigail asked for, she needed to tell her she'd missed her.
Because Taylor has—she's missed every frosty look from Abigail, every curt reply, and also every one of her kisses, the sound of her moans and her stifled laughs.
She goes to the window and loses herself in the views of Central Park until her phone buzzes with several messages from her sister Tiffany asking if she's arrived and gotten settled. Then Taylor heads to the sofa, drops onto it, and decides to call her before she starts unpacking.