I tap my foot impatiently on the tarmac, watching the Wolf private jet as it glides off the runway and turns toward me. Henry’s flight from Barcelona was delayed by three hours due to poor weather. I should have just flown to New York and met him there, instead of having them stop at this small airport outside Pittsburgh to pick me up, but Henry insisted.
The plane’s engines are barely shut off when the exit door pops open. Jack Rodan, one of Henry’s regular pilots, pulls the stairs down. I assume that means it’s safe to approach, and so I do, not waiting for the attendant to give me the okay.
One by one, they all file out—first Miles, who’s practically running to get away, then a flight attendant I don’t recognize but whose face is filled with trepidation, then Jack and a slender graying man who must be the other pilot.
Henry’s voice carries all the way down. He’s yelling at someone.
I hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking to Miles. “Who’s he talking to?”
“He’s on the phone. Something to do with Scott.” Miles gives me knowing look. He must have some idea about what’s going on. “He said to send you up right away, though.”
Jack takes my suitcase out of my hand. “We’ll be back in the air to New York as soon as he lets us back on.”
I climb the steps, my excitement over spending a few days with Henry now marred with worry.
Henry’s back is to me when I step inside the plane. His phone is pressed to his ear, his other hand settled on top of his head. “I don’t give a fuck! No! You and I both know there was nothing wrong with his mind in the week leading up to his death…. No….”
I toss my purse onto the seat, earning a glance from over his shoulder.
I smile warmly at him.
He turns away. “There’s no way I’m going against my dad’s wishes. You’ve seen the audit…. Are you fucking kidding me?” He roars. “Downing is one of the most reputable audit companies! I don’t have time for this bullshit. Shut it down, now!” He ends the call, then whips his phone at one of the white leather reclining chairs. “Son of a bitch!”
Knowing better than to ask him what’s wrong, I quietly make my way to him and reach around his body. Every muscle in him is tense, and his chest is heaving. I press my face into his back and smooth a hand over hard the ridges of his abdomen, hoping that might calm him down.
“Jesus, Abbi. I’m really not in the mood,” he mutters.
“Shhh… I know. I just missed touching you,” I whisper softly, my other hand going to his chest, pulling him closer into me. I inhale deeply, his scent alone stirring my blood.
Several silent, tense beats pass.
And then suddenly I’m being pressed up against the wall and Henry’s mouth is on mine, his lips forcing mine open, his tongue plunging inside, barely giving me a chance to breathe.
“Henry!” I gasp, breaking free, only to have his mouth move to devour my neck while his fervent hands unfasten the buttons of my blouse in seconds, then my bra. His stubble scrapes across my skin as he takes in a breast, even as his hands yank on my belt.
“Henry!” I glance over at the gaping doorway. “They’re coming back any second!”
“Why the fuck would you wear tight jeans to see me?” He curses, ignoring my worry. He yanks them down over my hips roughly, pushing them all the way down to my knees, taking my panties with them.
“Henry!”
He grabs me by the waist and carries me around the corner to a tiny service area, hidden from view of the plane’s entrance.
The miniscule metal counter is cold against my bare flesh as he hoists me onto it. He yanks off my shoes and then my jeans past my ankles, throwing them to the floor. “Dresses, Abbi. Skirts. Make it easy for me.”
With a sharp tug, the tiny service area curtain closes. He hastily unbuckles his belt and zipper.
“I thought you weren’t in the mood,” I mock, looking down to see his hard length jutting out.
He hooks his arms under my knees and hoists my legs back, testing my flexibility as he opens me up to him. “I changed my mind.”
I cry out with his first hard thrust into me, the intensity almost too much.
“It’s been weeks, Abbi.” Another hard thrust, and I bite my lip to keep everyone from hearing me. He’s tense and angry—not at me, I accept—and he needs a release.
And, I’ll admit, this ruthless side of Henry every once in a while is a turn-on. So I brace myself on the narrow counter, and I watch as over and over again Henry drills into me, my body growing more wet with each thrust.
