Make Me Read online

  She could hear Honey and Roxy out in the living room, spoons clinking on bowls as they ate ice cream and watched Finding Bigfoot. They’d tried several times since Monday night to entice her into hanging out, but she’d continued to hide in her room, pretending work was the only thing keeping her there. Coward.

  Two days had passed since she’d fallen asleep with Russell and woken to an orgasm to beat the band. Two days since she’d had her eyes opened and seen Russell in a new light. Two days since he’d held up a mirror, reflected the light straight back, and blinded her. Truthfully, she was embarrassed. For so many reasons, she couldn’t even begin to enumerate them. Like a typical starry-eyed virgin, she’d projected feelings that weren’t there. Seen and felt something from Russell that didn’t exist, very likely damaging their friendship in the process.

  If she were more confident where the opposite sex was concerned, she could just blow his rejection off. So what? I’m not his type. Then go find someone who could appreciate an awkward, small-breasted math geek still in possession of her cherry.

  Abby slapped a hand to her forehead. More than anything, she wanted to tell Honey and Roxy what had happened and get their take, but she no longer felt sure of how they would react. After all, hadn’t she been one hundred percent positive Russell would never hurt her feelings? He’d sure as heck torn that belief down the middle with a resounding rip. Roxy and Honey had faced obstacles at the outset of their relationships, but they’d definitely never had to deal with the man not finding them attractive. Yes, she had very little experience with men, but she was fairly certain that if Russell had found her appearance pleasing, he wouldn’t have zoomed for the exit. Were men even capable of turning down a sexy, obviously willing woman? From what she’d been told, her roommates’ boyfriends definitely hadn’t.

  Would Roxy and Honey react with pity? Or worse . . . maybe Abby’s problem would be such a foreign concept to them, they wouldn’t even know what to say. At twenty-four, with zero sexual experience to speak of, she felt enough like a freak already without the additional freakhood.

  “Hey, Einstein.” Roxy appeared at her door, rubbing one stocking-clad foot against the opposite leg. “Honey found Weekend at Bernie’s in the ninety-nine-cent bin at Rite Aid. Get in on this.”

  “I made cupcakes, fool,” Honey shouted from the living room. “Made them with strawberry frosting because it’s your favorite, and being laid regularly has made me seriously philanthropic.”

  There was no way Abby couldn’t laugh at that, so she did. “All right, fine. I need a break anyway. I’m starting to see in double vision.”

  Roxy bumped her with a sharp hip as they left Abby’s bedroom. “When is this project going to be finished? You’ve been at it for weeks.”

  Project? Is that what she’d told them? “Uh . . . soon, I think. I need to weigh the risk of a few more investment opportunities—”

  “Abby, you’re making my head hurt. I’m an actress for a reason.” Roxy winked at her. “What I do know is how to keep your body instrument fine-tuned, and yours looks tired. Whatever you’re doing in there . . . I—we—think you need to scale it back.”

  When they reached the living room, Abby glanced over her shoulder to find Honey looking cross-armed and downright mean. Recognizing an ambush when she saw one, Abby started backing toward her bedroom. “Oh no. What is this? An intervention?”

  Honey blocked her entrance to the hallway. “Roommate style, bitch.”

  “Come.” Roxy grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back into the living room. “Cupcakes and a chat never killed anyone.”

  “There’s no Weekend at Bernie’s is there?” Abby groaned. “I really don’t need to be . . . intervened. Interventioned. Is there a word for this?”

  “Worried.” Honey guided her down onto the couch. “We’re seriously worried, okay? You were already working too hard and not sleeping enough, but the last few days, it has gotten worse. Talk to us.”

  “Yeah,” Roxy said. “You listen to us complain all the time. We want our turn to be good friends.” Since Roxy was usually the most emotionally closed-off of their threesome, Abby was surprised to see a hint of vulnerability creep into her expression. “I only learned recently what good friend means, and it sure as hell isn’t letting you waste away in your bedroom while we watch a music montage of a dead guy being carried around.”

