Poor man. Not only to have his perfect marriage crumble, but for him to doubt his child was even his? At this age? How appalling. “Are you scared she was telling the truth?”
He didn’t look at her. His wineglass held more interest for him. “Terrified. I’ll admit that I’m ready to ship Leila to Norway until she calms down. It almost means she won’t be around in case one of Sarah’s ‘friends’ decides to turn up and ask for us all to start swabbing.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to know?”
“For who?” he asked softly. “She’s thirteen in a few months. I’m the only father she’s ever known. The only parent she’s got left. How would I tell her? She’s a pain in the arse at the moment, but... she’s my pain in the arse.”
“I think you’re kidding yourself. What happens when she finds out?”
“No one else knows.”
She wasn’t convinced. Maybe telling him that she struggled to find similarities to him in Leila’s facial features wouldn’t help. “What happens when she tells you she hates you and she wishes you weren’t her father?”
“Been there...” He shrugged. “Didn’t even occur to me to contradict her. I was too busy resisting the urge to beat some sense into her to scream anything back.” He twisted his mouth in amusement. “What? I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Ah, well. It’s too late for you to call Social Services. What’s happening with this chicken?”
Yeah, he was certifiable. Beautiful, damaged and certifiable. A change of subject was probably best. “I’ll get another bottle and bring out the chicken.”
“This is good stuff,” he murmured, holding up the ruby red glass. “Let me talk to the Dalbury-Scotts. Or I’ll buy it off you.”
Abigail edged the bottle away from him. “Maybe not.”
“Oi. This is the first drink I’ve had since my wife’s funeral. Don’t interfere, woman.”
Did he just ‘woman’ her? “Definitely no more for you.”
She stuck her finger inside the bottle neck and took it with her to the kitchen. As soon as the doors closed, she drained the remainder from the bottle herself. Dutch courage. She’d need it to go back out there, sit opposite that man and not want to put her arms around him and tell him it would all be fine. Everything would work out. Leila would realise how lucky she was and stop being a brat. Abigail had. At fifteen. Sixteen. Somewhere around that age and with two parents.
Grief. People and their issues. That man and his issues. After cooking fresh pasta with olive oil and chilli flakes, she topped the spaghetti with the chicken and extra parmesan. No, she’d need more wine. Definitely, if she had to listen to more shocks about Mr. Perfect’s utterly imperfect life.
It wasn’t the wine. Maybe it was the wine. It was the wine and Abigail’s facial expressions. She was probably terrible at poker, as he could read every single emotion on her face. From the lift of one of her perfectly arched eyebrows to the downturn of her mouth every time he mentioned Sarah, she was an open book. She tried to keep the wine away from him, but as he’d told her, he hadn’t had a drink in almost two years. He’d been afraid if he started to drink, he’d never stop, and then what would happen to his little demon spawn? Alleged demon spawn. But this? A full-bodied glass of smooth red? This, he deserved. What a blessing to be in the company of someone who didn’t remind him of his paternal failings!
She returned to the table with two steaming plates of food. No wonder the place was full every night. It smelled incredible. As he dug in and she set another bottle of red on their table, he said lightly, “Your mother thinks you’re trying out lesbianism.”
Abigail choked on her food. “What?”
Maybe he should wait for her to finish eating and drinking before saying anything. He was only edging her toward a trip to A&E. “Lesbianism. The clothes, the haircut... I like short hair on women.”
“Less competition for you in the bathroom,” she chimed instantly. It made him laugh.
“I know my hair’s too long. I’m trying out my
Conan the Barbarian
stage. Your hair suits you,” he admitted. It was very Sigourney Weaver in
Aliens 3
. Amber Rose without the blonde dye. Startlingly feminine for such a masculine cut.
“My mother shouldn’t worry so much. I have no intention on spending my private time scissoring with a butch lesbian.”
His body reacted with unruly enthusiasm at her words. If anything ever made him doubt his sexuality in the future, he would conjure the image of Abigail with another female, giving him that same look now as she writhed against the other woman’s form. His imagination wasn’t dead. Who knew?
She eyed him carefully and he grappled to control his blushes. Could she tell what he was thinking? “Is this where you ask me why I’m single?”
