Page 22 of Mister Daddy
A bell chimes somewhere from the heart of the island casino. “That signals the end of round two,” the dealer says. “We will reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
The two guys left at my table grumble and wander off. Their chip stacks have dwindled to pretty much nothing. They’ll be out by the end of the next round for sure.
Abby takes the seat next to me without prompting this time. She carefully sets her drink down on the table, avoiding the guy’s miniscule chip pile.
“You’re amazing at poker,” she says, studying my chips. “I know I said that before, but it’s so true. You’re killing these guys. They probably want to kill you.”
“Probably. I have security for that, though.”
Her eyes widen. “Do you have a bodyguard or something?”
Abby scans the room, looking for the secret service. “No,” I say. “Nothing that severe. But there’s security throughout the casino and all over the island.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No, no. I might have thought about how cool it would be to be in a Bond movie for a minute, but I think it’s better you don’t have private security. I’d hate to think what he or she would have to witness.”
I hope she’s thinking about last night because that’s where my mind is, too. If I did have a bodyguard, I’d send them away the second we got to my room. No one else needs to witness what goes on in my bedroom.
“You’re a fan of Bond?”
“I used to watch the movies with my dad when I was younger. That’s what made me buy this dress if I’m being honest.”
That gives me the perfect opportunity to check her out. Her long, gorgeous legs are tucked under the poker table, but her chest is there for the admiring. The dress leaves enough to the imagination to keep it decent, but it shows off her neck and shoulders. The red looks amazing against her creamy skin. I bet she’d look good in any color. Or no color at all.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say. “I spent all last break droning on about my business, and I know nothing about you.”
“I didn’t mind. I like hearing you talk about your passion.”
Her genuine tone makes my heart swell. Even my parents are sick of hearing about the business at this point. Hell, I think the board is the only entity in hearing me rant and rave about my ships at this point.
“I’m glad, but now I want to know about you. What do you do?”
“Well, I’m a CPA. I have a master’s degree in Accounting, and I’ve been at this firm for five years now – since my last semester in college when I passed the CPA exam. I actually just got a pretty good promotion when one of the other accountants left and I took over his clients.”
I try to picture the Abby I know sitting behind a desk. True, I’ve known her for less than twenty-four hours, but she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who likes to be in a chair from nine to five. She’s kind of shy, but I see the way she keeps eyeing the beach outside the panoramic window of the casino. It’s the look of a woman who loves the water, who would always rather be outside.
“What got you into accounting?”
She shrugs. “Would you believe me if I told you it was an eighth grade aptitude test?”
“Honestly? Yes.”
“Good because it’s true. I’ve always been really good at math. In middle school, they had us do this test about the things we like doing to tell us what we should study when we eventually got to college. The questions were mostly practical things, so I chose the ones that made most sense, usually the ones about enjoying math or problem solving. The test said I should be an accountant, so I took all of the right classes in high school, went to college, and now, here I am.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who let a test decide their future.”
Abby’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Honestly, I had no idea what I wanted to do in eighth grade, or even by senior year. All of my friends had a clear vision of their futures, but I just wanted to sit on the beach solving quadratic equations. It made sense to listen to that silly test instead of flounder in school until I figured out what I wanted to do.”
“Well, are you happy being an accountant?”
“I’m not unhappy,” she hedges. “It’s a good job with amazing pay. I get to stay near my family in Miami and work relatively normal hours. I’ll probably be putting in overtime to catch up on Emmett’s old caseload, but once I’m familiar with all of the new clients, it’ll be back to nine to five, with only the occasional weekend added in.”
“But you don’t love it,” I say.
She bites her lip. I want to lean forward and bite it for her. “No, I don’t love it. I’m good at it, but it’s not my passion.”