“I had you in France, whenever and however I wanted you, and then in New York, and then nothing for almost three goddamn weeks! I don’t like it,” he growls as his hips hit my thighs over and over, our skin slapping against each other’s. “I’m done with this long-distance shit. I’m done with phone calls and texting, and watching you touch yourself over a fucking tiny screen.” He releases my legs and slides his hands around my hips to grip my ass, changing the angle. I moan as he gets deeper inside me, his eyes glued to where we’re joined, not relenting the pace as he begins hitting that spot that only he seems to know how to hit. “We need to figure out another plan, because I can’t take this anymore.”
“Sure. Whatever,” I pant, the back of my head smacking against a tiny cabinet, the pressure building deep inside. I won’t even need to touch myself to come this time around, if he keeps at this pace.
Ten brutally hard and fast thrusts later, I’m coming on him, trying not to make too much noise. Almost immediately after, Henry’s teeth grit together tightly and his thrusts slow. I feel him pulsing inside me.
And then our ragged breaths are the only sound on the plane.
“God, I hope no one came up those stairs,” I mutter, the embarrassment of Jack and Miles hearing any of that burning my cheeks.
“I told them not to step foot on here until I signalled that they could, or they’d be looking for new jobs,” Henry mutters, leaning in, his forehead pressed against mine.
I rub my hands up and down his biceps. “Do you feel better now?” There’s certainly less tension in his arms.
“For the moment.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
With a heavy sigh, he slides out of me and tucks himself back into his pants. “Scott is arguing that my father might have been mentally unstable, and that the audit was false and that I had something to do with fabricating it. He says he has proof.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even want the goddamn mine, but there’s no way I’m letting him have it.”
I brush a wayward strand of hair back off his face, and then another. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze rolls over my naked body, still perched on the counter, my legs splayed. I don’t think I have the strength to move right now. He cups my heavy breasts in an almost reverent manner, tenderly smoothing his thumbs over my nipples. “I’ve missed you.”
“I noticed.” The fact that he’s freely admitting to it feels monumental. I hesitate. “Did you mean all that before? About being done with the phoning and texting and—”
“Ignore me. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” The last thing I want is for Henry to decide this isn’t worth it anymore. That he’d rather find a woman who’s free to follow him around the world. To be there whenever, wherever he needs her.
“Yes. It was in the heat of the moment. I normally have more control than that.”
Control over what?
His words? Or his emotions?
I swallow away my relief. “Just remember, this isn’t forever. Daddy’s doing really well and summer harvest is coming to an end soon. So if you want me there… I’ll be there. Soon.”
He chews his lip in thought. “Did you get any grief for coming out to see me?”
“No, oddly enough. Mama’s been a lot better lately. I think she might be coming around.” Between my dad’s physiotherapy appointments, and harassing him about speeding around in the golf cart, and complaining about everyone not “mindin’ their business” and telling her what to eat and drink and when to go for walks, she seems too preoccupied for thoughts of all the sinful things Henry might be doing to me to fester in her brain.
Of course she turned sulky when I told her I was heading to New York for a few days. She felt the need to vent to Aunt May in the kitchen that same night, loud enough for me to hear from my bedroom. And Aunt May—God love her—put her stubborn sister in her place quickly, reminding her that I love Henry and nothing Mama says or does will stop me from running to him, but the things she says and does will make me run from her.
Mama’s mood was improved the next morning, even if it was only a brave front on her part.
With a sigh, he grasps my hips and pulls me down. My legs feel like Jell-O. “Come on. Let’s get home.”
~ ~ ~
“So what exactly do you need me to do?” I ask as I settle into the golf cart.
Henry slides into the driver side. “Amuse me.” He’s in a better mood this morning than on the plane yesterday, though I did hear him raising his voice with someone over the phone while I was eating breakfast.
The golf cart lurches forward and I grasp at my hat before it flies away. It’s one of those floppy wide-brimmed sunhats that I’d never choose for myself. I asked Margo what one wears to a golf tournament when they’re not playing, and the next day a package arrived at my house in Greenbank with this inside. She insisted it would look “incroyable” on me, and I trust her judgment far more than my own. As far as style goes, anyway.
We speed along the paved path of the elite golf club, an hour’s drive from the city.
“Do you golf a lot?” I ask, mesmerized by the rolling hills and perfectly manicured grass, a bright green usually reserved for early spring months.
