Chapter 4 Abbie
ABBIE
He comes in rumpled from the flight, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
"There you are," he says, and the relief in his voice is so genuine that my chest cracks open.
I set the tablet aside. "Here I am."
He drops the bag and pulls me from the couch into his arms, his face in my hair. I hate how much I needed this.
"God, I missed you," he murmurs against my temple.
"You saw me a few days ago."
"A few days." He pulls back just enough to look at my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones like he's memorizing me. "Not that I was counting."
"Were you, though?"
"Religiously." He kisses my forehead, the bridge of my nose, the corner of my mouth. "I kept thinking I'd get a break, that I could fly back for a weekend, but every time I tried to book something, another crisis materialized."
I should ask him. Right now, while he's holding me, while his guard is down and mine is up. I should pull out my phone and show him those photos and say, Explain this. Explain why people think she has taken my place.
"When do you leave again?"
His jaw tightens. "Tomorrow. Early."
"How early?"
"Five."
Six hours. I can spend them asking about the screenshots, or have my husband back for one night.
"I'm taking a bath," I say. "You look like you could use one too."
Gray's mouth curves into that half-smile I fell in love with eight years ago. "Is that an invitation?"
"It's an observation about your general state of dishevelment."
"Dishevelment isn't a word."
"It absolutely is a word."
"Use it in a sentence."
"I just did." I'm already walking toward the bathroom, and I hear him laugh behind me, low and warm and familiar. "Are you coming or not?"
"Bossy," he says, but he follows.
I run the water too hot, the way I always do, and Gray sits on the closed toilet lid while the tub fills, watching me add bath salts like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"You're staring," I say.
"I'm appreciating."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being a husband who hasn't seen his wife in days."
"A few days," I correct, sinking into the too-hot water.
Gray moves to the floor, settling with his back against the tub. "Let me just sit here for a second."
"You're being weird again."
"I'm being tired. Lisbon is insane, Abs. I spent four hours yesterday in a promoter's office designed by someone who actively hates human beings. The chairs were bolted to the floor in a pattern that made it physically impossible for two people to have a conversation."
"Strategic chair placement. Very Portuguese."
"Very sadistic. And the food. Everyone keeps shoving these tiny custard tarts at me like it's a legal requirement."
"Pastéis de nata."
"Sure, those. They're everywhere. Every meeting, every site visit."
"The horror."
"You'd think so, but they're actually incredible. I brought you some. They're in my bag."
"How many?"
"A dozen."
"A dozen tiny custard tarts."
"They're small. It seemed reasonable at the time."
I run my wet fingers through his hair. "Tell me something ridiculous about Lisbon."
"Define ridiculous."
"Make me laugh. You owe me."
"There's a restaurant near the new office that only serves fish.
That's not the ridiculous part. The owner, this tiny woman who must be ninety, has decided I'm too thin.
Every day she adds something extra. Started with bread.
Then soup. Yesterday she brought me an entire second fish and wouldn't let me pay for it. "
"She's adopting you."
"She's force-feeding me."
"Same thing, in some cultures. What else?"
"The project manager has a dog. Brings it to every meeting. This enormous Great Dane that takes up half the conference room."
"I love him already."
"Her. I think. She sits on my feet. Every meeting. Two hours of a hundred-pound dog treating my shoes like a heated bed."
"This is the best thing you've ever told me."
"I thought you'd appreciate it." He turns to look at me. "I really missed you, Abbie."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
"Come here," I say instead of everything else.
He strips and climbs in facing me, our legs tangling, water rising dangerously close to the edge.
"This is a logistical nightmare," he observes.
"You're too tall for romance."
"I've been meaning to work on that."
"Have you?"
"No. But I'm very sorry about it."
His mouth finds mine, slow and familiar. I pull back before I can lose myself.
"We're going to flood the bathroom."
"Worth it."
"The kitchen ceiling will disagree."
"The kitchen ceiling has survived worse. Rain check?"
"Rain check."
"Food," I say eventually. "I'm starving."
"There's nothing in the fridge. I checked."
"There's that Thai place that delivers until one."
"The one with the terrible pad see ew?"
"The pad see ew isn't terrible. You just have no taste."
"I married you. My taste is impeccable."
I splash water at him. He catches my wrist.
"Order the food, Gray."
