“I’m sorry too, been sorry for thirty-six years. As I’m sure you could tell. Now, let’s not talk about maudlin things, you,” she pointed at Kieran, “why are you so tan? It’s January, no one should have a tan in January. Don’t you work?”
At that, Kieran explained his love of cycling and holidays with his wife while Marco served their drinks. Conversation, shockingly, flowed easily from there.
And this was because of Kieran and also Cash.
Both men politely asked questions of Mrs. Truman or politely answered her nosy ones.
For her part, Mrs. Truman remained crabby and curious but she was unexpectedly forthright. Therefore Abby learned more about her neighbour in half an hour than she’d known in thirty-eight years.
She also learned about Cash.
Not that he shared more than absolutely necessary when asked questions, more that he was polite and solicitous to the older woman. It wasn’t something she expected from the dynamic, imposing, impatient Cash Fraser. She didn’t know what she expected, brooding silence maybe or perhaps edgy tolerance. Not a man relaxed and at ease with his company and surroundings.
At this, Abby felt the tension ebb out of her body and she started to enjoy the evening.
Mrs. Truman wasn’t a gracious host but you couldn’t say she wasn’t an interesting one. As the conversation flowed, Abby realised that the old woman was enjoying herself and it was clear she was blossoming under the men’s attention, especially Cash’s (as would anyone, Abby had to admit). She was still grouchy but humorously so.
Abby also realised that because of her reputation it was unlikely Mrs. Truman had a lot of dinner parties. She mentally kicked herself for being so lost in her own troubles she didn’t notice that, when Abby’s grandmother died, her lonely neighbour had lost her old friend who’d lived next to her for forty-five years.
By the time Mrs. Truman announced it was time to eat and demanded they all go to the dining room, Abby felt Cash deserved some gratitude for his efforts.
While Mrs. Truman headed out to see to the meal, Abby grabbed Cash’s hand, delaying him as Kieran and Jenny moved from the room.
He stopped and his chin tipped down in order that he could look at her enquiringly.
She smiled up at him and told him in a whisper, “You… are… the… master.”
His eyes lit with humour at her words but he asked, “I’m sorry?”
“Mrs. Truman. You’re handling her like a master. I know you can’t tell, because, well, she’s Mrs. Truman but I think she’s half in love with you,” Abby informed him.
The light in his eyes stayed there but it grew warmer just as his head descended and his face disappeared in the hair by her ear.
“I hope, when we’re alone later, you’ll still think I’m a master,” he murmured teasingly and Abby’s body gave a delicious tremble right before all the tension that had ebbed out of her came slamming right back.
What did that mean?
She decided instantly that she did not want to know.
Cash felt her body go solid and apparently her reaction amused him. She knew this because he chuckled before he led her into the dining room.
The minute they entered Mrs. Truman bossily informed them they were switching partners and as the men made their way to their assigned seats, Jenny grabbed Abby’s forearm and tugged.
When she had Abby’s ear close to her mouth, she hissed, “What on earth is going on?”
Abby knew what her friend was referring to but she decided to play dumb.
“What do you mean?” Abby whispered.
“I mean you and Hunky International Spy Chaser, that’s what I mean,” Jenny whispered back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abby was still playing dumb and still whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.
Jenny’s fingers tightened on Abby’s arm. “Bickering on the front step like an old married couple. The finger action on the couch. Snuggling,” she hissed, “in company,” she went on. “You’re supposed to be his girlfriend but this is…” she hesitated. “I don’t know what it is!” she finished.
“Jenny –” Abby started but Mrs. Truman was getting cross at the delay.
“What are you two ninnies whispering about? Come on, share with the group,” she called.
Abby turned toward the table, thankful for once at Mrs. Truman’s interference, and answered, “Nothing, Mrs. Truman.”
“Women problems,” Jenny, for some momentarily-possessed-by-Satan reason, explained.
