And it’s too damn bad. Because white wine and a hookup with Weston Griggs would be the most fun I’ve had since…ever.
Chapter 4
WESTON
Mr. Smooth must be losing his touch. I nearly propositioned Abbi under her step-father’s nose. Awkward much?
Abbi is looking at me like she doesn’t quite know what to think. And who could blame her? I should have been more patient before breaking out my hey baby let’s drink wine and dance the naked tango speech.
This girl, though. She makes me a little stupid. Mr. Smooth has fled the building. I’ve got to pull myself together.
After hanging up our coats, I follow Abbi and her step-father through a fancyass house to a gleaming kitchen. “It smells amazing in here,” I say, because it does. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not a thing,” Lila crows, the corkscrew in her hands. “Would you like a glass of wine? I also have beer.”
“I’ll have a glass at the table,” I say. “I don’t drink much during the hockey season.”
“Unless you lose a game,” Abbi points out. “Then it’s like the whole team is on fire and beer is the only thing that will extinguish it.”
I let out a bark of laughter because she’s right. “Good thing we don’t lose very often.”
“Good thing,” she says with a little toss of her head. Then she smiles at me, and this weird date feels like the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
Sometimes you just have to put yourself out there in the universe, you know? Hang up a flyer and see what happens. Maybe the cutest girl at Moo U will call your name.
We make some small talk in the kitchen for a while, until Lila announces that dinner will be served momentarily. Abbi and I help to ferry several dishes through to a dining room with a large round table containing five chairs, five gleaming china plates, and enough silver and crystal to stock a palace.
I pull out Abbi’s chair for her, and she gives me a glance of unguarded appreciation.
Yeah, Mr. Smooth is back. And he’s going to close this deal later.
I sit down beside her. And that’s when an unfamiliar guy sort of slumps into the room. Mid-twenties. Dark, shapeless hair. Beefy face and body. He wears the half-alert expression of someone who’s just awoken from a nap.
“Who are you?” this creature demands.
I glance at Abbi, and for the first time today, her expression shutters. Interesting.
“My name is Weston Griggs,” I say, pushing back my chair and standing again, so that I can shake his hand.
He scowls, then leans over the table to shake my hand limply.
“And you are?” I ask, trying to keep my tone polite. At least one of us should be.
“This is Price, my son,” Lila says quickly. “And I see you’ve met Abbi’s young man. Price, would you fetch me a glass of ice water and whatever you want to drink?”
He doesn’t acknowledge the request, though. He just narrows his eyes toward our side of the table. “Abbi doesn’t have a boyfriend. She never brings anyone home.”
Abbi glances down at her plate.
“Price, sweetie, the drinks?” his mother says in a melodic voice. I wonder if she’s just saving face, or if she really can’t hear how obnoxious he is.
Whatever. I settle back in my chair. That’s the glory of visiting with strangers on Thanksgiving. None of the family drama is your family drama.
A few minutes later we’re all seated, and Dr. Ritter clears his throat. “Weston, do you mind if we join hands for a quick prayer before we dig in?”
“Not at all,” I say, offering my hand to his wife on my right. I slip my left hand into Abbi’s, and her smooth palm lands easily against mine. I give her hand a quick squeeze. It feels surprisingly natural in mine.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bounty…” He launches into his prayer at a brisk pace, like a man who wants to do the right thing, but also wants to eat his turkey while it’s still hot.
I lower my eyes respectfully. But a moment later I feel Abbi stiffen beside me. And then—if I’m not mistaken—there’s a bit of violence under the table. As if a feral cat has wandered into the plush family dining room to bite Abbi’s ankles.
But I’m pretty sure there’s no cat. And when I shift my eyes to the side, Abbi’s face has reddened in anger. And she’s biting her lip so hard it might bleed.
“Amen,” says Dalton.
Not a second goes by before Abbi yanks her hand free of Price’s. She sits back in her chair, spine straight, chin held high.