“Only if you want me to. I’ve bared my soul, you can even out the bench.”
“I suppose.” She shrugged. “My ex is a personal trainer. He went off to New Zealand for a job, expected me to drop everything and go with him and I said no.”
“Why?”
“Why would I? My family’s here. My home is here. I’d just bought this place.” She breathed out, swirling her wine in the glass. “What he was asking wasn’t fair. Ten years ago I’d have jumped at the chance.”
“Were you together that long?”
“Close enough. Sure he’s happy. Some mutual friends posted some pictures of him on Facebook surrounded by girls in bikinis. Didn’t take him long. I would have thought he’d mourn a bit. Sorry. You don’t want to hear this.”
He wasn’t particularly enamoured with the idea of Abigail hanging off the steroid-engorged arm of some meathead. She seemed too good for that. “Not really. Feel free to carry on with the lesbian talk, though.”
“Shut up.” She grinned.
He sat back and watched her underneath his lashes. “I’m thinking you had some experiences in university. Girl experiences that never left you.”
Her laughter warmed him more than the wine in his belly. “You’re twisted.”
“The idea’s in my head now.” And how it was in his head. “This was delicious.”
She shook her head, her face bemused. “Is your expression about dessert?”
“Mostly. It’s like I’m your butch life partner.”
“You need help.”
“Definitely. You’ll do for now.” The words, once left, were all too true. Abigail got to her feet and cleared away the plates.
“I’ve got some Eton Mess left if you fancy?”
It sounded heavenly. Strawberries, cream and meringues. “Eton Mess? I haven’t had that since school days.”
Abigail collected the plates. “I’ll bring some Sauternes.”
“I’m good with the Pinot. Bring over another if you like.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a bottle and a half you’ve had.”
Couldn’t be. “I’ve had a few glasses.”
“I’m not your mother.” She shrugged, taking the plates away. Good thing she wasn’t. He hardly needed an Oedipal complex on top of everything else. Guilt twisted in his stomach, and he pulled out his mobile to see if his mother was coping with Leila. A text message read:
Your child has a worse mouth than you. I hope you’re enjoying yourself while I suffer.
Why yes, he was enjoying himself. He watched Abigail reach up to a shelf for the Sauternes dessert wine, exposing the small of her back where her worn T-shirt lifted. For all her scruffy, baggy clothing, he could see how shapely she was. How beautifully curved. Mother meddling aside, Abigail Yeboah was pretty damn fine.
“Here,” she said, handing over their third bottle of Pinot and unscrewing the Sauternes for herself. He uncorked the wine as she disappeared again to bring the bowls of Eton Mess. “Checking on Leila?”
“She’s causing trouble. And the world still turns.” He nodded upstairs. “What have you done there?”
“Bookshelves, comfy chairs, condoms in the secret compartment...”
Excuse me
? “Rewind a minute. What?”
She gave him a look. “I may not be able to serve alcohol, but there are always people who find being in between so many books irresistibly sexy and try to stain my carpeting. I figure at the very least I save myself on dodgy stains.”
The logic of her scheme was astounding. “How do you know they’ve been used?”
“Durr. I counted them. Every time I go to the GP I get free ones. Suppose someone should get use out of them.”
“Now I have to see.” He got up before she could tell him not to and took the stairs two at a time in a leap. Now he saw where
The Library
got its name. The back half of the space was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. Worn and inviting chairs were scattered around with small coffee tables covered with magazines. Delving toward the back, he noted beanbags and folded blankets in between the shelves. He hoped those were laundered on the regular as well.
“Liam! Get down here now.”
He yelled down the stairs, “Tell me where the compartment is!”
“You’re not going to use it, so why do you need to know?”
“How do you know?”
She stormed up the stairs, her trainered feet banging on each step before she reached the level. “Fine. Then you’re off. No more playtime for you.”
“Look, you’re the one that offered me an escape. Continue.”
She rolled her eyes and marched to the last bookshelf on the left. “This one here. No one can see in this corner.” Moving past him, she crouched down to the skirting board and tapped it twice. The board popped open and she extracted a rainbow-painted box. “There. Condoms. Ten… Eight. Eight? Goddammit.”
