The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (21 page)

How am I going to explain this? Maybe I should have told him?
I ponder in panic, the inevitable conversation to come with Alex—thanks to the Kathleen Turner sound-alike—crushing down on me like in a thick fog.

Pacing the small room, I play what I heard over and over in my head—a discussion I
clearly
wasn’t supposed to hear—realizing he’s right. This
is
new. It
did
happen fast. That’s the only reason I haven’t spewed my story. How was I to know that his power-suit-wearing-blonde-bitch of a publicist—who offered him SEX I might add—was going to flood him with all of my personal baggage so suddenly?

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like the media knows who I am, which is a Godsend. Being publicly scrutinized for my life’s decisions is not something I relish.
I don’t have to answer to anyone!

I’m angry, not to mention slightly depressed. Thanks to that
goddess,
my dream week is over. There’s no way he’s going to want to hear my side of the story now. He’ll be up here within minutes to send me packing.

My anxiety is killing me, I feel as though I’m a child waiting to be disciplined for a wrongdoing.
Wait . . .
Do I even owe an explanation about my past?
I just met him for Christ’s sake.

It’s a persuasive inward argument. I’ve done nothing wrong. Though, I don’t even know what other drivel that woman is feeding him right now since I ran and barricaded myself in this tiny bathroom like a criminal in hiding. Not knowing what other juicy Abigail-tidbits she’s broaching is sending my apprehensive frustration to its peak.

Ok, now I’m really mad,
I realize, pacing purposelessly back and forth.
So, what? I spend one week with a man—one amazing week for sure—and it’s expected that I spew my life’s story?
Well, the hell with that!
I decide I’ve had enough inner banter and reach for the bathroom door, flailing it open in a flurry, coming face to face with Alex.

“Has your
feline
friend
left?” I spew with sarcasm, glaring at him haughtily, unable to control myself or my defensive anger from spilling out. Pushing past him, I make my way towards my purse on the chair.

“What are you doing, Aby?”

“I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Don’t go. Let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I heard your conversation. And you’re right. This
is
new. New enough that we should end this charade now before it gets even more complicated.”

“Whoa, hold on,” he raises his hands in a signal of peace, effectively blocking my exit.

“What? What do you want me to say? You want me to apologize? You have
no
right to expect me to tell you everything about myself after only one week together!” I shout, hands on my hips, leaning towards him in defensive-mode.

“That’s what this is about? Your past?” His head relaxes back as he runs his fingers through his still damp hair.

He looks sexy as hell.
Damn you, why do you have to be so freaking attractive.

Looking back to me he looks relieved.

I’m confused.

“I don’t give a shit about your past. You can tell me, or not, and it won’t make one iota of difference. I hope at some point that you’ll feel open enough to tell me your story, but I have absolutely no expectations.” He steps closer. “I thought this tirade—as adorable as it may be—was about the pictures.”

“Adorable?” I ask in shock, dropping my hands from my hips, purse dangling from my fingertips as comprehension dawns. He’s not jumping all over me about my past as I’d expected. How is that possible?
I’ve worked myself up into quite a tizzy for naught.

“Yes, adorable. You’re rather sexy when you’re mad,” he flashes a crooked grin, brushing my hair behind my ear in a loving gesture.

“So,
you’re
not mad about what she told you?” I question on a sigh of relief, needing reassurance that his indifference to my boatload of baggage is genuine.

“Your past is not something that concerns me.” Brushing my wet strands away, he places his hands on my shoulders soothingly. “Julia is just doing her job, however unwanted it may be sometimes. I just want to make sure that you don’t get scared off by the damn publicity,” he searches my eyes, his own laced with concern.

“And you’re not upset that you’ve been publicly associated with me . . . someone with a torrid past?”

“Torrid past?” he laughs. “Not in the least. Everyone has a past.” His face lights up with that heart-stopping smile I’ve come to adore, before pulling me into his arms. “Don’t go,” he whispers, his breath fanning my cheek, running his hands up and down my back. “Don’t let Julia, or publicized pictures of us ruin this.”