But she is pissed. I barely know her and I can tell.
Our hands are still joined, so I give hers one more squeeze before letting go.
“Weston, why don’t you start the platter of turkey around?” Lila says cheerily.
“Of course.” I pick up the serving fork and turn to Abbi. “Can I serve you some?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She still looks angry. So I choose a juicy-looking slice of turkey and deliver it to her plate before serving myself. Then I pass it across to her step-step-brother, who’s grinning evilly.
“So where did you two meet?” Dalton asks, passing a plate of dumplings in my direction.
“At work,” Abbi says smoothly. “Weston’s team comes into the Biscuit several times a week.”
“We love the Biscuit. I’m half chicken wing at this point,” I joke. “Abbi keeps me from starving.”
“That’s a nice story,” Lila says sweetly.
“Abbi works so hard,” Dalton says. “I’m glad that job brought her something good. She works so many hours just to afford that cramped little apartment.”
“I like my place,” Abbi says quickly. “So convenient for school. Besides, I have to put up with that job for a little longer. In a few months I’ll pass the one year mark. Everyone who makes it a year gets a fat bonus.”
“Nice,” Lila says. “I guess I’d stick with it, too.”
“I will,” Abbi agrees. “But you know what’s crazy? The weekend bouncers get a bonus at three months, too.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess there’s a lot of turnover in that job. But it doesn’t seem fair.”
“Pretty easy job, too,” I point out. “They just have to stand at the door and look tough.”
“They don’t even have to stand,” Abbi scoffs. “They have a stool to sit on, and free soda or coffee.” She rolls her eyes. “They check IDs and walk the waitresses to their cars at the end of the night. If I could bench two hundred pounds, I’d switch jobs.”
“Sorry, babe,” I say, drizzling sauce all over my dumplings. “You aren’t scary enough to be a bouncer. Maybe if we gave you a mohawk and some tats.”
Abbi puts a hand in front of her face and laughs. “I swear, it would almost be worth it.”
We exchange an amused glance, and I give myself a mental high-five for getting her to smile.
"I may never eat again,” I declare an hour later as I dry off the crystal goblets that Abbi hands me. “That was magnificent, Mrs. Ritter.” It’s not a lie, either. This was my best fake Thanksgiving date yet. “That pumpkin chai pie was exquisite.”
She beams. “There’s a pie shop in New York City that I admire. That’s a Posy’s Pie Shop recipe.”
“My compliments to whoever Posy is,” I say. “I’m so full I may burst.”
“Too full to play some pool?” Dalton asks. “I like to shoot pool while I digest. There’s a TV in the game room, too, if you need to keep track of the football score.”
I glance at Abbi. “What do you think? Want to play on my team?”
“Sure,” she says. “I’m terrible, though.”
“Me too,” I promise her. “Let’s be terrible together.”
And we are. Abbi’s step-father knows how to set up complicated shots that quickly leave us in the dust. “It’s a good thing I’m on a hockey scholarship and not a pool scholarship,” I say as I scratch on the 8-ball.
“Good thing,” Abbi chirps, and we smile at each other like a couple of co
nspirators.
I don’t mind losing at pool, because I’m winning at life. Every time we step back from the table, there’s a new opportunity for me to joke with Abbi.
I’ve woken up Mr. Smooth from his food coma, and put him to work. I’m putting out all the signals, and she’s waving me in.
Life is good, in spite of Abbi’s creepyass step-brother smirking at us from a sofa across the room. Every time I miss a shot, he chuckles.
Whatever, punk. Meet me on the ice sometime, and I’ll show you how it’s done. The guy looks like he’s never been to the gym in his life.
As the sky begins to darken outside the windows of the well-appointed game room, I see Abbi sneak a look at her watch. And I remember that there’s a bottle of white wine chilling outside in the car, and a quiet holiday night ahead of us, when nobody is expected to work or go to hockey practice.
Maybe Abbi will invite me in when we get back to her place.