“Oh dear, you aren’t pregnant are you?” Mrs. Truman asked Jenny as Abby took her seat next to Kieran and Jenny slid into hers next to Cash.
“Um, no,” Jenny answered and her eyes moved to Kieran.
It was an insensitive question even though Mrs. Truman didn’t know that (and probably wouldn’t care). They’d been trying now for three years with no luck.
Mrs. Truman speared Abby with her eyes, “Please tell me you aren’t.”
Abby was taking a sip of her wine when the question was asked and she choked in horror and disbelief before saying, “Me? Pregnant?”
Mrs. Truman rolled her eyes to the ceiling and for some ungodly reason started talking to Abby’s grandmother, “I tell you, Meg, children these days. There’s no controlling them.” Mrs. Truman looked back to Abby but jutted a thumb at Cash. “I don’t care how handsome and charming he is; don’t let him get you into trouble.”
Kieran burst out laughing, Cash turned a devastating smile in Abby’s direction and Jenny stared at her speculatively.
Abby hoped the floor would form a mouth, open up and swallow her whole.
“Mrs. Truman, why don’t you stab me with your butter knife?” Abby requested.
“And why would I do a fool thing like that?” Mrs. Truman shot back but even as she did so her lips were twitching.
“Because it’d be less painful,” Abby returned blandly and for the first time ever Abby saw Mrs. Truman laugh.
Although she was trying to be funny, and she was weirdly pleased with herself for making Mrs. Truman laugh, Abby didn’t think anything was amusing.
Instead, she thought, with everything that had happened over the past six years, and everything that had happened recently, and everything that was going to happen, it was high time to get drunk.
* * * * *
“Abigail, you’re inebriated,” Mrs. Truman remarked jovially – yes, jovially!
“Am not,” Abby returned cheerfully, but this was a lie, because she was.
It was after their delicious, four-course meal (not including the cheese tray), served by the silent Marco, they were having after dinner drinks in the living room.
Jenny had gotten over her freak out at Abby and Cash’s behaviour and also conquered her fear of Mrs. Truman. Once she entered the conversation, drawing Cash out more, familiarly teasing Kieran and amusingly going head-to-head with Mrs. Truman, the evening became fun.
Abby joined in and through it all she had more wine than was prudent.
But she didn’t give a good God damn.
She didn’t like what had happened to her life but she weirdly did like what was currently happening to it, even though she knew shouldn’t, it wasn’t sensible.
Further, she was scared silly at what was about to happen at the same time she couldn’t wait.
If all that didn’t make you want to get drunk indeed deserve to get drunk, Abby didn’t know what did.
“I hope you can handle sick. Men, it’s my experience, can’t handle sick. Or poo.” Mrs. Truman, who likely was also a little intoxicated if her new conversational gambit was anything to go by, said to Cash. “Sick and poo and men do not mix,” she declared. “If you need me later, call me. I can handle sick. My dogs get sick all the time.” She paused and added as an informational afterthought, “They also poo.”
“Where are your dogs?” Jenny asked, leaning toward Mrs. Truman as if her answer would cure world hunger, proving it was highly likely she too was less than so
ber.
“They’re locked in my room. Probably pooing on my bed,” Mrs. Truman answered then cackled loudly as if this comment was the height of comedy.
Abby and Jenny apparently agreed because they giggled right along with her.
“Why are we talking about poo?” Kieran muttered to Cash and Cash’s response was to shake his head. This caused more gales of laughter from the women.
At that Cash got to his feet. He did so with his hands on Abby’s waist, pushing her up in front of him.
Once she was standing, Abby gazed up at him and asked, “Are we leaving?”
“Yes, darling, before you get any more wine in you and pass out on Mrs. Truman’s floor, we’re leaving,” Cash replied.
“Ooo, he called you ‘darling’,” Jenny burst out, drunkenly forgetting that Abby’s place in Cash’s life didn’t exactly garner endearments then in a colossal mood swing she turned a glare at Kieran. “Why don’t you call me ‘darling’, darling?”
