Will laughed out loud at that one and hit Call.
Jase answered on the sixth ring, probably because he was busy pleating a bolt of silk or something fancy like that. “Yeah?” he barked. His usual greeting, so Will didn’t take it personally.
“You know I hate texting. Sorry.” Writing stuff down took so long, and anyway, Will was bad at waiting for answers. If he didn’t get a reply within three minutes, he’d wander away from his phone and forget the entire conversation.
“Yes, fine, you’re forgiven.” Jase sighed. “What’s up, anyway? Cats getting to you? Grandma getting to you? Abbie getting to you?”
“Abbie,” Will agreed.
“Oh. Really? Is she making fun of your teeth again? Because they’re honestly not that white.”
“Oh no, it’s nothing like that. Actually, it’s—well, I had decided, since it’s been a couple of years since the divorce and she seems happy now, and since I’m done with Captain X, and whatnot, which is kind of like fate, timing-wise…” Will realised he was rambling. He tended to do that when nervous. The media training hadn’t helped, but luckily, the press had found him charming.
Jase had never found him charming, though, so Will decided to cut to the chase.
“I’ve decided it’s time to find out if I have a shot with Abbie. So I’ve got a plan. I’m going to spend a year making her fall in love with me. Or trying to, anyway. That’s enough time, right? And I’m thinking of this Christmas as a kind of pre-season. A warm-up. I’m trying to, you know, flirt with her. Or whatever. Just to see if I can make her think of me that way, because I know she doesn’t think of me that way. But she could, right? Well, I hope she could. But I don’t know how last night went—she seemed kind of irritated, but then she always seems irritated, so…”
Will drifted off, trying to parse the air of vague amusement and impatience and uncertainty he’d picked up from her last night. The twins and Will had been best friends forever, like the three musketeers or something—but Abbie was always harder to read, and his feelings complicated the issue. Right now, for example, he couldn’t decide if the slight unease in his stomach was just nerves, or if it was because his plan was all wrong somehow.
Which was why he needed Jase.
“Hey,” Will nudged. “You there? You’re not saying anything. This is usually the part where you say something.” He got out of bed, the wooden floorboards cool against his bare feet. He needed to pace. If he didn’t get the nervous energy out via his legs, more of it would escape via his mouth. The phone in his hand remained silent, and he wondered if he’d accidentally cut off the call while speaking. He did that sometimes. Bloody touchscreens.
But then, finally, Jase spoke. “Yeah, I’m—I’m here,” he said, his voice all choked. “Sorry. Just kind of stuck on the part where you apparently want to have a shot with Abbie?”
Will paused mid-pace and blinked at the flowery wallpaper in front of him. This room, like every room in Ms. Tricia’s house, was wonderfully, distractingly bright. “Oh. Er … Did you not know that I’m in love with her? I always kind of assumed you knew.”
“You’re—you—what?” Jase rasped. “Bloody hell, Will. You assumed I knew? You think I knew that—I mean—well.” There was a pause, and a slight, considering cough. “Well, yeah, maybe I thought you had a thing for her, at one point. But I decided I was imagining it, because, Will, you never said! And you always say. And that was years ago, and—and she got married. To that dickhead. And you didn’t say shit. What the fuck, Will?”
Will shrugged, opened the curtains, and smiled out at the bare, frost-kissed trees and snow-cloud skies. Then he remembered that Jase couldn’t see him and explained. “I don’t know. I was being subtle. And patient.”
“Subtle,” Jase repeated, “and patient.” His voice dripped with scepticism. Will could practically feel it sliding out of the phone.
“Fine,” he admitted, “I was shy. I didn’t have much confidence when we were young. And I didn’t want to fuck up the family.” He still wasn’t sure if Jase—if any of the Farrells—understood what family felt like for Will. Before they’d moved in next door and been effortlessly absorbed into their new neighbours’ lives, Will and his mum had had no one but each other for ten fucking years. They’d struggled alone. They’d suffered alone. They’d survived his father alone.
