Page 95 of Hate to Love You
Of course, I was probably in the hole with her for teasing her with world-class food, only to practically drag her out of there when I realized something was off. But something was off with her too. And today’s almost-lunch confirmed it.
Before the “date,” as she had so eloquently put it, had gone to shit, I had her talking.
…But something she’d told me today had been a lie.
Almost immaculately, Abby had weaved a story about her past that was uneventful, peaceful, and dull. However, what had triggered my alarms was when she had briefly talked about her husband. Her ex-husband.
Who I knew to be dead.
I’d trust Anastasia’s background file more than I would from NATO themselves. And if asked about a deceased partner, most available single women would openly share the fact that they were widowed, rather than deliberately making up some fictitious story about how their marriage had dissolved and he had moved overseas. Which is what Abby had told me.
Whether or not the reason is innocuous, it just confirmed for me that my clever little fox is hiding something.
She lied to me.
And yet, for some reason, I’m more turned on by her secret than disappointed, or even angry.
Is this the “edge” I sense about her?
My thoughts are interrupted, however, as I hear the key card lock unlatch. Instinctively I’m on my feet, aiming my gun directly at my front door.
But as it swings open, I learn that the unexpected intruder is only my very intoxicated brother.
“Pasha,” I growl, quickly throwing the safety back on my gun and putting it back in my trousers. “I almost blew your fucking head off.”
“Well, that would save me a hangover,” he chuckles.
He takes two steps, and promptly trips over the step in my foyer, landing hard on the marble tile.
“Ow,” he groans, but as I walk toward him.
Caesar rushes over to greet him, licking his face profusely and causing him to burst into a fit of laughter.
“Jesus Christ,” I sigh, rolling my eyes helping him to his feet. “Why are you here? You do realize your penthouse is just below mine, right? Did you get lost?”
“No,” he says, as I dump him onto the nearest couch. “I just got lonely.”
“What no bikini model tonight?”
“Nah, bro,” Pasha chuckles, kicking off his shoes and settling into the couch, draping his hand over his eyes. “I fucked her earlier. I even got out of taking her dinner because Alberto’s had a fire or some shit like that.”
“Yeah, some shit like that,” I repeat, downing the rest of my vodka.
“So,” Pasha says, peeking at me from beneath his arm. “Your new assistant is a hot little number.”
“She’s off limits,” I snap immediately. “So don’t even get any ideas about trying to stick your dick—”
“Relax, Ro,” he chuckles. “I know she’s yours.”
“What? No…she’s not mine…she’s just…” I start to explain but find myself struggling to formulate sentences.
“Yeah, she is,” Pasha says, draping his arm back over his face. “And no, we don’t have to talk about it. I’m kinda tired anyway.”
I should explain that Abby isn’t technically mine. I should explain that I now think she has some secret she’s deliberately keeping from me. I should explain the events of the day, and how they may or may not have a massive impact on how things proceed. I should explain a lot of things. But I don’t.
Instead, I just stand there, trying to muster a response, but unable to concoct one, because the mere mention of her has me remembering the inexplicable effect this woman has on me.
“Sleep well, little brother,” I say, turning on my heel and walking out of the room. “We have a big day tomorrow.”