Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(28)

“Earth to Abby,” Roxy said, waving a hand in front of her face, reminding her four other people stood in the office. Staring at her. How long had she been zoned out?

“Sorry.” Abby tucked some stray hair behind her ear and stood, shoving a handful of essential files into her laptop case. “Um. Mother, meet Honey and Roxy. My roommates and best friends.”

Her stepmother’s smile was strained as she shook hands with the girls. “Are you planning to wear those . . . ducks while in Southampton?”

“Don’t worry, we promise not to let your daughter be seen in one.” Roxy winked at Abby’s stepmother. “We brought her a frog.”

Mitchell broke the horrified silence with a nervous laugh. “I hope there’s a pocket for your cell phone on that frog.”

When Honey and Roxy both opened their mouths—no doubt to inform Mitchell and her stepmother that no work would be attempted or completed over the weekend—Abby jumped to intercede. “Come on. We don’t want to keep the guys waiting.”

Her stepmother’s knuckles went white as she clutched her purse. “Guys?”

Abby didn’t break stride as she sailed toward the door. “Yes. Guys. I’m twenty-four years old, and it’s about frickin’ time.”

And holy hell. Not doing what was expected of her felt really good. She needed to make a habit of it. Starting this weekend.





Chapter 10



WHEN ABBY CAME into view on Ninth Avenue, Russell paused in his stride, hefting his duffel bag higher against his shoulder. That first eyeful of her always packed a punch, but it had the effect of a full-on knockout round now. She sat outside her building, perched on a designer suitcase that could probably pay his brother’s rent for six months. Honey and Roxy sat on either side of her, sipping from Starbucks cups in between conversation and bouts of laughter. Abby had this habit of laying her hand on someone’s shoulder and giggling when they said something funny, and she did it just then to Honey, making his throat hurt.

God help him this weekend when it came to keeping his hands off her. She looked angelic, with her thin, white T-shirt tucked into a short, flowery skirt. What did it say about him that he only wanted to get that angel on her ever-loving back? Naked and moaning, the way she’d been Thursday afternoon in Queens.

No. Maybe his logic was twisted, but he needed to keep Abby . . . untouched. At least in the final way that mattered. If he could manage that Herculean feat a while longer, just until he knew a future between them was even possible, that he could give her a happy life, he’d be a candidate for sainthood.

Russell tipped his head back and breathed through his nose. “I am not my dick. My dick does not make decisions for me.”

A passing woman started walking faster, and Russell sighed. Best to keep his new mantra internal the next time he felt the need to repeat it in public. And he had a feeling he’d be chanting it like a motherf*cker before the weekend was over.

“Russell,” Roxy yelled from across the street. “Did you forget where we live?”

“Hint,” Honey chimed in, gesturing with her coffee cup. “We’re sitting right in front of it.”

Russell smirked at them as he crossed Ninth Avenue, sufficiently reminded that although his dick would be having a rough weekend, the rest of him would have fun. While his focus was always on Abby, he’d developed a pretty serious soft spot for his buddies’ girlfriends. Not that he was insane enough to let them know it. Once women knew they could smile and get a favor out of you, they turned into loaded weapons. Some women, at least. Abby waited until he offered, then smiled.

One of the first warning signs that he was lost over Abby had been one month into their friendship. Louis threw a surprise party for Roxy one night after she’d landed her first big acting role. He’d noticed Abby walking into the apartment with liquor bottles, setting them on the counter and heading back out into the hallway. Twice she’d done it before he’d gotten frustrated enough to ask her if she needed help carrying something. Turned out, there’d been three heavy cases of liquor for the party sitting downstairs, and she’d planned on carrying the contents up, two bottles at a time. Instead of asking for help.

Russell had stacked the three boxes on top of one another and brought them to the apartment, grumbling about stubborn women the entire way. But when he’d set them down in the kitchen, he’d turned to find Abby beaming at him like a certified hero. God, if she’d asked him to jump out the window at that moment, he would have leapt without a thought.

As he approached the girls, however, Abby wasn’t looking at him like a hero. She wasn’t looking at him at all, and it instantly f*cked him up. If he didn’t suspect it would show his hand, Russell would have flung himself down on the sidewalk and begged Abby to ask him for a favor. Anything. Anything in the world so he could go get it for her. A pink armadillo. A flower from the highest peak in the Swiss Alps. A baby goat. Whatever. He just wanted her to look at him the way she always had. Before he’d slapped her ass and sent her back to Manhattan. Jesus, he was a prize *.

You’re going to fix it. Just hang in there.

“Hey,” he said, his voice reminding him of sawdust. “Where’s your old ball and chains?”

Roxy appeared to register Abby’s lack of greeting but didn’t comment, thanks be to God. “Louis is picking up the Zipcar—or Zipvan, really. Ben is—”