And then they’d met Patricia Farrell and her daughter, Danielle, and all of Danielle’s children. And when they were hungry, Danielle had come ’round with extra food she happened to have cooked. And when Ms. Tricia saw Will walking himself home from school because Mum was out working one of her two jobs, she’d said, “Well, that’s no good. You might as well take the bus with us, boy.” And when Dad had come sniffing around one night, drunk as always and furious with his wife for finally leaving, Danielle had come outside in her dressing gown, holding a kettle like a weapon, and said, “The police have been called. And if you don’t leave before they arrive, I will personally bash your brains out. That’s a promise.”
Mum and Danielle had been best friends after that.
And Will had been one of the Farrells. All of a sudden, he’d had access to a house where there was always an adult around, and that adult was always sober. He’d had boys to play with who didn’t point out the holes in his shoes. He’d had a mother who, for the first time in years, smiled more than she cried.
And he’d had Abbie. He’d always had Abbie. And he’d always wanted more of her.
“You didn’t want to fuck up the family?” Jase echoed, incredulous. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, because there is definitely nothing you could do to make you any less family to us.” Like all Farrells, he said this incandescently brilliant thing very quickly, in a very bored voice, and moved immediately on. “So what you’re trying to tell me, William, is that you’ve been into Abbie this whole time? You’ve been running around, starring in soaps, and sleeping with supermodels—”
“It was one supermodel, and she was a very nice, very persuasive woman.”
“—winning Sexiest Arse Alive, and my sister’s been running around getting married, and the whole time you’ve been in love with her, and you just … haven’t … done anything about it?”
“I have done things about it. I got a good job, and I saw that therapist about my low self-esteem and childhood trauma or whatever, and I tried to see Abs every Christmas and I never missed her birthday—”
“I should bloody hope not,” Jase muttered, “since it’s my birthday.”
Will decided to ignore that. “I’ve done plenty about it, considering she was married for five years. Not to mention, there was that time when we—” His brain caught up with his mouth there, and he shut himself up.
“When you what?”
“Nothing.” That information was private, and while Will didn’t bother to keep private things from Jason, Abbie certainly did.
“When you what?” Jase repeated. “Please tell me you haven’t called out of the blue to confess that you’re in love with my sister and also that you’re having—ugh, you know what? Nope. Can’t even say it.”
Will frowned as he opened his suitcase and rifled through the clothes he hadn’t unpacked. “You can’t say what?”
“Will.”
He found his workout clothes and thought for a moment. “Oh, sex? You think we’re having sex? We’ve never had sex. Although I should be clear, I am hoping we will eventually have sex.” He paused. “If she’s into that.” He paused again. “But that’s, like, stage six of the plan. We’re still pre-season, Jase. Stay with me.” Honestly, the man was usually much smarter than this. Abbie had met her ex-husband at university, they’d been together forever, and after the divorce she’d been … withdrawn. It was only in the last year or so that she’d fully regained her smart-arse confidence. She’d been hurt. She was different now. He couldn’t throw his whole entire heart at her li
ke they were still young.
Sometimes Will thought about how things might’ve been if he’d thrown his heart at her when they were young.
Then he stopped because it made him sad, and anyway, it was pointless.
“Right now,” he explained, “I’m trying to change the way she thinks of me. She can’t see me as just one of the guys. She has to think I’m, you know, attractive.”
“Will. Abigail’s glasses give her twenty-twenty vision. She knows you’re attractive.”
“Shut up, that’s not what I meant. It’s a mindset thing. I don’t even know if she’s ready to date, which is why I’m taking this slow. So, stage two: in the New Year, I move back home—”
“You what?”
