Make Me - Tessa Bailey Page 0,23
house, with the understanding that he would live there once they were completed. Funny, he’d never envisioned himself living in a house, but recently, fixing up the place had absorbed a huge chunk of his spare time. He’d gutted most of the rooms, put in new insulation and drywall, gotten crucial deals through loyal Hart Brothers Construction suppliers on new windows, roofing supplies, and lumber. It had taken some hustling to make it all come together, but seeing what his hard work had yielded, damn if he wasn’t a little . . . proud.
Russell snorted at the hokey direction of his thoughts, reminding himself that a two-story pile of bricks in Queens was nothing to be proud of. His mother certainly hadn’t been proud of the house at which his father had carried her over the threshold. She hadn’t been proud of anything inside its walls, either, so different from the upper-middle-class home of her upbringing, followed by four years at a respectable university. She’d been engaged to a law student when she’d met their father and canceled the wedding. At one time, he’d been robust—a huge personality that was optimistic about moving higher in the ranks at his construction job . . . but over time, he’d stopped laughing under the weight of her disappointment. Stopped trying.
A memory of his mother crying at the kitchen table in a cloud of cigarette smoke forced him into another room. But there were visions waiting to play out in all of them. His parents fighting about money—never having enough of it, to be precise. His mother coming home tipsy from a block party and telling Russell and Alec about all the men she could have married if she hadn’t settled. Settled. Settled. That word had never been far away growing up. He’d heard it so many times, the term defined his childhood.
Maybe attempting to live here had been a mistake. He’d thought the past would fade with new walls, new floors and fixtures, but lately, they’d gone from misty recollections to full-blown flashbacks.
When he heard a knock on the front door, he thought that’s what was happening. Another vivid flashback, but the knock came again. While striding toward the door, Russell shoved the pencil behind his ear, assuming it was Alec. His brother hadn’t taken much interest in the house, but there was a first time for everything.
He opened the door to reveal Abby.
If Derek Jeter had been standing there with a giant check from Publisher’s Clearing House, he would have been less surprised. Abby in his neighborhood? She didn’t even know about the house, so how had she found it? And then, oh God, after the initial shock wore off, all he saw was her. Abby in a yellow sundress and purple Wellingtons, holding an umbrella in one hand and motherfucking cupcakes in the other. Was he hallucinating? She looked so sweet and beautiful and everything, he wanted to drop to his knees and weep. Damn, he’d missed her.
Instead, he shouted at her. “What are you doing here?”
Where she would usually beam at him despite his less-than-gentlemanly greeting, she winced a little but kept her back ramrod straight. “I’m here to make friends again.” She held out the clear, Tupperware container. “I won’t pretend like I made these cupcakes—that’s Honey’s thing—but I did carry them here on the 7 train. And why didn’t you tell me you were building a house?”
“I’m not building a house. I’m renovating one.”
“Oh.” She wet her lips. “Is it safe for me to come inside?”
No. No, you’re not safe around me looking like fresh-baked temptation. “If you don’t mind your dress getting dirty,” he said, stepping back.
“I don’t,” she murmured, moving past him, obviously making a concerted effort not to make any form of contact, even with her clothes.
He hated that. Loathed it. “There are tools everywhere. You’re going to hurt your ankle even worse than it already is.”
“My ankle is fine.” Her eyes danced to each corner of the room. “It must have been a twist because it’s only sensitive now.”
Russell hummed in his throat, eyeing the ankle in question dubiously. “How did you find me?”
She shook out her umbrella and set it down inside the door. “I went to your brother’s house, where I thought you were staying—”
“I am. I’m sleeping on the couch.” For now. On the heels of reminding her of their vast economic differences, he felt a punch of nerves over her seeing what he’d accomplished. Two conflicting purposes, yet they