  Abby swallowed a smile. “So . . . there is Weekend at Bernie’s . . . ?”

  “Oh, sure. Make jokes during my Full House moment.”

  “This intervention appears to be getting away from us,” Honey broke in. “Tell us how we can help, Abby. Baked goods only go so far.”

  Abby reached for a pink-topped cupcake, letting her breath seep out. Opening up felt like the right thing to do. She was carrying around too many secrets, enough to eventually topple her if she continued in this vein. But when she opened her mouth to tell them about Russell, about the scary, new feelings for him that had popped up only to be shot down, something else entirely came out. Maybe she just wasn’t ready to let their one-and-only moment fly away just yet. Or maybe it was her self-consciousness. Whatever the reason, she shoved it deep down into an inner cave for safekeeping, allowing an even bigger secret to finally break free.

  “My father isn’t running the hedge fund anymore.” As soon as the words passed her lips, a stack of wet newspapers slid from her shoulders. “He . . . can’t. That’s why I’ve been working so much.”

  Her friends were silent a moment before Honey spoke. “I don’t understand. Why can’t he run his own company?”

  Abby bit into the cupcake and chewed slowly, so she’d have time to decide on the right words. She hadn’t anticipated telling anyone about this tonight, so there was no ready explanation. There was only the truth. A truth she’d been warned to keep to herself. “A little over a month ago, my father went on a golfing trip to Scotland. Alone. It was really odd timing, but the first quarter had been stressful, so my stepmother and I didn’t make an issue out of it.”

  Roxy and Abby traded a look. Obviously, this wasn’t what they’d been expecting. Well, they could join the party because she hadn’t expected it either.

  “While he was in Scotland, he . . . locked himself in his hotel room and refused to come out.” She grabbed a cushion and stuffed it behind her head, her neck suddenly too tired to function. “The staff eventually entered and found him . . . they found him huddled in the bathtub. He’d had some sort of mental breakdown. It was the pressure. It had gotten to him, and there were drugs involved, too. He couldn’t cope.”

  “Oh, my God,” Roxy said. “Abby . . .”

  “My stepmother went over with a therapist and Mitchell, the company’s lawyer, to bring him home. He’s getting better—much better—but he needs more time.” She reassured each of them with a look. “I’m just keeping things afloat until he comes back.”

  Honey appeared to be frozen in horror. “There’s no one who can help you?”

  “No one can know. Investors would pull their accounts, we’d be bankrupt within a week.” Although her legs felt liquefied, Abby stood, needing to stress the importance of keeping quiet to her roommates. “I’ve been acting as my father. Answering his correspondence, making decisions based on what he’s done in the past. Mitchell has circulated a story about his pursuing investment possibilities overseas, and everything is operating as usual.”

  “Except you,” Roxy pointed out. “You’re dead on your feet.”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was firm. “I’m mainlining Red Bull, but I can quit any time.”

  “That’s not funny,” Honey said. “You’re downplaying.”

  Yeah, she was. And she owed them better than that after all the happiness they’d brought into her life. God, had she even been living before they showed up? “Okay, I’m treading water.” Their shoulders sagged. “But there are no other options. I’m not going to let my family’s livelihood tank for eight hours of sleep.”

  “Does Russell kno
w about this?” Roxy asked, effectively sending Abby’s stomach dropping to the floor.

  “W-why would Russell know?” Just saying his name made her lips feel numb. When Honey and Roxy sent each other an unreadable look, Abby frowned. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Honey said. “It’s just . . . you two are close. And you know how Russell is . . . he’s protective about you.”

  “He would flip out, is what Honey’s trying to say.”

  “That’s not true.” Especially now. After she’d deceived him into giving her an orgasm while he hadn’t been fully conscious then let her know that he had no desire for a physical relationship with her. Roxy and Honey were right about Russell’s being protective, though. She thought of the way he’d carried her to the fireworks, how he always checked her window locks and killed spiders for her. How whenever the girls went out alone, he lectured her about not leaving her drink unattended. How he insisted on a clear, concise text message the second they walked into the apartment. Russell really was a good friend, and she’d lost sight of that in favor of physical release. No wonder she hadn’t heard from him in two days. Somehow, starting tomorrow, she would repair this. She wasn’t willing to lose him as a friend because of some silly, fleeting crush.