“—and start to see her more often. Not in a weird way. Just like, I’m here, she’s here, why don’t we hang out? She sees how super mature I am, and maybe she comes to my house sometimes and is in awe of my organised spice rack. I show her my Deap Vally records, and she starts ovulating. I might paint my living room black. She’d be way into that, right? Anyway, after that—”
“Stop,” Jase yelped. “Seriously, stop. I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, were you laughing just now? I thought someone had brought their tiny dog to work again.”
“Jesus, Will, you’re going to kill me. You’re actually going to kill me.”
Will bit his lip. “Shit. Is it bad? Is it a bad plan?” Because sometime in the last twelve hours, he’d started to worry it might be. Specifically, when he’d tried flirting with Abbie, which he’d never done, and she’d looked at him like he’d grown an extra head and she was tempted to smack it.
“You know what?” Jase said. “It’s not a bad plan, actually.”
Oh, thank God.
“But there is a better one.”
“What?” Will demanded. “Tell me.” After all, he needed all possible options if he was going to choose the best one. Needed to see every angle if he wanted to stand a chance at doing this without destroying their friendship.
Jase laughed, as if this whole situation was funny instead of Extremely Fucking Serious, Thank You, Jason. “How about you … tell her how you feel?”
Will blinked. Several times. That actually hadn’t occurred to him, probably because he got dramatic when it came to things that mattered.
And Abigail Farrell mattered. Maybe a little too much for him to think clearly.
“You know how impatient Abbie is,” Jase was saying. “If things start to change between you and she doesn’t know why, she’ll get annoyed. So just tell her, upfront, and ask her if there’s any chance she could feel the same.”
Fuck. Jase was right. Obviously, he was right. And this was kind of a dreamy concept, because she might say yes, and Will might be deliriously happy, and everything might be perfect by the end of the fucking day—
But.
The complete opposite could happen too. The complete opposite being that Abbie didn’t feel the same, leading their friendship to collapse under the strain of his weird unrequited love. And if there was one thing Will couldn’t lose, it was their friendship.
His pulse suddenly became audible. “I … don’t think I can do that,” he said, his voice cracking in the middle.
Jase sighed. “Yes, you can. I realise no one wants to be rejected, but—”
“I don’t mind being rejected.” He was an actor. He’d been rejected in every possible situation for almost every conceivable reason, several thousand times over the years. So that wasn’t the problem. That couldn’t be the problem. He wiped his free palm against his thigh and swallowed. “I just—I don’t think this is a good time to be so upfront. Wouldn’t want to scare her.”
“Sure,” Jase said dryly. “Her.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, safely dosed up with his allergy meds and firmly ignoring his looming self-doubts, Will headed downstairs. There was another tabby cat sprawled on the last step, and he jumped neatly over it with a quick “Morning, Bacon.”
Abbie wasn’t in the kitchen, but he could tell by the gleaming cereal bowl on the draining board that she’d been around. She was kind of a neat freak. He made himself a protein shake with the powder he’d brought from Mum’s, then set about the delicate process of making Abigail Farrell the perfect hot chocolate, which was an art in and of itself.
Unlike most people, she only liked it unsweetened. Eighty-five percent dark. With oat milk, because she was lactose intolerant. Not too hot to drink straight away, or she’d wait too long for it to cool and it would end up cold. And there had to be three marshmallows on top, in a perfect triangle—she’d never actually told him, but when he did it, she always looked pleased and saved the marshmallows for last, and that was evidence enough.
A short while later, hot chocolate in hand, Will found her in the family room. She was curled up on the corner sofa with Haddock in her lap and an embroidery hoop in her hands. She peered at that hoop like it held the secrets to the universe, concentrating so hard she shouldn’t have noticed Will standing there in the doorway.
But she did, because Abbie noticed everything. She was smart as fuck and sharp as fuck and sweet as fuck, too. “Morning, Will,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the fabric. “Still jetlagged?”