“Not if I can help it. It’s never been my thing.” Henry looks as enticing as ever in a fitted black golf shirt and dark gray pants that hug his ass.
“What does it involve exactly?”
He throws a surprised look my way. “You’ve really never golfed?”
“Does mini putt at the church’s charity picnic count?”
He makes a sharp right. “Concept is the basically the same. We go from hole to hole, trying to sink our ball with as few swings as possible.” He smirks. “But there aren’t any clown heads or train sets to aim for.”
Up ahead of us, seven men loiter on the embankment.
“Is that your team?”
“Along with the caddies, yes.” The young blond guy who swooped in to grab Henry’s clubs from the trunk of our car is busy organizing his bag.
I frown, eying the empty golf carts. “Where are the other…. I mean, did anyone else bring their wife or girlfriend… or whatever here?” How does Henry classify me, exactly? We’ve never talked labels, and the last time we had the relationship talk, it was, “let’s see where things go.”
“I’m sure they’re getting drunk in the clubhouse. The girlfriends are taking advantage of the spa and conspiring about how to swindle a marriage proposal. The wives are bragging about all the money they’re spending and the pool boys and landscapers they’re fucking behind their rich, ambivalent husbands’ backs. I can drive you back to the club house if you’d rather—”
“Nope. I’m good here.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “You sure?”
“As charming as they sound… yes, I think I’ll stay with you.”
I note everyone is dressed in similar fashion to Henry, in pants and collared shirts and special shoes. I adjust my seat, tucking my skirt beneath myself. “Am I dressed appropriately?”
“You’re with me. You can wear whatever the fuck you want.” He told me to choose something comfortable but nice enough for dinner in the reception hall, so I went with the modest emerald green sundress that Margo sent along with the hat, and strappy flat sandals. “But, yes. You look fine.” His eyes settle first on my chest, then farther down, to my lap. “How are you feeling today?”
“Still a little sore,” I admit.
“Hmmm… I’m sorry about that.”
“Are you?”
“Depends.” His lips twitch. “Will I be able to fuck you tonight?”
I keep my voice light and indifferent, even as I feel his words right between my legs. “Probably not until tomorrow. Or even the next day. I guess we’ll see how I feel.”
His jaw tightens and I start to laugh.
“Do you really want to play this game, Abbi?”
“Maybe.”
He reaches over to slip his hand beneath my skirt, settling it between my thighs, inches away from my panties. “You’ll break long before I do.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
He drags his thumb back and forth against my skin, oh so close, and I instinctively open my thighs wider, inviting him in. “I think I know you pretty well.”
“Care to bet on that?”
“Winner decides on the prize?”
I hesitate. Agreeing to that last time is how I ended up with Margo. But this time, I can win. “Deal.”
With a sigh, he slips his hand out and sets it on the steering wheel once again.
I distract myself with the men ahead. “So who are you playing with?”
“The guy on the left is George T. Rowling. He owns Dillon & Wells.”
“The bank?”
“That would be the one. And the guy in the red-striped shirt is Rick Newman. His family owns the firm that manages most of my investments.”
“So, another rich guy.”
He smirks. “They’re all rich guys. And important business partners for me, especially now, with the mine. Which is another reason why I had to come to this tournament.”
“And that last guy?” The tall, wiry man who watches us quietly. He must be in his forties, his dark hair graying at the temples. There’s no hint of a smile.
“That’s Dyson, a Wolf lawyer.”
I feel my brows lift. I saw plenty of confidential mails between Dyson and Henry, back when I was Henry’s assistant and Henry was dealing with “the Kiera mess.”
“Does he know we’re together?”
Henry pulls the cart up behind the others and hops out. “If he doesn’t, I’m guessing he’s figured it out now. Why?”
“Just wondering what he thinks about it.” Henry’s romantic involvements with his staff were termed “indiscretions.” Does Dyson consider me nothing but an indiscretion?
“He gets paid to cover my ass, not to have an opinion about my love life.”
Henry’s love life. That he didn’t say “about who I’m fucking” makes my heart swell.
He pauses. “What’s that smile for?”
“Nothing.”