What more can I say?

He’s not ending our lovely dream week
—my inner dreamer jumps for joy.

I’m mollified that he truly doesn’t care about my sordid past, and a little relieved that I’m not being bullied into spilling my guts. Plus, according to
Julia,
I’m still ‘unidentified.’ Perhaps it can stay that way.

“About those pictures . . . were they taken from my left side or my right?” I playfully mumble into his chest, feeling his lips pull into a smile.

THE MOONLIGHT BEAMs on a breathtakingly beautiful Alex as we sit on his small second story deck enjoying the cool night breeze.

I can’t help but smile at him as I cozy into his side; it’s been an amazing week, wrapped in the arms of this man. Only hours ago, I thought it was all coming to an end. The reminder makes me shiver, and he pulls me closer. “We can go inside, if you’re cold,” he caresses my cheek, pulling my gaze.

“I was just thinking about what happened this morning,” I explain, biting my lip nervously. “I think we should talk about it.”

His gaze is intense as he searches my eyes, and it scares me a little.

Despite Julia’s unexpected interruption, and its subsequent drama on my part, the rest of our day had been wonderful. I’m eternally grateful that it didn’t spoil my dream week. But his amazingly understanding acceptance that I have a past makes me want to share it with him, though with each passing second, it terrifies me.
Will I lose him anyway?

He looks apprehensive and takes a deep breath, effectively stealing mine, as it suddenly feels as though I’m gasping for air.

“I’m glad you want to talk about it, if it means you’re not running,” he brushes his thumb along my jaw. “I completely understand how you must be feeling. The pictures . . . the media . . . It’s an invasion of your privacy.”

“No,” I push away from the warmth of his body to sit upright facing him. “It’s not about the publicity. I want to tell you exactly how . . . why I ended up here in London.”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured into telling me until you’re ready,” he whispers, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

“I know. But I’m ready. I
want
to tell you. Besides, it’s probably best to spill now in case
you
want to run for the hills,” I tease, attempting to lighten the air, poking his ribs.

He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his intense gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. But neither is the media,” his stunning face is laced with torment. “Whatever you have to tell me won’t change that. The publicity is something I can’t make go away.”

Tugging along his collar, my fingers sweep over his muscle-defined sweater, my eyes following in the movement. “I understand that. It will take some getting used to,” I look up to his gaze with a smile, “ . . . but I’m beginning to think you’re worth it.”

His breath fans me through his sexy parted lips. Cupping my face, he pulls me into a gentle kiss, his mouth brushing mine with teasing touches of his tongue. I lose all sense of the present. My body aches for him.

“If I could, I’d keep you all to myself. I wouldn’t let them near you,” he whispers against my lips before pulling back marginally.

I hold his hands at my cheeks. “You can’t hide me away,” I smile, “I’ll adapt. It will be a work in progress . . . kinda like me.” I take his hands with mine into my lap. “Which brings us back to my past.”

He looks pensive and I take a deep breath.

“Julia was right. I did leave my husband,” I state quickly, staring into his eyes, trying to gauge his opinion of that fact, his expression unmoving. “I met Liam very young.
Too
young, in hindsight. We eventually married. I realized a little too late that he wasn’t the man for me.”

“Did he not treat you well?”

“No, no. It was nothing like that,” I look down, feeling the sting of having to relay my stupid mistakes.

“It’s okay that you’re divorced, Aby.”

My gaze darts back to his.
Reading my mind again, Mr. Tate. Perhaps this is the part where I explain that I’m more like separated.
“Well, I’m not
quite
divorced.”

“What do you mean?” he questions, his tone hardened slightly.

“The petition for divorce has gone through. I just have to wait to sign on the dotted line.” I know that my voice sounds weak. The entire topic makes me uncomfortable, given it’s certainly not one of my most proud accomplishments.