“Because you’re not my darling,” Kieran replied on a grin, “you’re my pumpkin.”
Jenny’s glare darkened ominously. “I don’t want to be a pumpkin. A pumpkin is a vegetable. A darling is…” she faltered then declared, “a darling!”
“How about ‘sweetheart’?” Kieran suggested.
Jenny appeared to be considering this then she grumbled, “Darling’s better.”
Kieran’s grin didn’t waver as he explained, “I’m not a darling type of guy, pumpkin.”
“Well, I’m not a pumpkin type of girl, darling,” Jenny shot back.
“Time to call it a night,” Mrs. Truman decreed, slowly getting to her feet, “marital tiffs always herald time to call it a night.”
At this Abby burst out laughing.
Cash started to manoeuvre her laughing form from the room but Mrs. Truman interceded.
“You men, get the coats. We’ll wait here where it’s comfortable,” she ordered bossily.
Kieran got to his feet muttering, “Your wish…” and he bent to kiss the top of his still-irritable wife’s head.
With a smile on her lips, Abby watched this but her attention was diverted when Cash’s hand came up, curled around her neck and he gave her an affectionate squeeze before he left the room.
She had to admit, she really liked it when Cash did that.
Abby watched him leave then forgetting her audience, she sighed.
“He’s luscious,” Jenny proclaimed, her eyes on the door Cash just went through.
For one beautiful moment, forgetting herself and her circumstances, in the direction of her friend Abby breathed a very girlie, “I know.”
Mrs. Truman broke into this exchange by starting, “When Morty died,” and Abby and Jenny’s eyes turned to her, their drunken glow slipping at the older woman’s words, “I promised myself never again. Never again.” Abby and Jenny kept watching as her face changed to an expression neither of them had ever seen, not just from Mrs. Truman, but on anyone. It was forlorn, full of regret and difficult to witness. Abby watched as Mrs. Truman’s attention focused on her. “After your man died, Meg and I talked about you. We talked about you all the time. She worried so much. She told me how grief-stricken you were. She thought you’d never recover. Meg worried you’d end up just like me,” Abby’s throat closed and Mrs. Truman’s voice got soft when she went on. “I like him, this new one. Your grandmother would be pleased, Abigail,” her voice dipped to a whisper, “so very pleased.”
Abby felt tears well in her eyes as guilt tore at her heart because, even though it wasn’t her idea to have this dinner, her “new man” wasn’t her new man at all.
The entire situation was a deception and she was inadvertently making a fool of her new friend.
Her voice was hoarse when she started, “Mrs. Truman –” but she didn’t get to finish not that she knew what to say.
The men came in bearing coats and the mood and moment was broken.
It was broken further when Abby tried to give Mrs. Truman a hug, not only as a thank you for dinner, but as a gesture of newfound camaraderie.
Mrs. Truman was having none of it.
“I do not hug,” she announced, rearing away from Abby and putting her hand up at the same time to ward her off. “Americans hug. Englishwomen kiss cheeks and even then they do their very best not to touch,” she said her last word as if the thought of touching was repugnant.
Abby was for the first time not offended or irritated by her cranky neighbour.
She simply said, “Very well, Mrs. Truman. You get the English way in your house but when you come over to my house, you have to hug me good-bye.”
“I think not,” Mrs. Truman snapped.
“I think yes,” Abby retorted.
“No,” Mrs. Truman returned.
“We might hold hands too,” Abby threatened on a tease and Mrs. Truman made a “humph” sound but Abby was guessing there wasn’t a lot of feeling in that “humph”.
Abby smiled at her and said softly, “Good night, Mrs. Truman.”
Mrs. Truman’s face ever-so-slightly warmed. “Good night, Abigail.”
Cash settled his coat on her shoulders, more farewells were exchanged and she and Cash led the way, Kieran and Jenny following, out of the house.
