Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(8)

“How?”

“There’s a belief that men and women can’t be friends. Have you heard that one?”

Abby shook her head. Russell shifted in his boots, a telltale sign he was getting ready to impart a crazy, new theory. She propped her fists under her chin in anticipation.

“This is the universe telling us we broke code.” He nodded once, as if to emphasize his point. “I made friends with someone determined to step on broken glass or fall headfirst down a set of stairs, and now I have to run all over the place making sure it doesn’t happen. I don’t have to do this with Ben or Louis.”

“Because they’re men.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinking I’m sexist.”

“I’m not thinking, I’m knowing.”

“Ah, but I don’t have to worry about Roxy or Honey, either.” The corner of his mouth tugged. “See that? Maybe I’m not sexist. Maybe I’m just an Abbyist.”

Hoping to disguise the hurt—even over an obvious joke—she pushed back her shoulders. “I’m glad you came, but I would have made it home on my own, Russell. I’m fully capable of taking care of myself even with these pesky ovaries.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I hereby absolve you of any extra responsibility you believe my Abby-ness has burdened you with. You’re off the hook.”

His shoulder jerked beneath her touch. “I never said I wanted to be off the hook.” Muttering beneath his breath, he leaned down to inspect her ankle. “Why were you sitting there alone? I thought your father worked in the same office.”

Abby kept her features schooled, but her heart had leapt into her throat. “He had a meeting uptown. He and my stepmother are probably calling my phone nonstop.”

“All right.” Russell handed her his phone with a grim smile. “Call everyone and let them know you’re alive. I’ll worry about getting you home.”

He started to shut the passenger door, but she stopped him. “Russell?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m really glad we’re friends.” She clutched the phone against her chest. “Even if you are an awful chauvinist sometimes.”





Chapter 3



THE RED LIGHT turned green, but Russell’s foot felt glued to the brake. A car honked, effectively reminding him he was operating a motor vehicle and needed to stop zoning out. Although zoning out would have been a welcome change to picturing Abby cartwheeling down a staircase while chaos reigned around her. Picturing her huddled on the sidewalk, seeing her attempt to stand and failing over and over again. She’d been right across the street from a f*cking explosion. Even now, emergency vehicles blew past him, heading toward the still-fresh scene while he and Abby drove toward Chelsea.

Russell focused on Abby’s musical voice as she spoke into his phone, listing her symptoms to Honey—a premed student at Columbia. He was grateful she had phone calls to occupy her on the drive, mainly because it prevented him from relaying any more bonehead philosophies. You’re off the hook. Goddamn, she had no clue how on the hook he actually was. He’d found her whole and healthy half an hour ago, and it still felt as though someone had taken a circular saw to his intestines. There was an inner voice chanting you almost lost her, you almost lost her, when in reality, he didn’t have her. At all. Couldn’t have her.

A newer, more intense awareness beat in his gut now, though. He might have put up a good front to Abby, but the truth was, he craved the privilege of being her hero. To not fail her, the way he’d failed on that long-ago day so firmly lodged in his memory. It was different with Abby, though. A different shape. Unique and . . . mighty. Looking out for her, taking her home to soothe her aches . . . it made his blood pump faster. Since they’d started driving, he’d had the same mental image several times, and it only got more explicit with each go-round. Carrying Abby up the stairs, laying her down on that pristine white bedspread and taking her mind off the pain. Getting rid of his own in the process. He wanted her legs spread, those wide, hazel eyes acknowledging that Russell took care of her, all while he drove his cock into her body. Jesus. As if he needed another reason for her to think of him as a raging sexist.

Even worse, Russell knew why the need for Abby was at a fever pitch today. He earned an honest living with his hands. A living he was proud as hell of. But he had nothing to offer Abby, whose family could buy his family home and Hart Brothers Construction a thousand times without breaking a sweat. His protection was his offering, and he’d been allowed to somewhat utilize that part of him today. His traitorous gut was attempting to trick him into feeling worthy of Abby. He had to resist that false notion at all costs.

Abby was meant for bigger and better things than him. Someone who could discuss The Grapes of Wrath or listened to that All Things Considered podcast he’d seen on her phone. Hell, someone who shopped at Brooks Brothers instead of borrowing clothes from his actual brother. But he could keep her safe until those things came along, and he’d be grateful for it. Now he just had to ignore his every instinct and keep his hands off even if they begged for the chance to squeeze her curves, stroke the sweet, untouched parts beneath her clothes. Christ. Why couldn’t he stay away from her? Russell knew the answer to that too well. Being around Abby was torture, but staying away was all-out murder.