Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rafe

Giles: I’m doing my best to distract the paparazzi this morning. But you might want to leave through the back garden.

Me: I thought they’d give up now that I’m no longer playing football.

Giles: You’ve sold a lot of papers over the years, Rafe. They’ll always want news and gossip. Use the back exit.

Me: Fine. As long as everything is ready for later today?

Giles: It was tricky, but yes. Private shopping times, the pitch to yourself, and the last surprise I’m nearly done with. I’ll update you ASAP.

Me: Once this dies down, you can retire, I promise.

Giles: So you said. Don’t worry about it. My little place in Spain needs some upgrades. Your bonus will pay for them.

Me: Just have your contacts in the US keep digging for me and I’ll pay for all your remodeling.

Giles: Done! (And I would’ve done it without the bonus.)

Me: I know. But after putting up with my bullshit all these years, you deserve it.

T he next morning, after finalizing a few things with my soon-to-retire assistant in the UK, I fiddled with the fruit plate, yogurt, and granola spread I’d laid out and waited for Abby to wake up. Would she still be the teasing, lighter version from the night before? Or, would she retreat back behind the wall of formality?

Hearing her laugh and tease me again had nearly made my heart burst. And when she’d fallen asleep against me in the car on the ride home from the airport and snuggled into my side? I’d treasured every moment, hating that I’d had to wake her up once we got to my townhouse. I wish I could’ve carried her, but my knee might’ve given out, and I wasn’t going to risk dropping her.

I’d given Abby my room, and I’d slept in my home office. My UK place only had two bedrooms, and I’d never needed a guest one before. And given how this was the UK and not the US, everything was smaller—the home, the rooms, and even the couch. So I’d opted to sleep on the floor, and my neck was far from happy.

Especially when all I’d wanted to do was to curl up behind Abby, hold her close, and sleep with her in my arms.

Then I remembered West’s words from our conversation in my office: “You have to find the right balance of pushing her and giving her space. She’s stubborn—hell, we all are—but she’ll dig in more than most if she’s trying to protect herself.”

As I tried to think of how to accomplish that balance, Abby entered the kitchen wearing her tiny shorts. I stared at her legs as she rubbed her eyes. “Morning. I think.”

My gaze shot to hers again. “Yes, it’s nearly ten. If you didn’t wake up soon on your own, I would’ve done it. Because if you want to beat jet lag, you need to force yourself to follow the new schedule as quickly as possible.”

“I know. Somehow, the eight-hour difference is easier than the three hours when flying across the US.”

Her gaze roamed the kitchen, which was small, with an L-shaped counter and a small area for a two-person table.

Abby frowned. “Is that a washing machine in your kitchen?”

“Yes. That’s pretty normal here, to be honest, to have one in the kitchen.”

“I guess it’d be nice to toss in some laundry while making dinner. But it’s so tiny!”

I chuckled, went to the espresso machine, and turned it on. “Things here are usually on a smaller scale, which makes sense when you consider how much less land there is in the UK compared to the US.”

“True.” She spotted the breakfast spread. “Is that a flower made out of fruit?”

“Kind of. I tried my best. I know sunflowers are your favorite, but it looks more like a daisy or something.”

She clicked her tongue. “And here I thought you were a breakfast artist extraordinaire!”

I made a face at her. “Better than you.”

She snorted. “Maybe I should be offended, but it’s true. I can’t draw or paint or sculpt anything to save my life, apart from stick people. Oh, I know! I should make a stick person breakfast out of sausage and bacon.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” I put her latte in front of her.

She smiled as she looked at the design on top. “It’s a chocolate unicorn.”

“Well, you did have those things everywhere as a kid. I still remember trying to remove all the stickers you put on my bike.”

“I forgot about that. It was like twenty of them. Emmy and I thought to make your boring bike a little prettier.”

“A sixteen-year-old boy doesn’t want a pretty bike,” I grumbled.

“Hey, I was six or seven? I didn’t exactly understand the coolness factor for teenage boys. Although, to be fair, I still didn’t understand it when I was a teenager myself.”

“Why? What happened?”