Because she knew he was usually an early riser, like her. “Getting better,” he said, and wandered into the room, stepping over a sunbathing cat. He liked looking at her from this angle, liked seeing her in the wintry morning light coming through the thin windowpanes, gilding her brown skin. She wasn’t wearing makeup yet, so there was no dramatic eyeliner or dark lipstick to distract from all the stuff that was just Abbie: how fast she blinked behind her glasses when she was thinking, and the little bump in her nose where she’d broken it fighting Michaela Ashley from across the street, and the tiny mole underneath her soft, wide mouth. She had her thick hair scraped back into a bun that looked five seconds from escaping its elastic, and she was wearing a huge, blood-red cardigan that made him smile. Abbie swore she hated Christmas, but the only time she ever wore colour was in December.
He drank her in for long seconds, then went to sit at the other end of the sofa—but not too far away. Not touching, no. But not too far.
Look at me, he thought. Look at me, Abbie-girl.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, her lashes flicked up, and her gaze met his. She swallowed him with those clever dark eyes, but only for a second. She was focused on her embroidery again before he had time to draw breath. “Nice outfit,” she murmured. “Don’t tell me you’re working out this morning.”
He smiled and patted his neon-yellow shorts. “Of course I am. You can join me, if you want.”
“You must’ve hit your head.”
“You can watch me, if you want.”
“You’ve spent too long in Hollywood. I have better things to do with my holiday than watch your muscles move, Mr. Reid.”
“You’ve noticed my muscles, though.”
She looked up again, her eyes narrowed this time. “Why, yes, Will. I’ve noticed you have the necessary anatomy to move, breathe, digest food, et cetera.”
He laughed. “Really? You digest food with your muscles?”
“Mm-hm. Your digestive tract has a layer of muscle that helps food on its journey.”
“You’re so smart, Abbie.”
“I’m so addicted to random YouTube videos, Will. Is that hot chocolate?”
He looked at the mug as if only then noticing it. “Oh, yeah. It is.”
“Is it for me?”
He grinned. “Now, why would you think that?”
And then she surprised him, which Abigail often did. Instead of pointing out the triangle of marshmallows or asking which milk he’d used, she said, “Because you don’t like hot drinks before breakfast.”
Will stared.
She waited, pro
bably for him to say something in response.
He just stared some more.
She started to fidget, her gaze fluttering away from his, which was a sure sign she was blushing. “I mean,” she said, “I mean I’ve never seen you—”
She was about to take it back, and he couldn’t let her do that, because then he wouldn’t be able to ask any of the questions spinning round in his head. Questions like, “How do you know that?”
She rolled her eyes, but she was still uncomfortable. He could tell. “I’ve known you forever, Will. I notice things.”
Once upon a time, that might’ve made sense—but there was distance between them, these days, despite the friendship that remained. Years and miles and ex-husbands could do that to a friendship, even one as vital as a heartbeat, Will had learned. “For the last ten years,” he said, “we’ve seen each other only at Christmas and on birthdays. That’s not a lot of time, Abs. That’s barely any time.” Or at least, it didn’t feel like much to him. It certainly didn’t feel like enough.
But apparently it had been enough for her to notice that hot drinks on an empty stomach made him nauseous. Apparently, she’d noticed to such a degree that she felt confident in saying it out loud, like a fact, rather than a suspicion.
That meant something, right? That had to mean something.
Or maybe not. Because she shrugged and said, “I’m observant.”
And … well… she was.
“Right.” He put the hot chocolate down on the coffee table in front of them and ran a hand through his hair. Get it together, Reid. This wasn’t going to work if he pissed himself with excitement every five seconds. “Well, yeah, the hot chocolate’s for you.”
She looked at him, and it was warmer than the mug had felt in his hand. He had no fucking idea how she did that: how her face barely moved, how she kept her feelings wrapped up so tightly inside, yet showed them to you through her eyes. It had taken him years to realise that some people missed it completely. That they waited for her mouth to smile or her words to compliment when they should’ve been looking elsewhere.
Wrapped Up in You Page 3
