Chapter 28
The restaurant Abigail has chosen is more casual than Taylor expected, and she’s grateful for that, because fancy places where the waiters are so ramrod-straight you can hardly see their feet make her nervous.
She arrives five minutes late on purpose, intent on provoking Abigail rather than pleasing her.
When she reaches the table, she’s already there, studying the menu with a stony expression.
"You’re late," she snaps, looking up.
"Only two minutes," Taylor says, smiling, amused.
"Five," Abigail corrects. "And it doesn’t matter how many; late is late."
"Okay, I’m sorry," Taylor concedes, shrugging out of the thin jacket she’s wearing for this first week of September. "I suppose you’ve been here before—what do you recommend?" she asks with her usual breezy confidence.
Abigail sighs heavily, wondering if she’s made a mistake having dinner with her—and that thick mane she’s pulled into a high ponytail, exposing her neck.
"The salmon’s good if you want something light, but they also have those burgers you like."
The crooked smile that spreads across Taylor’s face makes Abigail instantly regret what she said. Reminding the singer that she knows some of her tastes is not a good idea if she means to keep things strictly professional.
"The wine’s decent, too," she adds, trying to smooth it over.
"Decent? Wow," Taylor teases. "With that enthusiasm, you could make a career writing restaurant reviews."
Abigail arches a brow, but she can’t stop a flicker of amusement from sparking in her eyes for a split second.
They order dinner and a bottle of wine and, over the next half hour, Abigail explains who will be at tomorrow’s meeting, the kinds of questions they might ask, and where the conversation might go. She never tells her what to answer, because Abigail doesn’t want to put words in her mouth.
"If you like what they offer, I’ll negotiate it—that’s what I’m here for. You leave them to me."
Taylor smiles; if there’s one thing she loves, it’s watching Abigail in action.
She keeps listening and nodding along to everything she says, though it’s hard to focus because her eyes keep roaming over Abigail’s body.
They land on her hand as she lifts her wineglass, then fix on her mouth, her neckline, or her gaze, which looks more green than gray in the light bouncing off the tablecloth.
"Are you listening to me?" Abigail asks suddenly.
"What? Yeah, of course," Taylor lies. "You negotiate if I like the offer."
Abigail lets out a huff and bites her lip, clearly annoyed.
"I said that five minutes ago."
"Seriously?" Taylor frowns, playing dumb, then lets one of those crooked smiles slip—the ones that undo Abigail.
The executive tops off her wineglass for the third time. Taylor has barely touched hers, while Abigail is drinking faster than is usual for her. Normally she’s controlled even about that, but tonight the wine seems to be the only thing that relaxes her a little.
"It was badass seeing you stand up for me with Demian," Taylor says, amused, and she raises her hands before Abigail can open her mouth. "I know you were just doing your job," she adds, rolling her eyes, "but even so, it was fucking awesome."
Abigail takes another sip of wine as she watches her; she doesn’t want to respond to the comment, but she does, because the alcohol is getting to her.
"People who try to force others into molds that don’t fit them piss me off."
Taylor needs a few seconds to sit with that answer and turn it over.
"Did that happen to you? Did someone try to make you fit where you didn’t belong?" Taylor blurts.
Abigail’s abdomen tightens, as do the muscles in her neck. She’s never framed it that way, but seen from that angle, her mother tried to force her into so many molds through her childhood and teens that Abigail only knew who she was when she was alone—which was very often.
"We’re not talking about me," she snaps at last.
"Right, that’s a conversation for friends, and you and I are not," Taylor echoes Abigail’s words, though the sure expression she arrived with doesn’t waver. "By the way, do you have friends?"
Abigail’s lips suddenly stretch. It’s a short, ironic smile, followed by a dazed look that throws her off balance.
Taylor, too. She asked it just to needle her, but she didn’t stop to think that someone like Abigail might have trouble maintaining that kind of relationship.
It’s not like she’s been able to learn anything about her in the time she’s been here, but she’s only ever seen her work, and she knows from Adam that she’s the kind who stays at the office until all hours of the night.
"I shouldn’t have asked, Abby. Sorry. It’s none of my business," Taylor apologizes.
"No, it isn’t," she confirms, raising a hand for the check, "but if it makes you feel better, Liam is my friend."
Taylor’s smile widens. She hates having ruined the moment, but she’s glad Abigail has a friend.
"Liam seems like a good guy."
"He is," Abigail confirms, pushing aside her last glass of wine, still half-full.
Without thinking, moved by something she can’t control, Taylor reaches out and takes her hand for just a moment.
"I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable."
Abigail felt such a rush of energy shoot through her at the brush of their fingers that she froze in her chair for a few seconds, barely breathing as she stared at the singer’s hand over hers.
Taylor pulls away when the waiter arrives, but she can feel Abigail’s touch tingling across her palm even when it’s gone, and it unsettles her and kicks her pulse into overdrive until her body is a freight train about to derail.
The executive leaves two bills on the table and stands.
"It’s late," she says, strung tight as a bowstring, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she turns to go.
Taylor stands too, and they walk to the door together.
"Abigail..." Taylor says once they’re outside, while the executive walks the sidewalk with no intention of stopping.
"The meeting’s at ten," Abigail says. "Adam will pick you up at nine—try to be ready," she replies, and keeps walking.
"Abigail, wait," Taylor insists, catching her by the arm.
Abigail whips around, the motion too abrupt. Her conflicted gaze flashes under the streetlights, and Taylor feels disoriented for a moment. They stay like that, looking at each other, while the singer’s hand remains on Abigail’s arm, letting the current run between them through that point.
Taylor can’t take it anymore; she exhales and impulsively leans in, kissing her with all the desperation she’s been holding back for these three weeks.
For a moment, Abigail responds, though her body doesn’t move.
Her mouth opens and she lets Taylor’s tongue crash against her teeth, then against her tongue, pressing hard while her hand slides from her cheek to her nape, always keeping her caught by the arm.
But then Abigail breaks the kiss and steps back with the same abruptness she’d turned with, staring at the ground because she feels that if she looks at Taylor she’ll incinerate her with the ice of her gaze turned to fire.
"Go," she says, and Taylor feels her voice run across the asphalt and climb up her body, cleaving through her.
She knows she’s screwed up, but she doesn’t regret it; she needed to feel her, she couldn’t have endured one more day without the taste of her lips.
"Fuck, Taylor. Get out of here," now her voice is like thunder announcing a storm.
Taylor nods, goes around her, and crosses the street to keep walking on the other side. She doesn’t look back once, even though she knows Abigail is there, still, trying to bring order to that tormented mind she’s just rattled like a hornet’s nest.