At the thought of some boy trying to take advantage of her, my fingers curled into a fist.

Then I remembered how she’d kneed me in the balls, and I relaxed a little. I’d still go after any fucker who hurt her, but she wasn’t completely helpless. Far from it.

“Let me get some food first and then I’ll tell you.” Abby sipped her coffee and then took a plate, dishing out what she wanted.

Once we both had our breakfast, she finally answered, “When I was fifteen, guys started talking to me, flirting with me, and asking me out. I didn’t know why they’d all started paying attention to me at the same time, but I merely enjoyed it. Until…”

“Until what?”

She speared a grape with her fork before she said, “Until I discovered they were trying to see who was the bravest.”

“Bravest? What the fuck does that mean?”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t about me, but my brothers. Even if they weren’t all there when I was in high school, the Wolfe brothers were infamous. And so the guys at my school started a betting pool to see who would try to date me and stand up to my brothers, proving they were the manliest, or some such bullshit.”

Rage shot through me. “What?”

Abby peered at me. “It’s okay. It was over a decade ago. Although high school me wasn’t so nonchalant about it. I mean, it’s not exactly flattering when someone will only dance with you because they want to win some money.”

I nearly asked for some names, but held back. My focus needed to be on her ex in San Jose, not some sad high school boys. “Well, none of the guys at your high school were worthy. You were too good for their lame asses.”

Her lips smirked. “Lame asses?”

I replied solemnly, “Super lame asses.”

She snorted and shook her head. “Are you next going to shout, ‘Psych!’?”

“I’m not that old.”

I tossed a grape at her, but she smacked it back at me and it bounced off my leg. I reached for another, but she moved my plate away. “What was it you criticized my family for? Oh, that’s right, food fights. Pot, meet kettle.”

The urge to stick out my tongue was strong, but I restrained myself. “I’m just trying to make you feel more at home, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “I think it’s more that your life revolved around soccer for so long and you missed out on being a kid. But feel free to let out your inner child with me.” She pointed her fork at me. “Well, mostly. Put gum in my hair, and it’s war.”

“Duly noted.” I smiled, she did the same, and something shifted inside me.

Abby had been so fucking strong, survived so much, and still had her sense of humor and used it to try and make me relax.

A guy could get addicted to that. Addicted to her.

An image of us old and gray, still teasing and laughing, flashed into my mind. Yearning blazed inside me. More and more, I started to think I wanted Abby as my wife for real.

Scratch that. I didn’t think, I knew that I wanted her in my life.

Because I was falling fast and hard for her.

Abby cleared her throat, ate a little more yogurt and granola before asking, “Did you even go to dances during high school? I know soccer practice and extra coaching took up all your time.”

“It did. And no, I didn’t have time for much of a social life. And it was kind of funny going from being the tall, skinny kid to the pro athlete with women all wanting to hook up.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If you want me to feel bad about you getting too much attention from women, then you’re going to be waiting a long-ass time, Rafael.”

I searched her gaze. Was she jealous?

It shouldn’t make me happy, and yet it sent a small thrill through me. For all her protestations of having a crush on me as a kid and feeling nothing later, she might actually feel something for me.

Which gave me hope. And given how well the morning had gone, I wasn’t about to change the subject anytime soon and risk making her dig in again. So I said, “Hey, try having people throw bras at you and see how comfortable you feel.”

“Oh, that’s happened to me before.”

I blinked. “What?”

Amusement danced in her eyes. “A night out in San Francisco with the BFF Circle ended up with us in a hotel, drunk, and flinging bras at each other. You’d be surprised how far they can go, if you do it just right.”

The image of a naked Abby, breasts bouncing as she flung her bra across the room, flashed into my mind.

A strawberry bounced off my cheek, and Abby said, “Get your mind out of the gutter. I love my friends, but I don’t want to make love to my friends. Leave it to a guy to turn everything into a dirty fantasy.”

I should stay quiet, and yet I blurted, “The only woman I want to see without a bra is you.”

Electricity sizzled in the air, and Abby’s cheeks flushed.

Shit. Had I just ruined our trip?