His eyes brighten. “I’ll give you no reason. Promise.” He places both hands over his chest.
The sound of toast popping ends the conversation.
“Honey or jam?”
“Honey.”
“Juice or tea?”
“Definitely juice. I’m never drinking tea again.”
His brows arch. “Why?” He takes a mouthful of what smells like coffee.
“Because apparently the promise of a cup of tea makes me horny.”
Liquid sprays out from between his teeth. He coughs and gasps for air. “What?” he splutters between drowning breaths.
“Long story.” I wink. His choking brings back memories of me doing the exact same thing on my Mudslide last night. “Now, now, Jackson, can’t you handle your liquids?” I repeat Marcus’s exact words and smile.
He flips me off before wiping down the bench. “Tea makes you horny, hey?”
“Apparently.” We both laugh.
Mosby sits beside me, and we eat. Not a word is spoken until the last bite slides down my throat.
“So how do you feel?” he asks.
“Better.”
“See? A good laugh is what you needed, and breakfast.” He sounds relieved.
“Yeah.”
“How do you feel about last night with your co-worker, now you’ve gotten it off your chest?”
“Angry—no, pissed off at myself. What I can’t understand is why. Why him? Why now? Why after only just meeting him? That’s screwed up, right?”
“Nope, it’s not.” His words seem believable.
“Are you sure?”
“I know these things.” Rubbing small circles on my back, he says, “Abs, it’ll be okay. Trust me.”
“You should never trust a person who says trust me.”
He chuckles. “So what’s this co-worker of yours like?”
“In bed? Jackson, that’s foul!”
“No,” he replies with a grin. “What’s he like as a person?”
I sit, picturing his face. That scar, his eyes, those lips. The sound of his laughter as his head throws back. “He’s funny.”
“Funny’s good, right?”
“I guess so. He’s also witty and nice. Delicious in a suit or jeans or naked. God, he’s nice. I feel safe, even comfortable in his presence.”
“You’re drooling.”
“Am not.”
Mosby taps my arm gently. “You so are. What’s he do at the office?”
“He’s an assistant like me. I think he works for one of the other solicitors. He’s not on my floor. That’s all I know about him.”
“Well, maybe just give it time. See where this goes?”
“This is going in the trash where I never have to deal with it again. To him, I’m invisible from this moment on. I’d only ruin his life anyway.”
“Whatever. Just give yourself time, okay?”
As I’m flipping Jackson the bird for the second time this morning, we’re interrupted by the same stomping feet that walked these floors last night.
“Quick, she’s heading this way. Protect yourself,” Mosby says sarcastically, standing to his feet before dancing a short distance down the hall until he has Sammy in his arms. “Morning, beautiful. I missed you last night.” He swoons, staring deeply into her eyes.
Sammy kisses him passionately, longingly and with need.
“Get a room, you two,” I taunt.
“You,” she scolds, breaking contact, stabbing her finger towards me. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
“Not that I know of.” I shrug.
“Work, Abigail—you need to get ready for fucking work. Trish’s dad has done you a massive favour. I’m not allowing you to screw this up. Get in your car, go home, and get dressed. Turn up to work on time. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. PMS’ing, are we?”
Her eyes roll. “No, my best friend is pressing my patience, and she needs to get her shit together before I commit her to a bloody mental institution.” Sammy’s voice rises as her statement concludes.
I can’t remember the last time I saw her this angry at me. Maybe the time I passed out on her front lawn?
“Fine. I’m going.” I put my hands up in surrender. “Where are my bag and keys?”
“Over there.” She points at the small table by the front door.
“I’m leaving.” I collect my things.
“Good. And call me tonight as soon as you finish work, capiche?”
“Capiche.”
I might have just pushed Ginger a little too far. From my experience, you never want to piss a redhead off, they have claws and fangs … they also are of superior intelligence. I believe Ginger could murder me, bury me, and get away with it. Maybe I should be more worried about Mosby getting hurt by their love instead of Sammy.
ELEVEN
Wrath
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve just about had enough. I’ve been sick with worry. Physically sick. You’re killing me, you know? Killing me.” Mum’s rant, which is filled with fear, anger, and love, is my welcoming as I make my way through the front door. “Why? Why must you continue to give me so much stress?”
Part of me—hell, ninety percent of me—wants to lash out at her. I don’t. Instead, I walk towards her and straight into crossed arms that soon wrap around me.
“My girl, please, petal, stop. Let this hurt go and move on with your life. It’s time. You can’t spend your days bitter and living in the past. Embrace your future and the opportunities it’ll bring, okay?”
“Okay, Mum. I’ll try. I’m very sorry,” I whisper.
“If you say so.”
I attempt to pull my body away from her. She squeezes me one last time before letting go.
“I need to get ready for work, so I’ll see you tonight?”
She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’ve got five days off. Lord knows I need them with a kid like you.”
“Hey, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-four, completely grown. I can take care of myself.” We stand there, both headstrong, both exhausted.
“You’re almost twenty-five, for starters, but the way you’re acting you would think you were still five years’ old. You should be out there living, not in here waiting to die.”
“Dramatic,” I sing. She shakes her head. I love my mum.
“Go to work, and come straight home afterwards. You’re grounded.”
Placing both hands over my heart, I mouth the word, “Crushed.”
Marcus. He’s in my head. He’s made memories. I don’t like it.
“Work, now,” Mum scolds.
“Right away.” I salute before the bedroom door closes and Operation Get To Work On Time commences. The clock reads 8:30. It’s never going to happen.
***
Bertha pulls into the car park, barrelling over a small speed bump.
I’m so late. I leap from the car.
The doors of Sims, General, and Klein Lawyers part, and Asher is standing behind the counter as I clop heavily on my heels.