Chapter 17 Abby
Abby
Iown a closet full of work-wear staples.
Think: Ann Taylor cardigans, Express slacks and enough sensible flats to outfit a kindergarten teacher convention.
When it comes to sexy clothes, though, well, my wardrobe is severely underfunded.
So, when Victoria told the office we were heading to Cedar Lakes for a weekend retreat with a fancy cocktail hour on night one and then casually mentioned my ex-fiancé would be there the entire time?
Yeah. A shopping trip became mandatory. Emergency-level mandatory.
I love shopping as much as the next New York girl, but between work, errands and stress-crying on my couch to Love Island, I rarely have time for a proper haul.
When I do, I usually default to practical.
A new pair of Tory Burch flats or a silk button-down with a collar cute enough to say I’m responsible and flirty enough to whisper I could day-drink rosé.
But a weekend away with my fake boyfriend and my handsome, emotionally unavailable ex, however? That calls for backup.
Thankfully, Macy’s at Herald Square understood the assignment.
I did some glorious, well-justified damage to my credit card, buying a tight pair of Good American jeans, a black halter top, matching kitten heels…
and the fuchsia pink dress I’m wearing right now.
The moment I tried it on, I knew Marcus would combust. He always loved when my breasts were front and center; something about “just the right amount of cleavage,” like I was a cocktail menu. Misogynist? Maybe, but not incorrect.
What I don’t expect is Jonathan’s reaction.
The second I step out of the bedroom, his jaw practically hits the floor.
Even on the golf cart ride to the venue, he keeps stealing glances from behind his sunglasses like I won’t notice.
Clearing his throat. Fidgeting with his sleeves.
Shifting in his seat like he’s got ants or unresolved feelings in his pants.
He looks like a man trying very hard not to combust.
I also don’t expect this dress to cause a full-on commotion with my coworkers the second I walk into the cocktail party.
“Abby!” Tanya shrieks, sprinting toward me like I’ve just returned from war or Sephora with a limited-edition palette.
She grabs my hands and spins me around like one of those tiny ballerina figurines in a jewelry box.
“You look soooo stunning,” she gushes, drawing out the so like it needs its own set of vowels.
Even Victoria, queen of ice-cold professionalism, steps up to give me a once-over.
“Oh, I love this color on you, Abigail,” she says, gently tugging the fabric near my waist. “Who made it?”
Of course she assumes it’s Dior or Chanel, her default setting is locked on couture at all times.
“Thank you! It’s Misha… I think?” I say, fully aware she has no clue who that is. Sure enough, her eyebrow ticks upward in a polite never-heard-of-her arch.
“Well,” she says with a clipped nod, “it suits you.” She takes a sip of her martini and gestures vaguely. “Go grab a drink.”
I give her a smile and melt back into the crowd. Somewhere in the tornado of compliments and praise, I lose track of Jonathan. Then I spot him across the room, at the bar, bourbon in one hand, white wine in the other. My drink of choice.
As I make my way toward him, weaving through a sea of sequins and sports coats, I toss out compliments of my own. Great tie. Love your earrings. Where did you get that dress? Everyone looks stylish and polished and far more interesting than they do in the office’s bad lighting.
And then, like the scene is being directed by fate herself, I see Marcus.
He’s leaning against the bar, sipping his usual scotch, exuding effortless charm in a navy suit and that stupid smirk that used to undo me.
Our eyes lock. He freezes mid-sip, lowers his glass in slow motion and straightens his spine like something ancient just wakes up inside him.
I can practically see the recognition hit: Oh shit, she’s still hot.
He pushes off the bar, gaze fixed on me like I’m his next big risk.
I should be nervous. I’m not though. Not tonight. Not in this dress. The sudden wave of confidence from all those compliments still buzzes in my chest like champagne. The kind that makes you walk taller, smile wider and feel just the right amount of recklessness.
“Abby…” Marcus starts, his voice is thick. He clears his throat. “You look amazing.” His eyes drag over me with that old hunger I know too well; wanting me, needing me, already calculating how to get me alone.
I smooth my hands down the front of the dress and give him a practiced smile.
“Thank you,” I say, like I don’t already know.
Just as I’m about to say something else, maybe a full-blown Why now, Marcus? Jonathan strolls up beside me.
“There’s my sexy woman,” he says, winking as he hands me a glass of white wine. “Your favorite.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him with a smile that feels just a little tight. I lift it to my lips and sip. “Hmm. It’s good.”
“I made sure they had Andremily,” Marcus cuts in nonchalantly. “That’s the one you loved in Napa. Remember?”
I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth for a second sip. Jonathan rolls his eyes so hard I practically hear it.
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the wine, then back at Marcus. “That’s why it tasted familiar.” I stare at him a beat longer than I should. “Thank you, Marcus.”
For some reason, we just… stay there. Holding each other’s gaze like neither of us remembers how to blink. A full twenty seconds of weird, charged silence settles in, thick enough to buzz.
“Well.” Jonathan claps his hands together. “Now that we’ve solved the great wine mystery of 2025, let’s mingle.”
Before I can respond, Marcus cuts in. “Actually, could I talk to you for a moment, Abby?” He places a hand gently on the back of my arm. “Privately.”