His narrowed gaze tells me he knows where my head’s at. He opens his mouth and I hold my breath.
“There are drink carts at almost every hole, and food stations along the way. And you can’t ask for better weather than this.” He glances up at the blue skies, not a cloud in sight. It’s going to be a nice day—eighty degrees Fahrenheit, according to the weather channel. “I’ll introduce you when we move to the next hole. Unless you really want to come up there and listen to a bunch of guys talk business.”
“I’m good right here.” I hold up the paperback I tucked into my purse. “Mama insisted I read it.”
“What’s it about?” He smirks. “How to become a nun?”
“Funny, but no, she would never suggest that. She’s desperate for grandchildren. No, it’s some crime thriller she picked up.”
“Well, enjoy it. And don’t get too drunk.” With a fast, hard kiss against my lips, he marches through the grass toward the group. I watch him exchange handshakes with the men. This is the business-savvy schmoozing version of Henry that I’ve seen before. He doesn’t kiss ass, he doesn’t fake laugh. He carries himself in a cool, calm way that seems to earn the respect of everyone around him.
After five minutes of chatter, someone flips a coin and Dyson slaps Henry on the shoulder. Henry hollers something at the caddy. The blond guy moves fast, grabbing a club from the bag and running to hand it to him.
Henry may hate golf but I watch him tee the ball and swing like a man who looks like he was born to do this. He sends the ball sailing into the air. I squint, trying to see where it lands. I can’t see it.
Henry and Dyson seem happy with the shot though, high-fiving each other.
“Would you like a mimosa, ma’am?”
I’m startled by the server who snuck up, a young blonde around my age standing next to me, holding a platter of orange-colored drinks in champagne glasses.
“Uh….” I glance at my watch. It’s only 10:00 a.m.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere!” she chirps with a broad smile.
My curiosity outweighs my need to not look like a clueless fool. “So, where exactly are they aiming, anyway?”
She points into the distance. “See that white flag way over there, near that pond?”
“Yeah…,” I say warily. That has to be some five hundred yards away.
“That’s what they’re aiming for. And they have seventeen more holes after this one.”
I glance back in time to see the banker swing—not nearly as elegantly as Henry, though that might have to do with his protruding belly. This time I see the ball land, halfway to the flag.
“Seventeen more holes,” I repeat with a heavy sigh. This is going to take forever.
“So… that mimosa?” She shifts the tray closer to me, tempting me.
I shrug. “Why not?”
~ ~ ~
“You might be better off selling it. Or taking it public,” I hear Rick say to Henry as they approach the carts. “I know you don’t like the idea of that but—”
“No. I hate the idea of that,” Henry corrects. “It’s the cornerstone of my family’s legacy.”
“But is the cost and the risk really worth it anymore?”
“Isn’t that what you’re here to tell me?”
Rick chuckles. “Just give me the green light and I’ll get my consulting firm on it.”
“Give me a few weeks to sort out the immediate issues. I can’t sell a mine that’s plagued with traps and currently—down.” He hesitates over that last word as his gaze lands on me, on my tongue as I take a long swipe of my vanilla ice cream cone.
Rick pats Henry on the shoulder and then, throwing a wink my way, heads for his golf cart.
Henry climbs in. “Any good?”
“Delicious. You should grab one.” Each hole has held a food truck with a new surprise—beef sliders, shrimp cocktail, chicken tacos—but the soft-serve ice cream at hole seven has been my favorite so far.
“Watching you eat one is more fun.”
“Really? Why is that?” I make a point of flattening my tongue and running it up one side, like I’ve done countless times to him.
His gaze lingers on my mouth for two… three… four beats. “Because I like it when you get yourself worked up.”
“Myself worked up? And what about you?” My gaze drifts down to his groin, looking for the telltale bulge. He’s acting cool, but it’s there.
“How many of those orange drinks have you had?”
“Just a few.”
“Uh-huh.” With one hand on the steering wheel and his other arm slung over the back of our seat, he leans in and takes a long swipe of the cone with his tongue.
I can’t help the sharp breath. Just the thought of that tongue between my legs has me clenching my thighs together in anticipation.
The cart lurches forward with his knowing chuckle.
