The Training (Book 3: The Submissive Trilogy) Page 12

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “After lunch,” I said.

  She pushed open the door to the break room. “We’ll have to eat in here. There’s a grad student working on his thesis in Rare Books today.”

  I followed her inside. “I suppose we should let him work.”

  “I’d kick him out if I could.”

  “It’s a long time until Saturday night. Don’t tempt me.”

  I spread out our antipasti and gave her a fork. “How’s Felicia?”

  She sat down. “Pissed at me.”

  I looked up from my plate. “Why?”

  “She’s upset I spent the weekend in New Hampshire.”

  “Really?”

  She waved her hand in dismissal. “She’s like that. I think every bride goes through it. I’m not sure what I could have done for her over the weekend anyway. She was with Jackson the whole time.”

  I forked an olive. “I’m sorry our weekend away caused trouble between the two of you.”

  “Don’t be. Like I said, she’s like that about anything and everything these days.”

  “What are your plans for the rest of the week?”

  “Bridesmaid luncheon tomorrow,” she said. “Dad gets in on Thursday. Elaina and I are taking Felicia to a spa on Friday before the rehearsal.” Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me. “What about you?”

  “Todd and I are taking Jackson away for the day Friday.” Payback for what Jackson did to Todd when he married Elaina.

  “You aren’t taking him to a strip club, are you?”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “And if we are?”

  She looked down at her plate, all nonchalant. “I might have to respectfully protest.”

  “Respectfully protest? Not firmly reprimand?”

  “If I protest, there won’t be a firmly anything.” Her hand brushed my upper thigh under the small table and worked its way up.

  “You better move your hand. Unless you want me to jerk you up from the table, throw you over my shoulder, and bust into the Rare Books Collection, giving that poor graduate student the shock of his life.”

  Her hand inched upward, lightly stroking the base of my cock. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Abby,” I warned in the tone of voice I reserved for weekends.

  She looked up at me for just a minute, perhaps trying to decide if I was teasing or not. I wasn’t. I started counting in my head—she had until three.

  One.

  Two.

  She moved her hand. “Stupid grad student,” she mumbled under her breath.

  We chatted a bit about the wedding, our plans for the weekend, how Todd and Elaina’s house was being transformed to accommodate the ceremony and reception. Maybe, I thought, we’d be so busy, the time would pass quickly until we could be together again.

  My hand grazed hers across the tiny table, and it felt as though the box in my pocket was on fire. I shifted in my seat.

  When we finished and cleared the table, she stood up. “I’d better be heading back to work. Thanks again for lunch.”

  “Before you go, I have something for you.”

  “Right,” she said, picking up the rose. “Something to make up for giving both me and my boss a flower.”

  I slipped the pale blue box from my pocket.

  Her eyes grew wide. She set the rose on the table. “Nathaniel.”

  “It’s just a little something I found and wanted you to have.”

  “From Tiffany?”

  “Open it,” I said, passing her the box.

  She took it with tentative fingers.

  “The bow got a little squashed in my pocket,” I said.

  She untied the bow and slowly lifted the lid. I knew exactly what she saw when her breath rushed out. Two diamond earrings. Large, flawless ones. My father had exceptional taste.

  Her expression changed from shock to amazement. “These are . . . They’re . . .” Her free hand danced around her throat.

  “They were my mother’s,” I said. “I want you to have them.”

  “Your mother’s?”

  I nodded, even though she wasn’t watching me. Her fingertip traced one of the round stones. I’d remembered the earrings on Sunday night, one of the many pieces of jewelry left to me by my mother. Remembered how they sat in the locked box I had that held my parents’ wedding bands. As soon as I remembered the earrings, I knew I wanted her to have them.

  Wanted her to have another piece of me. To own part of the past that made me who I was.

  “I shouldn’t,” she started. “It’s too much . . . your mother’s.”

  “Please.” I captured her hands in mine, enclosing the blue box within our grasp. “For me?”

  She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes.

  I caught a tear with my thumb. “I thought maybe you could wear them to the wedding. If Felicia hasn’t picked out other jewelry for you to wear.”

  “No,” she said, and I feared she was rejecting my gift. “She said she doesn’t care.”

  Silence filled the break room and I held my breath as I waited for her to say something else.

  “Thank you,” she finally said. “I love them. I feel . . . really honored.”

  “My mother would want you to have them,” I said, certain of the fact. “I wish she could have met you. She would love you.”

  She smiled at me. The gorgeous smile that brightened my day in ways nothing else could. “I wish I could have met her, too.”

  I wrapped my arms around her, wordlessly, and her hands came up to my shoulders, the box still in her grip.

  “I love you,” I whispered, kissing her ear. “I’d give you the world if I could, but I’ll settle by offering little slivers of myself.”

  “I love it when you offer me slivers of yourself,” she said. “Besides, I don’t want the world. I want you.”

  I pulled back and kissed her. Long and slow and deep. She tugged me close, running her free hand through my hair, her hips pressed against mine.

  Someone at the door cleared their throat, and Abby pulled away, but she kept her arms around me.

