She loved it. It was elegant and graceful and the satin felt like heaven against her skin.
Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing you slept in. It was too delicate. She’d worry all night that she’d snap one of the straps or something.
But Cash had bought it for her obviously wanting her to wear it.
Since she was his… whatever... she didn’t know if she could say no.
And she wasn’t going to ask.
So she was wearing it.
She walked to the door, opened it and turned out the light.
Both lights were lit on either side of the bed. Cash was on top of the covers, legs out, ankles crossed, shoulders against the headboard, laptop on his thighs. He was wearing a pair of black, drawstring pyjama pants and his glasses.
He looked good.
His eyes came to her and he smiled.
That made him look even better.
Abby sighed and walked to her side of the bed.
She slid under the covers and her eyes caught on her hand cream that was sitting on her bedside table.
Her side of the bed. Her hand cream. Her bedside table. All in Cash’s house.
Instead of thinking about how this made her feel, she reached for the hand cream and opened it.
Abby was on her side, her back to him and she heard Cash speak, “Darling, can I ask a favour?”
A favour?
Could he ask a favour?
Or, if he was giving her a monthly instalment on which to live, and didn’t want her to work, was she essentially still working for him? Not as an escort, pretend girlfriend and glorified whore but as his mistress which could be considered a real girlfriend but was also kind of a glorified whore.
While she was struggling with this, Cash called, “Abby.”
She rolled to her back but her head turned to look at him.
“Yes?”
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
She looked away and squirted the lotion in her hands while mumbling, “Sorry, miles away.”
She put the cap back on, returned the tube to the nightstand and rubbed the lotion in her hands.
When she was done, Cash demanded softly, “Abby, come here.”
She looked at him again and he lifted his arm out in invitation.
She accepted and scooted under the covers toward him. When he had her close, his arm bent and he skilfully tucked her into his side, her cheek on his ribcage, and his fingers cupped her shoulder.
“You with me?” he asked quietly.
She nodded and stared at the screen of his laptop which showed a complicated, multi-coloured pie chart with lots of numbers, words and arrows pointing at wedges of the pie.
“Now can I ask you to do something for me?” he enquired.
“Sure,” she told him.
His fingers gave her a squeeze and Cash continued speaking gently, “Next time we go out to dinner, don’t have a cream tea at Mrs. Truman’s in the afternoon. You barely touched your dinner.”
Abby continued to stare at the pie chart.
It was true, she’d barely touched her dinner.
And it wasn’t just dinner. It was a special dinner. It was a special, celebratory dinner.
She hadn’t known that when she got all dressed up. She hadn’t known that when Cash had taken her to a beautiful, romantic inn in the country. She’d begun to realise it when she saw they had a booking and were led to a secluded table with the champagne already chilling in a stand at the table’s side. She knew it for certain when they didn’t order but were served a pre-ordered, delectable meal of lobster, shrimp and avocado salad followed by individual beef wellingtons and finished with decadent, rich, dark chocolate pots.
Cash didn’t declare his undying love, give her a bouquet of the finest roses, nor did he hand her another velvet box containing expensive jewels.
Nevertheless, his point had been made.
Beautifully.
Unfortunately, that afternoon, Abby was suffering a mini-nervous breakdown after all that had befallen her. It was the kind of mini-nervous breakdown which every girl knew could be staved off by engaging in an eating frenzy. Therefore, she followed her first scone, which was more than enough, with another one.
During dinner, she’d also had her mind on a million things, starting with her grandmother’s house being torn apart and ending on the possibility of her body flying apart when it landed at the bottom of Penmort tor.
Therefore, she had barely touched her delicious, special, celebratory meal.
“Sorry,” she muttered and put her hand on Cash’s stomach.
His fingers gave her shoulder another squeeze just as Abby felt Zee’s kitty body land on the bed.
Her cat cautiously walked across the bed and stopped. Likely considering his options, he chose Abby’s ankle and deposited himself half-on, half-off it.
Then he started purring loudly.
Abby relaxed into Cash’s side and her hand slid from his stomach to wrap around his waist.
Cash’s left hand moved across the touchpad and clicked the buttons while the fingers of his right hand started to stroke Abby’s shoulder.
Abby watched the chart disappear and a spreadsheet with an insane amount of data, including words and numbers, came up. Cash scrolled through it so fast there was no way he could read it. Abby certainly couldn’t. But he clicked it closed and then pulled open another one which had more columns, more rows, more words and big numbers.
He started to scroll through that at alarming speed and Abby called, “Cash?”
She meant to ask him about his work, particularly why he did so much of it.
But when he replied, “Yes?” for some reason she didn’t ask.
Instead, she forged on to an even less comfortable subject. “Um, can I tell you something?”
His finger on the touchpad froze and he murmured, “Anything, darling.”
She pushed up on a hand and turned to look at him. His eyes caught hers and his hand slid around to rest on the back of her neck.
“Promise you won’t get mad?” she asked.
His fingers gave her a squeeze before he assured, “Promise.”
She bit the side of her lip and watched as, behind his glasses, his eyes fell to her mouth and something changed in his face. She couldn’t put her finger on it but it looked like humour mixed with warmth.
“I asked Mrs. Truman to dinner,” she admitted and he’s eyes moved directly back to hers.
“I’m sorry?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” she went on.
“Abby –” he started.
She pushed back and blurted, “I know I should have asked before making plans and I know Mrs. Truman can be a pill, but she was angry about the workmen making noise and demanding to phone you at the office. I had to do something!”