~ ~ ~
An older man in a forest-green collared shirt with the club emblem on the breast approaches the team as they make their way back to their carts after playing the ninth hole. They share a few words that I can’t hear, and then everyone checks their watches.
“…we should change the odds to make it more fair,” George is saying to Henry as they reach the cart.
“You’re the one who set the odds.”
“Yeah, back when you said you hadn’t touched a club for five years and I assumed you’d be rusty!” The boisterous banker barks.
Henry smiles wickedly. “You should know better than to bet against a Wolf by now.”
“You’re tougher than your old man ever was.” He turns to me and says, “I need you up there, distracting him for me, okay?”
I grin. “He’s pretty hard to distract when he’s focused.”
“Tell me about it.” He climbs into his cart and, with a lazy wave, pulls away.
“What’s that about?” I ask curiously.
“Just a side bet we’ve got going on.”
“For how much?”
Henry sucks back half a bottle of water, his throat bobbing with each swallow. A thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead. “Fifty G’s.”
“As in fifty thousand dollars?” I shake my head. I don’t know why I’m still surprised by how these guys throw their money around.
“Relax. It all goes to charity. Loser pays out of their personal account, in addition to whatever their company is already sponsoring.”
I guess that’s at least noble. “And I take it you’re winning?”
“Of course I’m winning.” He settles into his seat. “You having fun?”
“Hmm… let’s see… amazing food, delicious cocktails, and a really hot guy….” I shrug. “It’s all right.”
He chuckles, eyeing the paperback sitting on the dashboard. “And a good book?”
Ugh. I should have hidden that. “It was okay.”
He frowns. “Really? Your nose was in it every time I turned around.”
“The writing is good.”
“What was it about?” he asks through another sip of water.
“Murder. Hey, shouldn’t we be going to the next hole?”
He watches me for a moment. “You’re being evasive.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah you are. Over a book. Why?” He doesn’t wait for my answer, picking up the paperback from the dash to read the back. “A woman is accused of murdering her wealthy hotel chain-owning husband?” His brow furrows. “Your mother suggested you read this?”
“I guess she thought I’d like it?” I don’t know what the hell she was thinking.
He takes another sip of water, this one long and thoughtful. “So how does it end?”
“They drop all the charges.”
“And who murdered him?”
I sigh. “She did. She gets away with it and takes all his money.” Dammit, Mama. You just can’t help yourself!
Henry doesn’t say anything for a long moment. And then he starts chuckling. “She’s coming around, huh?”
“In her own way.”
His chuckles turn to deep belly laughter, and soon I’m laughing along with him. Because what else can we do?
He heaves a sigh. “Mark my words, I will find a way to make that woman like me.”
“Yeah, I might have to bet against a Wolf on that one.”
“Yeah, me too.” He hits the power button. “We’re breaking for lunch now.”
“Lunch? You’re kidding me, right?” I hold up the dish I just emptied with chocolate mousse in it. “I haven’t stopped eating. I’m going to explode.”
“We don’t have to go if you don’t want—”
“I don’t.”
He smirks. “Fine. We have thirty minutes. I can take you on a quick tour.”
“I’d love that.” A half hour alone with Henry. “Your arms are getting red, by the way. Did you put on sunscreen?”
“No, I forgot.” Henry frowns disbelievingly at his arms, tanned a healthy golden color.
“There’s some in there.” I nod toward the small canvas tournament bag that sits in the small console.
“Oh, good.” He reaches in. “I forgot that they include…” His voice drifts as his hand stills. “…women’s panties in the tournament bag.”
I cover my giggle by sucking back the last of my Long Island iced tea. I’ve been pacing myself pretty well. This last one though, has me hovering at that thin line I don’t want to cross at a charity golf tournament.
Then again, I might already have crossed that line, covertly sliding my panties off when no one was looking.
I roughly clear my throat. “Maybe they figured they’d include some of Henry Wolf’s favorite things in the bag this year.”
Henry’s gaze drifts to my lap and sits there for a long moment. And then, with nothing more than a tiny smile in warning, he grabs hold of my waist and hoists me onto his lap. “You said you wanted to drive, right?” He throws the cart into motion.