  “Yes?” she asked the teenaged girl who’d opened the door without either one of us hearing.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Abby, but I’m supposed to tell you the computer’s no longer printing out 2007 due dates.”

  “Good news,” Abby said. “But why did that require my attention?”

  “It’s printing out 1807.”

  Abby sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

  The young girl left. “Sorry again,” she called through the closed door.

  Abby dropped her head to my chest.

  “Miss Abby?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  I kissed her forehead. “I better go. Let you deal with the nineteenth century.”

  She lifted to her toes and kissed me. “Trust me, the nineteenth century wants nothing to do with me.”

  “Call me tonight, okay?”

  “I will,” she said, lightly brushing a hair out of my eyes. “I love you.”

  I smiled when the doorbell rang at six thirty on Thursday night. Leave it to Abby to ring the doorbell of my house when she’d be moving in in a little more than a week. I knew she’d told her dad she planned to move in, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about meeting the man.

  Apollo rushed to the door, guessing Abby waited for him on the other side.

  “Calm down,” I said, wondering how quickly it would take for him to get used to having her around permanently.

  I opened the door and decided I’d never grow accustomed to having her live with me. Even having her over for dinner seemed too good to be true.

  I took her hands and kissed her cheek, noticing she wore the earrings I’d given her. “You didn’t have to ring the doorbell. I wouldn’t have minded if you’ d used your key.”

  She gave my hand a squeeze and returned the kiss. “Old habit.” She stepped back and directed me to the man at her side. “This is my dad.”

/>   He was a strong, solid man. I knew from Abby he worked as a contractor and had done so for more than twenty years. I shook his hand. “Mr. King,” I said. “Welcome to New York.”

  “Don’t call me Mr. King,” he said, a small smile playing on his features. “And thank you.”

  I held the door open wider. “Please come in. Excuse Apollo. He’s a bit shy around strangers.”

  True to form, Apollo stayed stuck to my side, moving only to nudge Abby’s hand when she passed him. I smiled, remembering how he’d reacted to meeting her the first time. His reaction to her father was much more normal. My eyes met Abby’s, and I nodded toward him.

  See? I said with my eyes. He really doesn’t like strangers.

  She rubbed his head as she walked into the foyer, rolling her eyes at me. “Can I help with anything in the kitchen?”

  “I have the beef Wellington and potatoes in the oven,” I said. She’d told me her dad was a meat-and-potatoes type of man, and I’d planned dinner around his preferences.

  “Beef Wellington?” She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I should go check it out?”

  “Your father and I will be in the living room.” Better to get this out of the way sooner rather than later.

  We sat down—me on the couch, her dad on the love seat. He looked around the room, appraising. I gathered he was a quiet man, much like his daughter.

  I cleared my throat. “Abby says you’re going to give Felicia away on Saturday.”

  “Felicia has been like a second daughter to me. She’s had her share of hardships. I’m glad she’s finally found someone.”

  “Jackson’s completely in love with her. He’s never been happier.”

  He smiled, and I saw the kindness in his eyes, the warmth, and knew Abby inherited more than her quiet nature from her father. “From what Abby tells me, Felicia and Jackson aren’t the only ones,” he said.

  Okay. The straightforwardness I wasn’t expecting. Abby had not inherited that.

  My mind spun frantically, and I tried desperately to think of how to respond.

  I have nothing but honorable intentions toward your daughter?

  Not sure that was the entire truth, considering what I told Abby I’d do to her the next time I had her in my playroom.

  Fuck. Abby’s father is in my house. Sitting directly below the playroom where I teased and tormented his daughter. How would I explain the closed door if I gave them a tour?

  You don’t, I told myself. You just ignore it.

  Did I really think he would look at a closed door and say, “Hey, what’s in there?”

  No, I didn’t.

  But still. He could.

  “I understand she’s moving in with you next weekend?” he asked.

  I pulled myself up straighter and did my best to ignore the sweat running down my back. This was worse than high school prom. What if he forbade Abby to move in? Would he do that? What would I do if I became the cause of more strife between Abby and her father?

  The words rushed out. “I have nothing but honorable intentions toward your daughter, sir.” I cringed. Idiot.

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “I know you’re a successful man, Nathaniel, and I know Abby has a good head on her shoulders. I’m not going to say I’m altogether pleased with how quickly this is moving or that I’m happy with this whole living-together arrangement.” He gave me a look, and I wondered how much he knew of my past with Abby. “But I remember the joy of sharing my life with someone.”

  Abby had said he’d been alone for a long time.

  “So while I’m not altogether pleased,” he said, “I’ll overlook it for Abby’s sake. If you make her happy, well, all I’ve ever wanted is for her to find happiness.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, strangely relieved. “I, too, want nothing but Abby’s happiness.”

  “Hell,” he said. “Don’t call me sir. It makes me feel ancient. Tell me about your cousin. Anything I need to warn Felicia about?”

  I laughed, and the conversation shifted seamlessly to football.

  We ate dinner in the dining room. I’d wanted to eat in the kitchen, but Abby thought the dining room more appropriate, and after thinking on it further, I agreed. The dining room, while serving a purpose on weekends, was part of the house and should be used as such.