I pause, shooting my eyes toward Jonathan like I need his permission. His jaw clenches, not at me… at Marcus.
“Sure,” I say, giving a small nod as I turn toward Marcus.
Jonathan catches my hand before I walk away.
His gaze flicks to Marcus, then back to me.
Then he leans in and kisses me. It’s short and gentle.
But not casual. There’s something in the way his lips linger, the way his hand doesn’t let go of mine immediately.
Something deeper, more possessive. He pulls away and his eyes are a darker blue now, more ocean storm than sky.
He doesn’t look away and for a moment, it feels like the room fades and it’s just us, caught in whatever this is.
There’s a tingle still buzzing on my lips and a part of me wants to lean back in. To see what would happen if we didn’t stop.
Instead, I smile briefly and press my palms against my dress, will my face to stay neutral and turn, walking with Marcus across the room, my heart tapping against my ribs like it’s trying to pick a side.
When we reach the far wall, Marcus stops, downs the rest of his scotch in one gulp and exhales like he’s just walked out of a courtroom. He looks nervous. Not his usual composed, charming self.
I tilt my head. “What do you want to talk to me about?” I ask, folding my arms lightly.
He swallows hard, eyes shifting toward where Jonathan still stands. Then his gaze returns to me. “Are you happy with him?” he asks, his voice shaky.
The question stuns me. “What?” I blink. “Why are you asking me that?”
Somewhere across the room, laughter erupts and cheers for Manny start; he’s just thrown back a shot at the bar. The room buzzes with life, like we’re not standing in our own awkward, time-frozen bubble of unfinished business.
“I need to know, Abby,” Marcus says, stepping closer.
“Yes,” I say quickly, cutting him off. “Of course I’m happy.”
But the second the words leave my mouth, something twists in my stomach.
I thought watching Marcus squirm would feel like victory, the final, delicious full-circle moment.
Me, radiant in a revenge dress. Him, rattled and jealous.
I built this whole fake-dating charade to make him feel exactly this way.
So why doesn’t it feel like a win? I don’t want him back.
At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t think I’m still in love with him.
I just wanted him to feel something. To hurt like I did.
To understand what he threw away. Maybe now he does.
Maybe I’ve finally gotten what I wanted.
He lifts his glass like he’s going to take another sip, only to pause when he realizes it’s empty. He stares at it, blinking, as if it let him down.
“Okay. Good. That’s… good. Good,” he says, stumbling over the words.
A thin sheen of sweat collects at his temple. Barely visible but I notice.
“Marcus,” I say gently. “Why are you really asking me this?”
He hesitates. His mouth opens, then closes again.
Finally, he clears his throat and straightens his spine like he’s flipping some internal switch.
“You know… dating within the office can get messy. And now that I’m part owner of the company, I need to make sure it’s not going to affect your job.
” His tone shifts, cooler now, as if he’s forcing the conversation into a professional box it absolutely does not belong in.
I blink. Really? That’s the line we’re going with? I can’t tell if he actually means it… or if it’s a last-ditch cover because he doesn’t like my answer.
“Okay,” I say, lifting a brow. “Well, we’re fine. Everything’s fine.” I give his arm a polite pat and start to turn away. “I’m going to go have some fun.”
Before I can get far, he catches my hand, discreetly, but enough to stop me. I spin back around, shooting him a look that lands somewhere between don’t push it and what now?
He drops my hand immediately, both palms raised in surrender. “Sorry,” his face says. Even though his eyes say he’s not sorry at all.
I head straight for Jonathan. He’s standing with Conner, Tanya and Sarah, all of them watching Manny line up another shot like shot-taking is an extreme sport and he’s going pro. Without breaking stride, I snatch the shot glass right out of Manny’s hand and toss it back in one smooth gulp.
For a second, the group just stares.
Then Jonathan throws his head back and yells, “That’s my girl!”
Laughter explodes around us as fanfare follows.
Manny gapes at me. “Damn, girl. You take shots and wear dresses like this?” He waves his hand up and down like he’s scanning my outfit. “Who even are you?” He grins. “Bartender! Another round for the group!”
Before I can say a word, Jonathan grabs my hand and spins me toward him. I land against his chest, breathless.
“You good?” he asks, eyes searching mine.
“Yes,” I say, smiling as the shot zips through my bloodstream, all warm and electric.
He tilts his head, smirking. “What did the wannabe GQ model want?” he asks, clearly referring to Marcus.
I laugh and tug at Jonathan’s shirt. “Model? You should talk.”
He chuckles and squeezes my hand. His touch is easy and somehow balances me.
“He just wanted to make sure our relationship wasn’t going to cause any… workplace issues,” I say lightly, though Marcus’s words still leave a weird aftertaste I can’t quite shake.
Jonathan glances over his shoulder. Marcus is talking with Victoria and a few others, but his attention keeps drifting back to us.
Jonathan leans in, lowering his voice until it brushes my skin like velvet.
“Your plan’s working.” His breath hits my ear and it’s game over.
A full-body shiver rolls through me, heat blooming everywhere at once.
He’s close, too close and the tension crackles in the air like it’s waiting to snap.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes and they’re darker than usual. Hungry even. I don’t even try to think. I just know I want to kiss him so badly it hurts.