He kisses my knuckles. "Pad see ew?"
"And spring rolls."
"And dumplings?"
"Obviously."
We eat on the bathroom floor in our robes, takeout containers spread between us. His damp hair curls at the temples.
"This is the best meal I've had in days," he says around a mouthful of noodles.
"You've been in Portugal. The food capital of—"
"Don't care." He points his chopsticks at me. "This is better."
"It's mediocre Thai food eaten on a bathroom floor."
"It's mediocre Thai food eaten on a bathroom floor with you." He steals one of my spring rolls, entirely unrepentant. "That's the key variable."
"Come here," Gray says, setting his container aside.
"I'm eating."
"Bring it with you."
I scoot closer. He pulls the clip from my hair and works his fingers through the damp ends.
"What are you doing?"
"Drying your hair."
"With your hands?"
"I don't see a towel."
"There's one on the rack. Right there."
He ignores me, continuing to work his fingers through the strands. "This is more efficient."
"That word doesn't mean what you think it means."
"Shh." He gathers my hair in one hand, twists it gently, lets it fall. "I'm working."
"Hey," he says softly, tilting my chin up. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere."
"Liar." He traces my jaw with his thumb. "You had a look."
"What kind of look?"
"The kind that means you're thinking something you're not saying." His eyes search my face. "Talk to me."
My phone is a ten-second unlock away. I want this one night.
"I missed you," I say instead. "That's all."
He kisses me, tasting of pad see ew. The containers slide aside as he pulls me into his lap.
"Bed," he murmurs against my mouth. "The floor is killing my knees."
"Old man."
"Rude." But he stands, pulling me up with him, and then we're stumbling toward the bedroom, his hands on my waist, my fingers fumbling with the tie of his robe.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall his mouth finds the hinge of my jaw and my back hits the kitchen doorway. The robe's belt comes loose under my fingers. Cool air from the open window slides over my damp skin and the city glitter of Los Angeles sprawls beneath us like it's been waiting for an audience.
"Counter," I manage.
"Counter," Gray agrees, voice already gone to gravel, and he lifts me onto the cool marble like I weigh nothing.
My robe falls open. His falls somewhere near the fridge.
He steps between my knees, huge and tattooed and still faintly smelling of Thai basil and my shampoo, and for a second he just looks at me, green eyes to pale blue, bare thighs bracketed around his hips, like he's memorizing the layout of a building he's afraid they'll tear down.
"Abbie." My name comes out careful. Awkward. The giant version of shy. "Tell me you want this. Tell me I'm allowed."
"You're allowed." I hook my heels behind his thighs and pull him in. "You're so allowed it's embarrassing. Kiss me like you mean the layover."
He does, deep and hungry. His hands frame my waist and then slide up, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts until I make a sound against his tongue that has nothing to do with pad see ew.
The marble is cold under me. He is not. He is furnace-hot, and when his mouth trails down my throat I tip my head back and watch the city blink through the window behind him.
"God, Abs." He says it against my collarbone like a confession he practiced on the plane and still can't get right. "You have no idea what you look like right now. Hair wet. Robe open. Looking at me like I'm... fuck."
"Like you're what?"
"Like I'm worth the layover." His laugh is short and embarrassed, filthy around the edges. "Which is a stupid thing to say with my hands on your—"
"Say stupider things." I catch his wrist and guide it higher. "I like you stupid."
He cups my breast properly, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens, and then his mouth replaces his hand, hot, wet, sucking with a focused intensity that makes my fingers fist in his black wavy hair.
He makes a low sound against my skin. The kind of sound a man makes when he's trying to be polite and failing spectacularly.
"Gray—"
"Yeah. Yeah, I've got you." He switches to the other breast, awkward and thorough, like he's checking a list he wrote in his head. Then he drops to his knees on the kitchen tile.
Just, drops. Six-foot-something of tattooed muscle folding down between my spread thighs like the floor is the only altar that matters.
His hands slide up the insides of my legs.
He looks up at me once, pale eyes blown dark, and the expression on his face is singular.
Obsessive. Like the rest of the continent could catch fire and he wouldn't notice.
"I'm going to put my mouth on your pussy," he says, very carefully, very filthy. "And I'm going to stay there until you pull my hair hard enough to bruise. That okay?"
"That's... yes. God, yes. Gray, please—"