“My husband?” she whispered.
“Abby, let’s move on from this,” he suggested but it wasn’t a suggestion as such but a gently worded demand.
She wasn’t listening. “What do you know of Ben?”
That was when Cash lost his patience, when she said his name.
Therefore, when he spoke again, his voice was abrupt to the point of being harsh. “I know you married him in a lace dress. I know you loved him when you married him. And I know he died in a car accident. That’s all I want to know and, darling, this is the last time we’ll speak of Ben.”
She kept silent and they stared at each other for a long time. Finally, her eyes broke from his and she glanced away.
His desire to arrive early and get to know her better had succeeded.
He just didn’t like what he learned.
Cash looked at his watch and saw they still had time before they had to be next door.
Regardless of the friction palpable in the room, he decided to make an effort to salvage the night.
“We have time,” he told her, “I’ll get you a drink.”
“I’ll get it,” she replied and started to move to the door but Cash caught her arm.
“Abby, I said I’ll get it.”
She looked up at him and took in a breath before saying, “Okay.”
It was then he realised he had no idea, outside red wine and herbal tea, what she drank.
To his displeasure, his voice sounded as aggravated as he felt when he asked, “What do you drink?”
Her eyes never left his even as her lips twitched. Cash recognised the humour of the situation and his body relaxed.
Slowly the tension slid out of the room.
Abby leaned into him, wrapping both hands around his upper arm.
“It’s complicated. I’ll teach you,” she offered and led him to the kitchen.
It was complicated, including hammering some ice between tea towels to crush it (because she didn’t like “big ice”, whatever-the-hell that was), using only chilled diet cola, a shot of amaretto, a dash of cherry juice and three cherries.
The drink itself sounded disgusting, the exacting way she desired it was hilarious.
As she was sipping, her hip against the counter, Cash got close to her.
“You’re particular about a lot of things,” he remarked.
She awarded him with one of her mischievous grins. “Is that a nice way of saying I’m picky?”
Cash chuckled but didn’t answer because she was right.
“That’s okay,” she announced, “I am picky.”
This time, he laughed and through his laughter he saw her grin turn into a smile. Cash’s good mood returned once it became clear they were over their current drama.
As she took another sip, his arm slid around her waist and he brought her body to his from belly to thigh.
“You didn’t call today,” she told him as his hand slid from her waist, up her back, pressing her closer to him.
“I’m sorry, darling, I got busy,” he replied as his other hand took her drink and placed it on the counter.
“That’s okay,” she whispered, staring at her drink then her head turned and he kissed her.
Immediately, and rather gratifyingly, her body leaned into his, one of her arms going around his waist, the other hand up his shoulder to slide along his neck and into his hair.
As disgusting as the drink sounded, on Abby, it tasted brilliant – fresh and sweet.
He deepened the kiss and she responded, pressing closer.
His body began to react, he felt it, he liked it, his arms crushed her to him and the kiss became even deeper, hotter and therefore less in his control.
In an effort to keep hold of his slipping control, his lips released hers and slid across her cheek to her ear.
“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he demanded and her neck twisted, turning to face him at first, he thought, to say something. But when he lifted his head to look at her, her face was flushed, her eyes were half-closed and she sought his mouth with her own.
When his tongue entered her mouth, he heard her low, soft moan.
Even though he hadn’t asked her a question, he liked her answer.
They were, incidentally, late to Mrs. Truman’s.
Chapter Nine
Dinner at Mrs. Truman’s
Abby fixed her lip gloss with a trembling hand in the vestibule while Cash waited and watched.
Thoughts about what happened that night were colliding in her head and her legs were wobbly from the colossal (and very effective, Cash was a really good kisser, as in really good) make out session in the kitchen.
She didn’t know which to focus on first so she decided to ignore both of them and carry on with the evening. She’d think about it later. Much later. When Cash was gone, her house was fixed up and she was back to her normal existence.
Then she thought she didn’t want to go back to her normal existence but she didn’t want to focus on that either so she decided to ignore that too.
She wrapped her pashmina around her shoulders, tucked her bag under her arm, grabbed the wine (Cash had the roses and chocolates, both of which Abby bought from two different exclusive shops in Clevedon so as not to put Mrs. Truman in a bad mood that they were trying to pass off rinky-dink hostess gifts) and put her hand on the latch.
“Ready?” she asked and Cash’s eyes narrowed on her.
She didn’t get a good feeling from his narrow look. She also didn’t need another reaction from Cash that would freak her out. In an effort to stop him from giving into whatever-peeved-him-this-time, she turned the latch and tugged open the door.
She’d barely stepped over the threshold when she came to a jarring stop. Cash’s hand was on her arm waylaying her.
She looked down at his hand then up at him. “Cash, we’re already late.”
His hand went away, he placed the hostess gifts on the seat of the coat stand and he shrugged off his overcoat, murmuring, “It’s freezing out there.”
She realised his intent and her body got tense.
“We’re only going next door,” she told him, hoping he wouldn’t put his overcoat on her. She didn’t want him to keep being so sweet to her (when he wasn’t angry at her that was).
She was pretty sure that most paid escorts didn’t have intense conversations about their dead husbands nor did they cuddle up to their clients in bed late at night while their clients looked over papers.
She figured she wasn’t doing her job very well. The problem was, Cash didn’t seem to mind at all which, of course, made it all worse.
She noticed with frustration that he wasn’t listening to her. He swung his coat out and settled it on her shoulders.
“That’s really unnecessary,” she finished.
“Abby, it’s below freezing,” he told her.
She looked up at him and exclaimed, “We’re walking next door!”
“And you’re not going to get cold while we’re doing it,” he retorted.
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, “What are you going to do? Now you don’t have a coat.”
“What I’m not going to do is stand out in the cold arguing,” he declared with annoying logic.
“All right, fine,” she muttered and turned toward the steps but something made her look to Mrs. Truman’s and she halted at what she saw.
Kieran and Jenny were standing at the door, Mrs. Truman in the door, and they were all watching her and Cash.
Illuminated by Mrs. Truman’s light both Jenny and Kieran were wearing comically-identical stunned expressions. Mrs. Truman was scowling.
“It’s seven-oh-seven,” Mrs. Truman announced loudly, “did I say dinner was at seven-oh-seven? No, I did not. I said it was at seven o’clock.” She paused and Abby saw her eyes snap to the bottle Abby was carrying then Mrs. Truman demanded to know, “Is that wine chilled?”