  Even though it didn’t feel like a simple crush. Not like the ones she’d had before on classmates or tutors. Crushes didn’t make you shiver straight down to your private parts at the mere thought of their names. A crush didn’t make you slap your own bottom late at night, trying to re-create the same wicked hot sensation he had made you feel with that one, beautiful strike, to no avail.

  “You’re thinking awfully hard over there.” Honey looked almost hopeful. How odd. “Come to any conclusions?”

  “Yeah.” Abby smiled. “You were both right.”

  Roxy gathered her hands beneath her chin, eyes widening. “We were?”

  “Yup. I need some sleep.” Feeling better after having revealed her secret and having a plan to make Russell forgive her, Abby headed for the bedroom. “G’night.”

  Chapter 7

  USING POWER TOOLS was probably the worst way to celebrate a hangover, but since Russell had been in this condition three days and counting, it was no longer a viable excuse. Mother Nature had sent rain New York City’s way, so he and Alec had weatherproofed the Manhattan worksite that morning, giving him the remaining daylight hours to work on the Queens house.

  Russell leaned over his worktable and noted a measurement, then checked his watch. Two fifteen. Jesus, he’d thought—hoped—it was later. Time seemed to be moving so slowly, creeping past like a slug after a storm. Or maybe that was him. The slug who was avoiding Abby. They hadn’t spoken in three days—not so much as a text message—which was highly unusual for them. How was her ankle? Did she hate him? Enough never to fall asleep on him again?

  Hoping to distract himself from the endless cycle of thoughts, Russell pushed away from the table and surveyed the room. He’d made some serious progress in the space of a year, since his father had moved to California, leaving their family home and the memories it represented behind. Since Alec was content to continue renting indefinitely, Russell had commenced renovations of the house, with the understanding that he would live there once they were completed. Funny, he’d never envisioned himself living in a house, but recently, fixing up the place had absorbed a huge chunk of his spare time. He’d gutted most of the rooms, put in new insulation and drywall, gotten crucial deals through loyal Hart Brothers Construction suppliers on new windows, roofing supplies, and lumber. It had taken some hustling to make it all come together, but seeing what his hard work had yielded, damn if he wasn’t a little . . . proud.

  Russell snorted at the hokey direction of his thoughts, reminding himself that a two-story pile of bricks in Queens was nothing to be proud of. His mother certainly hadn’t been proud of the house at which his father had carried her over the threshold. She hadn’t been proud of anything inside its walls, either, so different from the upper-middle-class home of her upbringing, followed by four years at a respectable university. She’d been engaged to a law student when she’d met their father and canceled the wedding. At one time, he’d been robust—a huge personality that was optimistic about moving higher in the ranks at his construction job . . . but over time, he’d stopped laughing under the weight of her disappointment. Stopped trying.

  A memory of his mother crying at the kitchen table in a cloud of cigarette smoke forced him into another room. But there were visions waiting to play out in all of them. His parents fighting about money—never having enough of it, to be precise. His mother coming home tipsy from a block party and telling Russell and Alec about all the men she could have married if she hadn’t settled. Settled. Settled. That word had never been far away growing up. He’d heard it so many times, the term defined his childhood.

  Maybe attempting to live here had been a mistake. He’d thought the past would fade with new walls, new floors and fixtures, but lately, they’d gone from misty recollections to full-blown flashbacks.

  When he heard a knock on the front door, he thought that’s what was happening. Another vivid flashback, but the knock came again. While striding toward the door, Russell shoved the pencil behind his ear, assuming it was Alec. His brother hadn’t taken much interest in the house, but there was a first time for everything.

  He opened the door to reveal Abby.