“Sure you want to be kneeling there?”
“Try to be nice and ensure teenagers don’t reproduce...” she muttered, closing the box and sliding it back into its secret compartment.
As soon as she stood up, he recognised they were far too close. Too close for him not to wrap his arms around her waist. Definitely too close for him to ignore the warmth of her bare skin beneath his hands or the way her lips parted when they touched.
“Liam, you’re drunk.” Her warning was all breathless anticipation.
“I’m fourth-generation Irish, this isn’t drunk, this is just normal.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“No, no, no. This is what our parents have been praying about. God’s work.” He lightly traced her bottom lip with his tongue. She tasted of strawberries and cream. Intense and sweet. “Did you eat the mess?”
Her lashes lifted and she gazed at him with her honey-dark eyes. “A little. While you were up here. Come on, let’s go.”
“No. Let’s test the sturdiness of your shelves. Health and safety and all.”
As soon as his mouth touched those plump lips, his heart raced in his throat, heat rushed over him in waves, and he was certain time stopped to allow him to appreciate the woman in his arms. Underneath the traces of pastry and flour on her skin, he scented peonies and freesia. Paperbacks and hard-backed books with their heady perfume made him kiss her harder, press her against the bookshelves until the sensation of her curves moulded against his body overwhelmed him. He couldn’t help spanning his palms over her bare waist, squeezing her hips, stroking the sides of her lace-covered breasts with his thumbs.
Abigail moaned against his lips, curling her arms around his neck as his hands traced her figure. He took a mental picture to later recall every bit of her from memory. Her fingers speared through his hair, bringing him even closer. Too much to drink? Woman was crazy. He hadn’t felt this sober, this aware, this aroused in years. The taste, the feel, the scent of Abigail in his arms was enough to make a man feel light-headed.
Cupping his hands around her waist, he dragged her against him, sliding his thigh between hers so she straddled his leg. He could feel heat there, almost burning through the denim. The way she began to rub herself against him... Jesus. He started to unbutton her jeans. God, the need to feel if she was as wet as he hoped caused a rumble to rise in his throat.
“Liam, Liam, Liam,” she gasped, tearing her mouth away. “Your phone.”
Was that what that insistent buzzing and music was? “Fuck it.”
“Go answer it.”
He stared at her for a moment, fingers paused on the last button of her jeans, exposing her polka-dot-printed panties. It took him several breaths to remember why he might be called, and he made his way downstairs. The strains of “Bohemian Rhapsody” sounded loud from his jacket pocket. His mother.
“Hey, Mum.”
“Are you coming home?” Shelia blustered. “Leila’s asleep and I’m exhausted.”
He glanced upstairs as Abigail descended. “Yeah, I’m getting a taxi.”
“Taxi? I thought you drove?”
“No, I had a drink. Several.”
“You’re your father’s son, I’ll tell you.” His mother snorted with dismissal. “Hurry up then. I’d like to go home sometime today.”
“All right. Give me a minute.”
He ended the call and Abigail instantly launched into a speech. “You’ve got a lot going on, I know. So don’t worry about it.”
Not so fast, sweetheart,
he thought. “You’re going to have problems if you don’t test things out.”
“What do you mean?”
“The shelves,” he said, stepping closer to her and nodding up to the stairs. “Can they take a bit of a workout?” She frowned at him in confusion but he continued. “How’s your carpet for rug burn?” He stood directly in front of her and cupped her face with his hand, stroking his thumb over her mouth. Touching her felt different now. Before it was simply distraction. Now it was all intent. She should know he was serious. “If I fucked you hard enough on the floor upstairs, would we go straight through the ceiling? I think those are important points for potential health hazards you need to consider. Just in case someone thinks about suing you. I’d be happy to help you with that.” Her eyes widened in shock at his words. Her disbelief amused him. “Yes, I have baggage. But you weren’t thinking about it when I kissed you. And I’d guess if we used a few of those condoms up there, it wouldn’t be something you’d recall. Breathing would be a priority for both of us.” She didn’t say anything for a long time. “That’s what I thought. Shall I help clear up?”