Make Me - Tessa Bailey Page 0,18

so open with him, being so Abby, when most girls would be playing games or guilt-tripping him for that handprint on her backside and what he’d said—something he would fully deserve—Russell knew if he went to her, she’d open her arms. He could kiss her with every iota of feeling inside him, feeling he had only for her. But if he did that, there would be no coming up for air. He’d steal her virginity on her lily-white bedspread, and if that happened . . . God help them all. How could he let her go after that? She’d be unequivocally his—and before long, history would repeat itself, only this time, Abby could be the victim.

Russell couldn’t do it. Couldn’t steal her chance at the future that had been mapped out for a girl like Abby. A future that sure as shit wouldn’t involve a blue-collar roughneck who didn’t even attend college. He could see it now. His dirt-smudged contractor’s license hanging next to her degree from Yale. Not happening. So this was where he stepped up for them both, chalked tonight up to a mistake brought on by too much tequila and forced them back into normalcy.

She would thank him someday.

“I’ve never called you angel before? Pretty sure I call everyone that.”

The expression that transformed her face after his pronouncement reminded him of someone’s walking outside into freezing weather. Her eyes went glassy, and she sucked in a breath, her body withdrawing into itself as though trying to conserve warmth. If Russell hadn’t been paralyzed by that reaction, he would have dropped to his knees and buried the nearest sharp object between his ribs. One moment of hurt was better than a lifetime of unhappiness, he reminded himself. Living paycheck to paycheck, clipping coupons. Why didn’t he feel reassured?

“Oh. I guess I never noticed.” She glanced down at the bed. “So you could have been sleeping next to anyone, and the same thing would have happened, I guess.”

“Probably.” The word was a sword being drawn from his throat. “I’m a guy, Abby. I woke up with you pressed against me, and I reacted. I’m sorry if you thought—”

“No. I didn’t think.” She came off the bed and disappeared into her closet, her limp slightly less pronounced than earlier. When she came back out, she had a robe wrapped around her. Like a shield. Against him. God, he wanted to die. Especially when she smiled that Abby smile at him because that was who she was. The girl who smiled when she should be screaming. “Honey should be home soon.”

“Right.” In other words, if her roommate came home and found them in Abby’s bedroom, questions would be asked, and Abby wasn’t even a half-decent liar. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Feels better already,” she said in a rush. “Lesson learned.”

Russell knew she wasn’t talking about wearing high heels while running down stairs, but he couldn’t comment on it. Had to just swallow it and leave.

“Bye, Abby.”

She didn’t say anything, merely nodded. Her bedroom door closed before he’d even left the apartment. It sounded like an explosion inside his head.

RUSSELL COLLAPSED INTO a booth at the Longshoreman across from Ben and Louis. At the moment, collapsing basically maxed out his capabilities. He felt like fire ants were making a permanent home inside his esophagus. He was either the noblest man on the planet or the biggest, dumbest clown ever born. A few blocks from here, a girl who lived to please people was feeling the opposite of special. Unremarkable, even. And it was on his fucking head. How? How did this happen when he’d only ever wanted the exact opposite?

I’ve never called you angel before? Pretty sure I call everyone that.

He slammed his forehead into the table, hard enough to leave a mark. If he didn’t think insane behavior would get him hauled out of the bar and strapped to a bed for his own good, he would have kept going. Slamming and slamming until he passed out into blessed unconsciousness. Anything not to see Abby looking like she’d walked into an unexpected snowstorm.

“Hey, Russell,” Ben said. “We’re only a couple months into the regular season. I have every faith the Yankees are going to pull it together.”

Since he was incapable of responding to jokes—probably forever—he reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar bill, and slid it across the table toward Louis.

Louis held up both hands. “Whoa. What’s going on here, man?”

“I’m hiring you.”

“Why?”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

“Ah, shit. What did you do?”

“Oh