  If Derek Jeter had been standing there with a giant check from Publisher’s Clearing House, he would have been less surprised. Abby in his neighborhood? She didn’t even know about the house, so how had she found it? And then, oh God, after the initial shock wore off, all he saw was her. Abby in a yellow sundress and purple Wellingtons, holding an umbrella in one hand and motherfucking cupcakes in the other. Was he hallucinating? She looked so sweet and beautiful and everything, he wanted to drop to his knees and weep. Damn, he’d missed her.

  Instead, he shouted at her. “What are you doing here?”

  Where she would usually beam at him despite his less-than-gentlemanly greeting, she winced a little but kept her back ramrod straight. “I’m here to make friends again.” She held out the clear, Tupperware container. “I won’t pretend like I made these cupcakes—that’s Honey’s thing—but I did carry them here on the 7 train. And why didn’t you tell me you were building a house?”

  “I’m not building a house. I’m renovating one.”

  “Oh.” She wet her lips. “Is it safe for me to come inside?”

  No. No, you’re not safe around me looking like fresh-baked temptation. “If you don’t mind your dress getting dirty,” he said, stepping back.

  “I don’t,” she murmured, moving past him, obviously making a concerted effort not to make any form of contact, even with her clothes.

  He hated that. Loathed it. “There are tools everywhere. You’re going to hurt your ankle even worse than it already is.”

  “My ankle is fine.” Her eyes danced to each corner of the room. “It must have been a twist because it’s only sensitive now.”

  Russell hummed in his throat, eyeing the ankle in question dubiously. “How did you find me?”

  She shook out her umbrella and set it down inside the door. “I went to your brother’s house, where I thought you were staying—”

  “I am. I’m sleeping on the couch.” For now. On the heels of reminding her of their vast economic differences, he felt a punch of nerves over her seeing what he’d accomplished. Two conflicting purposes, yet they were equally strong. Push her away while wondering if he might draw her closer. Maybe Louis was right, and he did need a therapist. “Uh, the kitchen is to the right. Family room to the left. There’s a bedroom in back and two more upstairs, along with an office. It’s a pretty standard layout. Most of the houses on this block are the same.”

  She propped the cupcakes on her hip and placed one hand on the staircase banister. “Maybe it was the same before, but you’re doing all this great . . . stuff to it.”

  His lips
twitched. “Stuff?”

  “Yeah.” Finally, a hint of her smile. “Great stuff.” It went away just as fast as it had appeared. “Anyway, Darcy told me where you were. I’m glad she did. I can’t believe no one knows about this place.” Her gaze swept over the entryway. “You’re going to live here?”

  Russell nodded even though he wasn’t sure of anything. “Since you’re here, I might as well show you around. Head on up.”

  On the way up the stairs, he kept his head focused on her ankle. No higher. Just enough to make sure she wasn’t limping. If he got an eyeful of her ass or a flash of thigh, he’d be showing her a lot more than the bedrooms upstairs. His cock had already grown heavy, recognizing her from a million fevered dreams. She was the fuel that had provided the guy downstairs with hours and hours of frantic stroking, and dude wanted to say a personal thank-you. But it would not be happening. This was a good thing. She’d come here wanting things back to normal. Russell wanted that, too. Right? Right.

  When he reached the landing, her yellow dress beckoned him into the small office, adjacent to the master bedroom. “Office,” he said, stating the obvious, like an asshole.

  “Wow. Such great lighting in here.” She went up on her toes to look out the window. “That’s one thing my office at work is lacking. It could be nighttime, and I wouldn’t even know if I didn’t have a clock.”

  He felt his features arrange themselves in a scowl at the thought of her in an airless, windowless room, but remembering what she’d said Monday night about his always being mad at her, he erased the expression before she could turn around. “The jobs we’ve done, a lot of customers don’t like too much light in their offices because it creates a glare off their computer screens.”

  “Oh. Not me. I’d want it to feel like I was working outside. Maybe even a big old skylight.” She tucked a stray strand of rich, brown hair behind her ear. “Everyone has their own tastes, though. It’s perfect the way it is.” Still carrying the cupcakes, she passed him and left the room. Russell considered the small space a moment, ruminating on the merits of added sunlight, before following.