“Slow down!” I squeal, as we sail along the path, whipping past other players. With Henry’s hands on the steering wheel and controlling the speed, I’m not actually driving. The only purpose this serves is to let me feel his erection growing with each bump and jolt, his arms encircling my waist, holding me tight against him.
He makes a left turn onto a narrower path that leads toward a picturesque wooded area, and slows down.
“What is that over there?” I point to a clearing in the middle of the woods with a pergola on one end.
“They host a lot of wedding ceremonies here. That’s one of the locations. It’s popular, especially in the fall.”
“Wow. That would be nice.” I picture rows of white chairs and well-dressed guests, colorful bouquets of flowers and a bride on the small dais, all surrounded by crisp leaves in hues of orange, red, and gold.
“It has nothing on Wolf Cove,” he murmurs as we pass.
“You don’t have to tell me that.” I sigh, sinking back into his chest. “You weren’t there for the wedding in the ballroom at the end of June. It was stunning. Though, honestly, I think I’d want to have my ceremony on the ferry, sailing around the bay, with the trees in the background and those little white twinkle lights strung up all over….” Unease creeps into my body as I realize I sound like I’ve given a wedding in Alaska a lot of thought. And it wouldn’t be hard to figure out who I’m imagining for the groom.
Smooth, Abbi. First he catches me telling his mother that I want to have his children, and now I’m telling him all about the wedding I’ve planned for us. And we’ve been together, on and off, for what… four months?
Henry admitted to wanting children with the “right woman.” I’d have to assume he also means to marry “the right woman.” But he’s never said anything to hint that he thinks I’m the right woman.
But things are just feeling so much… more, lately. I can’t help but start to hope for a real future with Henry. Am I a fool?
I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything else stupid and simply enjoy the feel of Henry as we keep going down the shady path. Soon the trees open up to a grassy area, to a small lake up ahead. The path continues around the right side of the lake, where several people meander, talking and laughing and tossing bread to the family of ducks.
But Henry takes the cart off the path and heads left toward the bull rushes and large canopy of trees. I don’t bother asking if we’re allowed out here, because Henry does what he wants.
He stops the cart beneath a massive oak, in a secluded area. “How’s this?” He leans in. His mouth grazes my earlobe as he whispers, “Private enough for whatever you have planned for me?”
Butterflies erupt in my chest, all worries of scaring Henry off by talk of marriage temporarily vanishing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” he asks lightly, both of his hands settling on my knees. They begin a painstakingly slow climb beneath my skirt and up the length of my thighs, only to stop just short of the apex. Heat begins to pool in anticipation. But the seconds pass and he doesn’t dare make a move.
“You’ve clearly misunderstood my intentions,” I say sweetly, punctuating the last word by grinding into his lap, savoring the feel of his hard length against my backside.
His deep, dark chuckle vibrates through my limbs. “So you didn’t take something off while I was playing my round and leave it in that bag?”
I look down at my dress and mock frown. “I don’t see anything missing.” I’m surprised by how even my voice is. I shouldn’t be teasing him like this, though. I doubt he’s above undoing his pants and taking me right here.
And I doubt I’d be above letting him. He’s turned me into a sexual fiend.
“Well played, Miss Mitchell.” He grips my inner thighs tightly. His soft, raspy breaths are tickling my ear, driving me crazy.
My back is still to him when I slip my leg over to straddle his thighs, opening myself up for his hands. “So you’re saying the game is over and I’ve won?”
His hands slip away from where they were settled. He grasps my waist and shifts me back to my seat. Climbing out, he makes a point of facing me to adjust himself, the bulge in his pants unmistakable. “Nice try.”
He walks toward the water’s edge. “I used to come out to this spot when I was young.” Reaching down to collect a stone, he expertly whips it at the lake. It skips over the surface five times before sinking. “Until my dad realized how good I was at golf and started making me play.”
I feel a touch light-headed when I climb out of the cart. I’m not sure if it’s the day of booze and sun, or that all my blood is pooling in my lower belly. I’m aching for release as I settle onto the back of the cart. “So, what aren’t you good at?”
“Nothing.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on. There has to be something. Tell me.”
His lips twist with amusement. “Maybe one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
He tosses another stone over the water. Six skips this time. “Relationships, according to every woman who’s ever tried to pin me down.”