After we lose another game, and Abbi checks her watch a second time, I slip an arm around my fake girlfriend. Even this simple gesture is a shock to my system, because she feels so good leaning against me.
And it’s not just me, either. I catch Abbi’s sideways glance, and it’s full of heat.
“Should we head back soon?” I ask, my voice weirdly husky. Mr. Smooth has already deserted me. “Uh, I was hoping to put in an hour or two on that…anatomy paper I told you about.”
“Oh, sure.” She licks her kissable lips. “No problem.”
“What’s the paper about?” Dr. Ritter asks. “I used to teach anatomy to the first-year med students at Moo U.”
Well, fuck me. Why did I have to say anatomy? I don’t even have a science course this semester. My subconscious is obviously hung up on exploring Abbi’s anatomy. Thanks, brain.
“It’s, uh, the spinal cord,” I say quickly. “And which parts affect which, uh, motor skills.”
Abbi’s smile widens. She knows I’m talking out of my ass right now. I can only hope that she finds idiots attractive.
“Step into my office,” he says. “I have a skeleton that’s really great for understanding vertebrae in 3D.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say as Abbi hides a smile behind her hand. At least we can laugh about this later.
“I’ll grab our coats,” she says.
“Abbi, honey?” Lila says as we leave the game room. “Could you come with me a moment? There’s a stack of your mother’s cookbooks I want to ask you about. Maybe there’s something here you’d like to keep.”
Abbi’s face falls. “Sure. No problem.”
Lord, I can’t even imagine what this must be like for her. A new woman in her mother’s former space. Regretfully, I allow myself to be pulled into Dalton’s office for a lengthy description of the regions of the spinal cord.
It’s a shame I’m not writing a paper on this. It would be a snap now. The man drones on and on while I nod politely.
“Well, thanks,” I say at the first moment that it won’t seem rude. “I’d better get Abbi home so I can get some work done.”
He claps me on the back. “So great of you to be here today. Abbi works too hard and has too few friends. I worry about her.”
“It was all my pleasure,” I say, feeling like a chump, because I can’t really reassure him. Although I’m glad the man cares about his step-daughter. He seems like a genuinely nice guy, if a little bland and clueless.
Luckily the phone on his desk rings just then, and I can drop my boyfriend act. I excuse myself and go searching for Abbi. She’s not in the foyer. So I venture through the living room and toward the dimly lit kitchen, where I think I hear voices.
“Come on. Move.” I hear Abbi say. “Weston is probably looking for me.”
“Not until you admit it,” a male voice says.
I turn around in confusion. I’m alone in the kitchen. Where are they?
“It’s none of your damn business,” Abbi says, the pitch of her voice rising.
“Did you give it up for him right away? Or did you make him work for it. I bet you just spread your legs for him. Is that it? Are you one of those hockey sluts? Do you let the whole team do you?”
“Get away from me!”
All my blood curdles. I spin around again and finally notice a door that blends right into the kitchen cabinetry. Like a walk-in pantry, maybe. I cross the kitchen in two steps and yank the door open.
Price’s back is to me, but he’s got Abbi caged in against a tall built-in bookshelf, his hands on either side of the narrow space.
His reaction time is slow, so he’s just turning his head when I grab him by the waistband of his khaki pants and yank him backwards.
“Hey! Fuck—!” is all he manages to say before I haul him out of the pantry.
"Shut up,” I snarl, shoving him roughly against the refrigerator. I am made of adrenaline right now. I can actually feel blood pulsing against my eardrums, and my right hand is already wrapped into a fist.
“Take it easy,” he hisses. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too fucking late,” I sputter. “You don’t ever put your hands on her.”
“I didn’t. We were just having a friendly chat.”
Somehow I manage not to punch him in the mouth. I don’t even know how. My hand is itching to feel the bite of his teeth against my knuckles.
But some kind of protective impulse makes me glance toward Abbi first. She’s watching with wide eyes. And she gives her head a little shake, like she can read my mind.
