Page 2

Discovering the Real-Life Existence of an Imaginary Friend

Declan

“Good morning, darling.”

“Mom.” I leaned down and kissed her cheek before taking a seat between her and my dad at the round banquet table. They’d flown in late last night, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to them before giving my little welcome presentation to the Hathaway VIPs. “How was the flight?”

“Delayed,” my dad said, lifting a piece of bacon to his mouth. “But uneventful. Great speech, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He was right—I’d fucking nailed it—but I still had the entire shareholder weekend in front of me so I wasn’t about to get cocky.

The Hathaway Annual Shareholder Meeting, for which thousands of investors trekked to Omaha for a week of feeling like stock-owning rock stars, always kicked off with a Friday-morning breakfast meeting that was just for the VIPs; there was another one tomorrow morning for everyone else.

This year I’d been tapped to do the welcome address at both.

“He didn’t even bore me while I ate my eggs,” Warren said from the other side of the table, picking up his coffee cup. “The kid’s okay.”

The kid’s okay.

Warren Hathaway, the richest man in America and long-term CEO of Hathaway Holdings, had just spoken those words about me. The guy had a genius brain for business and had been my hero for as long as I could remember, so I’d be lying if I said his praise didn’t mean a lot.

Right after I graduated from college, Hathaway offered my family (who’d taken my great-grandmother’s tiny sofa business and turned it into CrashPad, the nation’s largest furniture store) a multimillion-dollar buyout.

It’d been a dream come true because not only could my parents retire early and travel the world, but I was absorbed into the Hathaway enterprise and given the opportunity to work my way up in a much larger corporation.

Suddenly the MBA that my uncles had called a waste ( You don’t need college to work in the family business ) was guiding me toward the career I’d always wanted.

I’d been an EVP at Hathaway for two years now, but moving higher had been proving difficult. No matter how hard I worked, the guys at the top still saw me as a “young kid,” even though I was thirty.

But a disagreement at the Qbr last month—where I was right and CFO Marty Mueller was nearly catastrophically wrong—put me on the map with Warren, and suddenly my career was in new territory.

The old guy and his inner circle seemed to be forgetting about my age and inexperience and actually trusting my knowledge.

Fucking huge.

“We finally met his girlfriend this morning,” my mom said to Warren, and it took me a minute to catch up.

What?

“You met his Abby?” Warren set down his cup and gave my mom a grin of commiseration. “I was starting to wonder if she’s real, because no one’s ever seen her.”

“Right?” My mom laughed in agreement.

What. The. Fuck?

She wasn’t real.

Abby was the name I’d given to my nonexistent girlfriend.

So how had my mother met her?

For what it’s worth, I never meant to make up a girlfriend.

I wasn’t some adolescent who was too scared of women to date, for God’s sake; I was actually a big fan.

But I didn’t have any time to commit to all the bullshit that went along with relationships.

Work was my focus for now, and I’d worry about things like settling down after I turned forty.

But when everyone in leadership had a significant other, well…

desperate times called for desperate measures.

I needed the powers that be to think I was settled and grounded and ready to lead the company, so when my personal life became a topic of conversation at the quarterly retreat, I might’ve offhandedly mentioned my down-to-earth-and-wanting-a-family-right-away angelic girlfriend.

Abby.

I’d literally looked at the server’s name tag—Abby—and named my imaginary girlfriend after her; not a lot of forethought went into it.

I hadn’t intended on keeping the Abby thing going, but it was convenient. It made my parents happy, my co-workers, my nana; everyone seemed to take comfort in the fact that I had an Abby in my life.

Only I didn’t.

She didn’t exist.

So what was my mother talking about?

“She’s coming to the party tonight,” my dad said to Warren, who’d become his pal over the past few years. “So you can meet her then.”

“She…,” I said, squeezing the bridge of my nose as my brain ran wild trying to figure out what the hell could be happening. “She, uh, told you she’s coming tonight?”

“Yes,” my mom said, turning in her seat to scrutinize me. “But she looked surprised to see us in the kitchen when she woke up, Dex; did you forget to tell her we’d be staying at your place?”

“Oh,” I managed, trying my best to not look shocked that a stranger had actually been in my apartment. “Ah, I didn’t think she’d be there last night. I thought she—”

“I’m so glad she was,” she continued, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “She’s the most adorable little redhead and she baked a kitchen full of muffins that were to die for.”

So this was real. Someone named Abby had slept in my apartment and made fucking muffins.

“Abby can cook, that’s for sure,” I muttered as my mind whirled. What the hell was going on? I lived in a secured building with a doorman. I had locks on my doors and a security system.

How could this have happened?

Who the fuck was Abby?

“I haven’t had a good muffin since Ethel passed,” Warren murmured, setting down his coffee. “Have your little Abby bring one tonight, okay, Dex?”

“Of course,” I said, hearing a roaring in my ears as I gave him what I hoped was a casual smile. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to step out and make a call.”

“Calling Abby?” my mother asked in a singsong voice.

“I’m definitely going to try and track her down,” I said before turning away from the table full of watchful eyes and charging for the door. “Excuse me.”