“I think you’re doing okay.” Though his words give me pause. Is that a warning to me not to try?
“Do you, really?” He settles his hands on his hips, his back to me as he peers out over the water. “I have a home, but I’m hardly there. You see me a day or two at a time, and have to drop everything in order to do it. I work from the moment my eyes open until they close, and that will never change, Abbi. I am who I am. I enjoy who I am, and my life.”
“I know that. I’m okay with it.”
“You may think that now. But one day you won’t be.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I’m never wrong.”
“You are about this,” I say defiantly, as much to quiet him as that insecure little voice that always lingers. What if he’s right?
Is this the start of him breaking up with me? Is this the turning point, when he realizes we’ve gotten too serious and it’s time to move on?
Silence lingers for a moment. “My mother couldn’t handle it.”
“I’m not her, Henry. She is a horrible, selfish woman who thought she could change him. She wanted to control him. I don’t want to change or control you. I love you just the way you are.” My panic begins to rise.
“I know you’re not her, Abbi,” he says softly. “You could stand to be a bit more selfish. People walk all over you because of it. I walk all over you because of it.”
“No, you don’t—”
“I wanted you in Barcelona. I wanted to phone and demand that you fly out to be with me, to sleep beside me at night. I was going to guilt you into dropping your family and your life and come to me, even though I knew what a difficulty that would be for you. That is the definition of selfishness.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“No, I didn’t,” he admits. “But I wanted to.”
“And I would have come, happily. Because I wanted to sleep beside you at night.”
“Is that the life you want, though? Chasing me around the world to get time with me?”
“As long as I knew you wanted me there.”
He half turns, just enough to show me his handsome profile as he studies the rocky ground beside him. “I’m not used to feeling this way. Of wanting someone this much. You’ve brought something to my life that I didn’t even realize was missing.”
I fight the urge to run to him, to throw myself at him. “I’ve never felt like this, either. And as long as you never stop looking at me the way you do, that will never end.”
He peers over his shoulder to study me. A light breeze rustles his chestnut brown hair as his gaze drifts down the length of my body, slowing at my breasts and not stopping until it reaches my crossed feet. “And how exactly do I look at you?”
“Like I’m enough for you.”
“You are enough for me.”
“Just me? Just like this?”
A knowing look touches his face. He understands what I’m saying. No risqué stuff, no Margo. “That’s never been about me. You’re a lot younger. You were still a virgin when I met you. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have regrets.”
“I have no regrets. I know what I want.” I uncross my ankles and part my legs. His eyes follow the movement, settling between my thighs as I slowly draw my dress up between pinched fingers. Warm air kisses my sensitive flesh.
“My, have you gotten bold, Abigail,” he whispers. The bulge in his pants that had diminished somewhat is suddenly prominent again. “At the children’s charity tournament will be a first for me.” With intent eyes, he marches for me, his fingers fumbling with his belt.
The telltale whirl of an approaching golf cart stalls his hands.
I have just enough time to push my skirt down and adjust my legs back to a sedate position before a cart rounds the bend.
“Fuck,” Henry mutters, covertly fastening his belt and adjusting himself behind the cover of the tree.
“Wolf! Someone said they saw you come this way,” the lean graying man driving calls out with an easy smile.
“Frank. How are you?” Henry’s typical mask of calm has taken over.
“Good, good. The tournament is a great time, as usual. And this weather! Did you order it?” He gestures to the sky with his palms up. “But listen, I wanted to bend your ear for a few minutes. Get your advice.” He nods to me. “Hope you don’t mind us interrupting, miss.”
“Not at all.” I smile. “But he might not be in the best mood. I just won a huge bet against him.”
Henry gnashes his teeth through his smile. “What do you need, Frank?”
“I wanted to get your take on Sanderson Monroe….” The men begin discussing Henry’s experience with an architectural company that build one of the Wolf Hotels. Frank is considering hiring them for his next condominium development.
I tune them out, closing my eyes and tipping my head back to enjoy the warmth of the midday sun. Soon, the leaves will begin changing, the days will grow short.
And Henry will have to leave again.
But before long, I will be with him.