I grab his shirt instead, my hand close to his throat. “No more friendly chats. You don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her. Or I will punch you so hard that you’ll be coughing up your teeth for days. Even if I break my goddamn hand, it’s still worth it.”
His eyes narrow. “Get your hands off me, fucktard. This is my fucking house,” he hisses. “She’s the little stuck up bitch who keeps showing up here so that Dalton will keep writing checks. It will not look good for Abbi if I tell ‘em you’re a violent piece of shit.”
That’s when I hear the tap tap tap of Mrs. Ritter’s heels approaching the kitchen. And I take a quick step backward.
Abbi grabs me by the elbow and turns me toward the kitchen door just as her step-step-mother walks through it. “Oh there you are!” she says gaily. “Abbi, did you decide which books you want to keep?” she asks.
“All of them,” Abbi says quickly. “She made notes in them.”
Lila frowns, as if that answer isn’t to her liking. “I could box them up and put them in the basement, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Abbi says tightly.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, finding my voice. “We’ve really got to run, though.” Before I maim your shitbag of a son. I can hear him behind me, where he’s opened the fridge. I hear the pull tab of a beer can as he goes about his shitbag day.
“Of course!” she says brightly. “It was so lovely to meet you. Come back any time!”
I manage to make the right polite noises as we get the hell out of there. And two minutes later I’m standing outside Abbi’s car as she bleeps the locks open with a shaking hand.
“Hey. Can I drive?” I ask.
“Uh, sure. If you want.”
I take the keys out of her hand, and walk around to the street side of the car. It takes me a minute to move her seat back far enough that I can fit my body into the vehicle. Then I buckle up, start the car and locate the headlights. I pull away from the curb and navigate toward the main road.
Driving calms me down. It isn’t until I reach the intersection that I turn and glance at Abbi. She’s sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, eyes glassy, expression grim. Like a person in shock.
Right there at the intersection, I put the car in park. It’s dead quiet anyway. There’s nobody behind me. “Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t look fine. And it’s just dawning on me that I failed her. “If I’d known w
hy you needed a date today, I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight.”
Abbi glances quickly in my direction, and then away again. But not before I see tears in her eyes. “It’s embarrassing. I didn’t want to explain.”
I put the car back into gear and proceed onto the little highway that will take us back into Burlington. "That sucks, Abbi. And I don’t mean to pry. But is there any reason we didn’t march his stupid ass in front of your step-parents and tell them that he harasses you?”
She lets out a long breath. “I tried. Before he moved in, I told Dalton that he was always making inappropriate comments to me. And Dalton said that Price was just intimidated by me. That I was so much smarter and more successful, that he was just trying to get my attention.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, it is. But he’s newly married. He doesn’t want to hear me say anything bad about Lila or her thug of a kid. I am not his daughter, Weston. I need him to help me with two more terms at school. And I need to finish sorting through my mother’s things, before Lila throws all her stuff away. One more year, and I’ll be free. Then I’ll never have to set foot inside that house again.”
“Oh. Shit.” That’s so depressing. But I can’t say I’d make a different choice if I were her. “Is Price the reason you moved out?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m pretty good at avoiding him. Dalton and I go out to lunch sometimes. That’s how I stay friendly with him and avoid Price. But Thanksgiving is hard.”
“What about Christmas?” I ask, worrying.
She shrugs. “I’ll think of something. A weekend away at a friend’s house, maybe. Or—worst case scenario—a pretend last minute ski trip opportunity.”
That’s just grim. But I’ll be in Canada, and in no position to help. “I’m sorry,” I say again. But it sounds useless.
“It’s really okay,” she says. “You put the fear of God into him anyway. Seriously. That was your best bit of acting, by the way.”
“Because it wasn’t,” I snort. “I was ready to rip his face off. A guy like that can’t get a woman to talk to him unless he backs her into a corner. And apparently that’s okay with him.”
'Tis the Season for Romance Page 9
