Wrapped Up in You - Talia Hibbert Page 0,10

clearly.

“You know how impatient Abbie is,” Jase was saying. “If things start to change between you and she doesn’t know why, she’ll get annoyed. So just tell her, upfront, and ask her if there’s any chance she could feel the same.”

Fuck. Jase was right. Obviously, he was right. And this was kind of a dreamy concept, because she might say yes, and Will might be deliriously happy, and everything might be perfect by the end of the fucking day—

But.

The complete opposite could happen too. The complete opposite being that Abbie didn’t feel the same, leading their friendship to collapse under the strain of his weird unrequited love. And if there was one thing Will couldn’t lose, it was their friendship.

His pulse suddenly became audible. “I … don’t think I can do that,” he said, his voice cracking in the middle.

Jase sighed. “Yes, you can. I realise no one wants to be rejected, but—”

“I don’t mind being rejected.” He was an actor. He’d been rejected in every possible situation for almost every conceivable reason, several thousand times over the years. So that wasn’t the problem. That couldn’t be the problem. He wiped his free palm against his thigh and swallowed. “I just—I don’t think this is a good time to be so upfront. Wouldn’t want to scare her.”

“Sure,” Jase said dryly. “Her.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, safely dosed up with his allergy meds and firmly ignoring his looming self-doubts, Will headed downstairs. There was another tabby cat sprawled on the last step, and he jumped neatly over it with a quick “Morning, Bacon.”

Abbie wasn’t in the kitchen, but he could tell by the gleaming cereal bowl on the draining board that she’d been around. She was kind of a neat freak. He made himself a protein shake with the powder he’d brought from Mum’s, then set about the delicate process of making Abigail Farrell the perfect hot chocolate, which was an art in and of itself.

Unlike most people, she only liked it unsweetened. Eighty-five percent dark. With oat milk, because she was lactose intolerant. Not too hot to drink straight away, or she’d wait too long for it to cool and it would end up cold. And there had to be three marshmallows on top, in a perfect triangle—she’d never actually told him, but when he did it, she always looked pleased and saved the marshmallows for last, and that was evidence enough.

A short while later, hot chocolate in hand, Will found her in the family room. She was curled up on the corner sofa with Haddock in her lap and an embroidery hoop in her hands. She peered at that hoop like it held the secrets to the universe, concentrating so hard she shouldn’t have noticed Will standing there in the doorway.

But she did, because Abbie noticed everything. She was smart as fuck and sharp as fuck and sweet as fuck, too. “Morning, Will,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the fabric. “Still jetlagged?”

Because she knew he was usually an early riser, like her. “Getting better,” he said, and wandered into the room, stepping over a sunbathing cat. He liked looking at her from this angle, liked seeing her in the wintry morning light coming through the thin windowpanes, gilding her brown skin. She wasn’t wearing makeup yet, so there was no dramatic eyeliner or dark lipstick to distract from all the stuff that was just Abbie: how fast she blinked behind her glasses when she was thinking, and the little bump in her nose where she’d broken it fighting Michaela Ashley from across the street, and the tiny mole underneath her soft, wide mouth. She had her thick hair scraped back into a bun that looked five seconds from escaping its elastic, and she was wearing a huge, blood-red cardigan that made him smile. Abbie swore she hated Christmas, but the only time she ever wore colour was in December.

He drank her in for long seconds, then went to sit at the other end of the sofa—but not too far away. Not touching, no. But not too far.

Look at me, he thought. Look at me, Abbie-girl.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, her lashes flicked up, and her gaze met his. She swallowed him with those clever dark eyes, but only for a second. She was focused on her embroidery again before he had time to draw breath. “Nice outfit,” she murmured. “Don’t tell me you’re working out this morning.”

He smiled and patted his neon-yellow shorts. “Of course I