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“You’re both.”
I let my smirk fall and uncross my arms. I pat the space beside me, and Abi’s gaze moves to it before shifting back to stare at me defiantly.
I let out a breath. “Fine. You’re right, we should be more… pleasant. That means you too. No more eye-rolling. No more smartass comments.”
“No more insinuating I’m a whore.” Her nostrils flare when she speaks, but her voice doesn’t hold the same anger. It’s only stern.
It’s tempting to point out the way we met, but instead I nod. “All right.”
“And we don’t talk about my son.”
“Don’t you think it’ll seem rather suspicious if—”
“We. Do. Not. Talk. About. My. Son. None of this touches him, Colter. Period. He’s not going to your house anymore. You’re not having him picked up. And there’s no reason for him to be brought up in conversation with you, or with your family.” Her chest puffs with a breath, and when I don’t immediately respond, she deflates. “Please.”
It seems highly unlikely the kid won’t ever come up in conversation. Lorenzo is trying to call my bluff, and if Abi and I are supposed to be engaged, her son would end up being my step kid. How will it make sense that I wouldn’t know anything about him?
I don’t tell Abi this.
Her words suggest confident authority, but her eyes show something else entirely. Fear. As if they would ever hurt her son. As ifIwould.
My gut twists. I’m not sure I mean it, but I nod. “All right.”
She lets out a breath she must’ve been holding and glances around the condo. There isn’t much to see. It’s got a typical modern, impersonable feel. No pictures on the wall, a fake plant taking up a corner. A small kitchen and a single hallway leading to two bedrooms. But the way Abi looks around, avoiding me, you’d think it was much more interesting.
She finally turns her attention to me and shifts her crossed arms. “We should probably figure out how we met.”
How about the truth?I want to say, but I know I won’t be able to do it without a snarky tone. Her standing is bugging me, and the tapping on the floor is giving me a headache.
“Would you please sit down?”
“Why?” she asks, suspicious like I actually have an agenda.
“Because you’re being annoying.”
Her lips draw into a thin line, and her tapping ceases, but she continues to stand. Whatever.
“We met four months ago when you first got to Vegas and you were working as a server for the Kendal Catering Company. They did a wine mixer I attended. It’s boring as hell at those things, so I stepped away for a few minutes, and we bumped into each other and started talking. We hit it off, hooked up, and it turned into more.”
“Sweet story,” she says flatly. “What a surprise, I’m a slut in it.”
I narrow my eyes. For the life of me, I can’t figure this woman out. She took money from me for sex. She fuckinglovedit. She is anything but classy, but what, I’m supposed to pretend she’s some ivy-league princess?
“Abi, Ifuckprostitutes. Damn near exclusively. I’m not paying them to have sex, I’m paying them to leave. I’m not going to bars to hit up women, and I’m not on Match.com. There is no one less interested in a relationship than I am. Whatplausiblestory would you like to spin that would make you look better? That our eyes locked, and we knew we’d found the one? That you're some high-class woman from up north who came to Vegas to work half-naked serving drinks to assholes for tips?”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Does this add up to you?”
“I said I get it!”
My mouth is open, ready to unleash my frustration, but the hurt in her voice makes me pause. Her eyes show it too, her brown irises shining with fresh tears. She looks away from me and rubs beneath her eyes to collect any tears that dare slip out.
Seriously?
She shifts on her feet and looks around, frustration seemingly building. She looks like she’s fighting something. I want to ask her to spit it out, but I don’t. Her shoulders fall and she uncrosses her arms before giving in and sitting on the couch, as far away from me as she can.
“I just don’t like the implication, okay? When I was younger, I moved in with a guy who had a lot of money, and it made me feel trapped.” Abi turns to look at me. “I want it to be clear that I’m not interested in your money. I don’t want anything from you.”