The Ahern Brothers Collection - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,10
close enough to Berkeley and Denver. Since then, we’ve been meeting there at least twice a month. We spent weekends skiing until mid-April when the season ended. Later, we’d go hiking or kayaking on the lake. During one of our visits, she saw that they were looking for seasonal employees for the summer. Abby found a new excuse to stay away from Denver.
“Next year you’ll come back and work for me,” Dad decrees.
Abby’s eyes open wide; I’m almost sure that she’s not breathing.
“Dad, Abbs will come to work for us when she’s ready,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.
But if she doesn’t, I have a plan. By next year, I’m going to quit working for him, and I’m opening my own company here, in California. Abby will work for me, and she won’t have to go back to Denver.
“Darling,” Dad says, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. “You’ll come to work for me whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, here’s your birthday present.”
Abby frowns, then looks at me. She adores my parents but would rather not receive all the expensive presents they like to gift her.
“This … you can’t,” Abby gasps as she reads the letter inside the envelope. “You’re too generous with me.”
“We love you like our own,” Dad says.
“Like the daughter, we never had,” Mom reiterates.
“Yes, but … these are too many zeros, and I don’t deserve your generosity.”
“We know that you’ll use this money wisely.”
Mom and Dad decided to open a trust fund. Unlike Sterling’s and mine, she can do pretty much whatever she wants with it. There’s no age requirement to withdraw the money, nor a limit of how much she can use during the year. According to Dad, Abby has a good head. He trusts her judgment and common sense.
“You shouldn’t have, but thank you so much for this gift. I promise to use it wisely,” she says, folding the paper and putting it back into the envelope. “I love you both, not because you shower me with gifts, but because you care so much for me. Because you love me too.”
Abby’s eyes fill with tears. I rise from my seat and take her into my arms. “Don’t cry, sweet girl,” I whisper hugging her tight against me. Abby sniffs, I clear the tears rolling down her cheeks with my thumb.
“I’m not sure where I’d be if it weren’t for your generosity and love.”
“Everything we give you is with love,” Mom insists, crying just like Abby.
I pull out the small velvet bag I’ve been carrying around. Carefully, I untie the knot and take out the rose quartz bracelet I bought for her in Boulder. It’s supposed to reduce anxiety and stress. The moment I saw it, I thought of her. She loves pink and she’s always counting objects to soothe herself.
“Happy birthday, Abby girl.”
“It’s perfect, just like you.” She looks at the bracelet and then at me. Her warms eyes radiate happiness and love.
“I love it, Wes. Thank you.”
Those words hit me right in the middle of the chest. I want her to change the pronoun and say “you.”
I love you, Wes.
If I could, I’d kiss her senseless.
Instead, I take a step backward confused with myself, my thoughts.
What’s happening to me?
“I love your parents,” Abby says, opening the refrigerator, bending slightly to peer inside.
My heart thumps fast as my eyes land on her ass. That skimpy skirt she wears rides up showing me part of her butt-cheek. Fuck, those long, tanned legs make my dick twitch.
Down boy.
She’s a friend. My best friend, who happens to be fucking beautiful.
“Wait, I adore them,” she squeals straightening, a big smile on her face and a bottle of white Zinfandel.
She throws a mischievous smile. “Would you like to share?”
“I’m pretty sure Mom brought that for herself—not for the underage kid,” I tease her.
Abby’s tiny and could barely pass as an eighteen-year-old. She’s almost a foot shorter than me, her long brown hair is usually set into loose braids. She holds a certain innocence that many have lost at her age. Yet, I know about the darkness she harbors inside her soul.
Her brows furrow. “I’m twenty-one, thank you very much,” she says snidely.
She looks at the wine bottle, then at me. Her brow rises. “Well then, what are you drinking, old man?”
She taps her chin with her index finger pretending to think. “I have some warm milk, Grandpa.”
“Brat,” I say shaking my head and taking the bottle from her to uncork it. “We’ll have to drive to