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Panic was a knife in her side. She fumbled with the tray, turning quickly, and careening into a wall. The tray fell to the ground, dropping the remainingHors d’Oeuvreshe carried onto the parquetry floor. Despite the fact the band played on, the room went deathly silent, just for a moment, as every gaze was trained on her. She scooped down, cheeks flaming beneath her tan, fingers shaking as she quickly shoved the expensive canapes back onto the tray, mortified beyond bearing.
She’d never thought she’d see him again, but in the brief moments when she’d allowed herself to fantasize about such a concept, it was never like this. It wasn’t dressed in her caterer’s uniform of black skirt and white blouse with the branded apron hugging her breasts and hips. It wasn’t with her dark hair scraped back into a low bun at her nape, with minimal makeup and no earrings. It wasn’t with a tray of smooshed food at her feet. No, she’d fantasized, in her weakest moments, about swanning into his life, perhaps when Charlotte turned sixteen and she could go to him and congratulate herself on what an exceptional job she’d done of raising their daughter without any help from him. She’d be dressed in green – the colour he’d raved about on her – and her hair would float around her shoulders in ebony waves, just like he used to love it.
Thiswas a nightmare.
She needed to get out of there.
Doing the best job she could, she stood quickly, leaving the ballroom without risking a backwards glance.
In the kitchen, she grabbed the attention of the catering company manager. “I dropped –,”
“I heard.” Chantelle reached out, putting a hand on Abby’s forearm. “Did someone knock you?”
The sympathy in her boss’s gaze brought a stupid rush of tears to Abby’s eyes. She blinked them away furiously. “Something like that.” After all, it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t someone but somethingthat had knocked her – the past, bearing down on her so she couldn’t escape. “I have to go.”
“Go, go. I’ll get someone to clean up the rest of the mess.” Chantelle took the tray with a kindly smile and Abby thought for the millionth time that summer how fortunate she was to have found this job. Chantelle had raised her own daughter as a single mother, and had a special kind of understanding for what Abby was doing, allowing her to finish working before midnight so she could get home and relieve Angie, her friend and sitter.
“Thank you,” Abby squeezed Chantelle’s hand. Every commercial kitchen in the world had a corner for detritus – usually where a phone, orders book and staff roster were kept, but additionally it served as a dumping ground for handbags, aprons, pens and mobile phones. Abby grabbed her handbag from beneath the junk counter, removed her apron and folded it quickly, placing it down on the bench.
“You want some dinner?” One of the chefs called. It was a perk of the job – a meal before going home.
She shook her head. The idea of food was nauseating. She needed to get out of there, to put at least ten city blocks between herself and Grayson Fortescue. How long had he been in New York? How often did he come here? Why was he here now?
Like most of the fancy hotels in Manhattan, The Aston had a separate staff entrance, so she could escape the ballroom without having to mingle with the guests. She eyed the door, her escape so close, and turned to give one last farewell to Chantelle right as Grayson Fortescue stepped into the kitchen.
She gaped at him, her lips parted, her eyes unable to believe what she was seeing, panic a rising tide in her chest that made breathing almost impossible. She took a step backwards, then another, willing one of the staff members to interrupt him, to ask him what he was doing there – better yet, to tell him hecouldn’tbe there, but no one spoke. After all, this was Gray Fortescue, renowned tech genius and billionaire, a man no one would dream of saying ‘no’ to.
“Abigail.”
Oh, crap. The sound of her name on his lips was like thunder cracking across the room. It was like quicksand, pulling her in, sucking her under, so she could barely breathe.
Act cool. Act cool. Say something. Anything. Damn it!All she could do was stare.
“It is you.” His smile was relaxed and nonchalant, his eyes appraising her with the same heat he’d always evinced for her, so her body responded immediately, nipples tightening against her plain cotton bra, stomach swirling, heat building hard and fast between her legs.
She had to get out of there.
“You can’t be back here,” she said quietly, turning and pressing a hand on the kitchen door. “It’s for staff only.” She stepped out of the kitchen as blood rushed through her ears like a waterfall, making it impossible to hear anything else. She pulled her handbag strap tighter over her shoulder, a thousand and one emotions chasing her down the narrow corridor.
“Abby, wait.”
She didn’t stop.
His laugh was like caramel and burnt butter. She ground her teeth together.
“Would you wait a Goddamn second? I just want to talk to you.”
“Why?” She kept walking.
“Because.” He didn’t say anything else and that irritated her. She spun around to face him, her eyes sparking with his. And guilt punched her hard in the gut.
She’d had his baby and she’d never told him. Apart from one phone call about a month after she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d kept it to herself. She’d made a choice to cut him out of their daughter’s life, because she’d known that was what he would have wanted, but it didn’t make her feel any better as she stood face to face with him now.
But he’d been crystal clear. He didn’t want to settle down. He didn’t want an actual relationship. He didn’t believe in love and happily ever after. He didn’t want kids – ever. He was a free spirit and he liked it that way. She’d protected him from the realities of their affair, and she’d protected Charlotte from having a father who never loved her enough. She’d done what was right for everyone, even when it had cost her. A lot.
Tilting her chin, she regarded him with a look she imbued with as much cool as possible. “We have nothing left to say to each other.”
He frowned. “You’re still pissed at me?”