  Besides, I thought, watching her direct her dad to his seat, I rather enjoyed watching her acting as hostess in my house. I’d never entertained much, but I decided Abby and I would have to change that after she moved in.

  I offered to help her serve, but she rejected me thoroughly and told me to have a seat and keep her dad company. I sat at my place at the head of the table. Abby’s dad sat at my right, leaving Abby a seat at my left. I’d set the table before everyone arrived; all we needed was the food.

  Abby walked in and stood beside me. My cock gave a twitch, remembering how she served me in the dining room on weekends. I placed a napkin firmly in my lap. This was not a weekend.

  Still, my body remembered . . .

  And there was the electricity that hummed between us whenever we were together.

  She set the beef Wellington before me and lightly grazed my shoulder with her fingers.

  I feel it, too, her touch said. I know exactly what you’re thinking.

  Our eyes met as she sat down, and I grinned at her. Not everything, my expression teased. You just wait—when I get you alone again.

  “Did you cook this?” her father asked, interrupting our silent conversation.

  I turned to him, slightly abashed at having improper thoughts about his daughter while he sat at my table.

  “I did,” I said. I hoped he wasn’t the type of man who thought cooking was not a masculine pursuit.

  “Abby enjoys cooking, too,” he said. “You two must have fun in the kitchen.”

  “We do,” I said, and my mind wandered to a snowy day, a steam-filled kitchen, and a lunch of cold risotto.

  “We took sushi lessons a few weeks ago,” Abby said, kicking my foot under the table.

  The corner of her lip went up, and I shook my head at her. What? I asked with my eyes. Maybe I’d lost my poker face abilities the last few weeks.

  “Do you enjoy baseball?” I asked her dad.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Baseball. Football.”

  “I have a box at Yankee Stadium,” I said. “Maybe you can come down this summer and go to a few games. Abby and I would love to have you stay a few days.” Emphasizing, I hoped, that I viewed this not just as my home, but Abby’s as well. That he would always be welcome in our house.

  Our house.

  I felt my stomach flip in the most amazing way and realized that this, this was what contentment was. What was it he had said? The joy of sharing your life with someone.

  I looked back at Abby and, yes, she felt it too. I reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Not just sharing your life with someone, though. Sharing your life with the One.

  Chapter Thirteen

  —ABBY—

  It was pointless, I decided, throwing back the covers and getting out of bed. I piddled around my room for a few minutes, running my hand over the multitude of boxes—clothes here, books there, everything else in between.

  I wondered if Felicia was sleeping. She was spending the night on my couch. We’d had a wonderful day—first meeting Elaina at Felicia’s favorite spa and treating the bride-to-be to a day of pampering. Later in the afternoon, Felicia and I had returned to the apartment and giggled like schoolgirls while we got ready for the rehearsal. Even that had gone well. Nathaniel stood proudly beside his cousin, a tiny hint of a smile on his lips as Felicia tried unsuccessfully to pry information on where they had been all day.

  My bridesmaid dress hung in the closet, waiting for morning. I trailed a finger down the delicate silk material. Felicia had excellent taste. The dress was floor length, ice blue, and formfitting, with bare shoulders except for the chiffon that came up from the waist to drape over one shoulder.

 
Turning from the dress, I threw a few remaining books into a half-empty box, but finally accepted that sleep wouldn’t be visiting me anytime soon.

  I stepped quietly into the living room, not wanting to disturb Felicia, only to find her sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of tea.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” I walked over to the couch and sat beside her. “I couldn’t sleep either. Nervous?”

  She tucked her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs. “Not really nervous, I don’t think. Just excited. Maybe a little worried?”

  “Worried about marrying Jackson?” I asked, concerned. This was normal, right? Didn’t every bride go through this?

  “No, not Jackson,” she said, and I felt a little better. “Well, not Jackson, the man. More worried about marrying Jackson, quarterback for the New York Giants. The paparazzi and all. Being in the spotlight.”

  I vaguely remembered her frustration when the engagement was announced. Photographers had followed her for a few days, showed up outside her classroom, even called her apartment a few times. The excitement had died down rather quickly and, truth be told, I hadn’t been that much of a help to her, having recently left Nathaniel and living in the fog of depression I’d been in.

  “It won’t be too bad, I don’t think,” I said. “He’s a famous athlete, sure, but he’s not an actor or anything.”

  “You try setting up security for your wedding and then tell me it’s not that bad,” she said. “You plan your honeymoon trying to decide where you can be alone most of the time. And you have your wedding gown flashed on television for the world to see.”

  “Okay. Okay,” I said, trying to calm her down, not wanting to see her in full-out bridal rage. “I see your point. The wedding gown thing was tacky.”

  “Hmph. I’ll say.”

  “But listen,” I said. “Jackson loves you. I’ve seen it. You don’t have anything to worry about. If the paparazzi show up, you and Jackson will deal with it together. Plus, you’ll have the whole Clark clan to back you up. And you know you’ll always have me.”

  She smiled at that. “Thanks, Abby.”

  I shrugged. “No biggie. And since you and Jackson will be off touring Europe, I’m sure the wedding hype will have moved on when you do come back to the States. Some other celebrity news will have taken your place.”