On the pavement in front of Mrs. Truman’s house they said their good-byes with Jenny grasping Abby’s hand and whispering a firm, “We have to chat. Call me.”
Abby pulled away and with false brightness in the face of impending doom, declared, “Will do.”
Cash steered her to her house, took the keys from her, opened the latch and pressed her inside, following her.
He then closed the door behind them and took his coat from her shoulders, hooking it on her coat stand.
Abby watched him doing this.
Then it dawned on her drunken mind that the night was over.
Then it hit her that they were in her house. Something she didn’t want. Something she needed to protect herself from. Something which she could just come to terms with if he stayed in the hall, living room and kitchen, common areas that didn’t intrude too much on her precious memories.
However, Cash wasn’t staying in the vestibule. He snapped off the light switch and grabbed her hand.
Then he led her to the stairs.
Panic beginning to pierce her drunken state, she pulled at her hand (which didn’t stop him) while asking, “What are you doing?”
“Taking you to bed,” he replied calmly, turning at the stairs and he had her up three of them when she came to a dead halt and he stopped with her.
“I can get to bed on my own,” she told him.
“You aren’t sleeping on your own,” he returned.
The breath squeezed out of Abby’s lungs and the beginning panic bloomed like a mushroom cloud.
She forced it back and said, “I thought we were going to your place.”
He was one step up and looking down at her. “We were, until you got drunk. But then you got drunk. Now we’re staying here.”
He turned away and started to move forward but she stayed where she was and declared, “I’d prefer to stay at your place.”
His torso twisted and he looked back down at her. “And I’d prefer to stay here.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice, she heard with irritation, sounding slightly shrill, hinting at the panic she felt.
With a firm tug on her hand, he forced her up to the step where he was standing. Then he dropped her hand and both of his came to rest on her neck.
“Because it’s late and you’re inebriated. You get in the car you’re likely to fall asleep. I don’t want you intoxicated, asleep and in a car. I want you intoxicated, awake and in a bed. This is the closest one available unless you’d like to ask Mrs. Truman if she has a guest bedroom.”
“Cash –” she started to protest but his thumb came to rest on her lips, effectively silencing her.
Once there, it slid across her lower one and she found she liked that so much she coul
dn’t speak much less protest.
“All day,” he said in that deeper, sexier, throatier burr that she liked so much, “I’ve been thinking about what I’d do to you tonight. All… fucking… day.” His thumb disappeared from her lip, his fingers slid into her hair to cup the back of her head as he got closer at the same time her heart started beating faster. “And after our time in the kitchen,” he went on, “all night, I’ve been waiting to get you to bed.” The thumb of his hand still at her neck put pressure on her jaw to tip her head back further. “And I think you know how I feel about waiting.”
She couldn’t say anything; she’d lost the ability to speak. Even if she could, she still couldn’t.
Because he kissed her.
And it wasn’t like any of the times before. This one was different. She knew it immediately. This one was not in her control and neither was it in his. This one was sweltering from its start, burning through her.
This one was leading somewhere.
And Abby wanted to go there.
She felt a thrill race through her that was only partly fear (a small part) but mostly something else entirely.
Her mouth opened under his, his tongue slid inside and the minute it did she was lost.
She didn’t care they were in her house. She didn’t care that she didn’t want him there. She didn’t care that her feelings were confused. She didn’t care that losing control put her on even shakier ground. And lastly, she didn’t care that she was supposed to be keeping her head screwed on straight and she most assuredly was not.
She didn’t care about anything but his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth and the amazing things her body was feeling.
She melted into him, her arms going around his back, her body pressing against his.
At her uninhibited response, his hand fisted in her hair, sending tingles from her scalp straight down her spine (and other areas besides). The fingers of his other hand tightened on her neck as he leaned into her, bending her back, deepening the kiss.
She felt this new intensity surge through her system, making her knees go weak.
Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that it had never been this good.