I’m beginning to sweat slightly in the silence, tiny beads looming above my stare locked on Alex’s face as I desperately try to ascertain what he’s thinking.

“So, you’re telling me you’re still married.”
Wow, how high can that eyebrow really go?

When he puts it that way, he makes it sound almost dirty.
My open mouth offers nothing, leaving me to nod my head in agreement.

“And not only are you still married, but to some asshole.”

“Well, yes, I’m
technically
still married, but not for long. And no, Liam isn’t an asshole. He was—
is
—wonderful. He’s everything a girl would want in a husband. He just . . . wasn’t what
I
wanted.”

“Ahhh . . . your tall bill,” his charming smile flashes his pearly whites in the semi-dusk light.

“Yes.” Pulling my eyes from his, I stare down at my fumbling hands in embarrassment.
Damn. Why did I have to go and divulge my secret desires to Alex the first night we met?

“So, if Liam is so great, what happened?”

“I just woke up one morning and realized that this world has so much more to offer me—well, I actually knew it for many years. I fought my nagging desire for a long time. Not simply with respect to the man of my dreams, but a better
life,”
I look up to his gaze. “So, here I am, in London, in search of it.”

“And have you found it?” his tone is playfully suggestive, a contrast to his serious gaze.

Oh God . . .
Is he wondering if I think
he’s
the man of my dreams, or if my new life in London is the one I’ve been chasing? Unsure how to respond, and not wanting to give too much away, I tread carefully, “I’m not sure yet.”

“Time will tell, hmmm?” he teases with a sweet smile, pulling me into his arms. “So, just out of curiosity, where do I measure on this tall bill of yours?”

“Time will tell, I guess,” I smirk.

Releasing a growl, he pulls me atop him to straddle his lap, the change in position giving me front row seating to stare at his gorgeous lips, his stunning blue eyes bright enough to sparkle despite the darkness.

I run my hand along the stubble-covered outline of his cheek, taking in his stunning features, caressing his beautiful face, my fingertips brushing along his brow.

“Aby,” he whispers.

The sweet, seductive sound of my name on his lips sends tingles down my spine. I could fall in love with this man so easily. So quickly. Have I fallen already? After such a short time, it seems surreal. I’m afraid to trust what I’m feeling, and that scares me. Particularly after today’s drama. I need to know more about Julia.

“Alex,” I plead against his labored breaths, our lips brushing sensually in the magnetic pull, “ . . . there’s something else I’d like to discuss about Julia’s visit.”

He steals a kiss at my lips and I have to pull away, as much as his sexy caressing hold will allow.

“I heard more of the conversation between the two of you than I think you realize.”

His firm embrace halts, his hands dropping down my back. “How much more?” he leans back to look into my eyes.

“Ummm, all of it,” I admit shyly, breaking our gaze. “One particular point stood out . . . Julia offered you sex.”

He tenses beneath me and I bravely return to his focus.

“Why would she do that?”

His expression is telling as he runs his hand over his mouth and jaw. He’s clearly taken aback by my admittance, if not by my sudden inquiry.

I was hoping he would merely tell me that Julia is crazy, that her comment meant nothing, but I fear his demeanor has already solidified my worst fear. He’s
been
with her. “She’s not just your publicist is she?”

My question seems to jar him into present time with sudden vehemence, “Yes, she’s just my publicist. Don’t for one-second think that she’s anything more than that. Perhaps once, but
not
anymore.”

His adamant designation of her role in his life merely fuels my concern, though I tread lightly, “Once?”

Taking a deep calming breath, he exhales on a sigh, “Yes, once. We dated a few years ago. It was the first relationship I’d experienced with someone who understood . . . ” he looks at me cautiously. “She understood the demands of dating someone in the public eye. I thought we were serious . . . ” he closes his eyes, taking another deep breath. “Cheating is a deal breaker for me.”