Callan's Proposition

She frowned at him. “I thought you wanted coffee.”

“I changed my mind.” He took a second sip, tried not to grimace. She was reaching for another glass when he took her arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Abigail, you owe it to me to tell me why you quit.”

Pulling out a chair, he gently eased her into it. Her skirt pulled high up on her legs when she sat, exposing smooth, slender thighs. The Abigail he knew would have quickly pulled her skirt back down. This Abigail left it to ride high on her legs. Callan glanced away and took another sip of wine, thankful that at least she still had her jacket on.

He kept his eyes riveted on her face.

She leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. “It’s so humiliating.”

“We established that.” He sat in the chair beside her. A fluffy, ruffled blue-striped pad covered the seat. “You and me being engaged. Why don’t we start with that?”

“I don’t feel well,” she said from behind her hands.

“Could you please get me a drink of water?”

He doubted a drink of water would help her problem, but if he was ever going to get any information out of her, Callan thought, he’d better humor her. He took a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with tap water, then set it in front of her as he sat back down.

And realized that she’d nearly emptied the glass of wine he’d so foolishly left sitting on the table.

“Abigail!”

With her hands folded primly in her lap, she straightened her shoulders and looked at him. Her glasses were tilted on her straight little nose, and the expression on her face was one of complete innocence. In a very strange way she looked kind of cute, Callan thought.

Rather than straighten her glasses, he reached over and took them off, then set them on the table. Her eyes were big and wide as she blinked at him, then hiccuped. He couldn’t help but smile. “Abigail, tell me why you quit.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I had to. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming in tomorrow, they would have found out.”

“Found out what?”

“That we’re not engaged.”

“But we’re not engaged.”

“Exactly.” She threw a hand up in the air and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you understand.”

But he didn’t. Not at all. “Abigail, why do your aunts think that you and I are engaged?”

“Well, I told them we were, of course. Why else would they think such a thing?”

Well, of course. Silly me. He counted to five, then drew in a slow breath. “And why did you tell them we were engaged?”

“What else was I supposed to do? They would have canceled their cruise, maybe even insisted on moving in with me here. I had to do something.”

“They would have canceled their cruise and moved in with you if we weren’t engaged?” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”

Leaning in close to him, she whispered, “They think I need a man.”

Ah. He almost—just almost—thought he was beginning to understand. “They do?”

She nodded. “We lived together for two years in New York after I finished college, but it got so bad I finally moved here to Bloomfield County.”

He saw her eyeing the wineglass in front of him, and he scooted it out of her reach. “What got so bad?”

“The men. Every week they’d bring home their latest catch for me. Sometimes if my aunts didn’t coordinate, there would be two men at the same time.” She held up two fingers to emphasize, and her eyes crossed as she stared at them. “Imagine every time you turned around there were women all over the place. How would you feel?”

He thought about that for a moment and decided she really didn’t want an answer to that question. “Why can’t you just tell your aunts the truth?”

She snorted in laughter, then covered her mouth. “You don’t know my aunts. They’ve been mother hens since my own mother—their sister—died six years ago. They won’t rest until I’m married and have a family of my own. The only reason they’ve left me alone so long was because of you.”

“Me?”

“Our engagement.”

“Oh, yes.” He’d nearly forgotten about that. “And how did you happen to pick me to be the lucky guy?”

“Well, I had to have someone,” she said as if he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t know anyone else here.”

How flattering to know he’d been chosen because there wasn’t anyone else. “You could have made someone up,” he suggested.

“That would be a big lie. I’m not good with big lies. There’s too much to remember, and I always trip myself up. I’m much better with little lies.”

He didn’t exactly think that Abigail telling her aunts they were engaged was a “little” lie, but that wasn’t important right now. Getting her back to work for him was.

“You could have told me this, Abigail.” Callan took her hands in his. He was amazed at how soft and warm they were. “We would have figured something out.”

She stared down at their joined hands. “You think I’m pathetic.”

Oh, no, Callan groaned inwardly. The feminine mind sober was a perilous thing, but on a Long Island iced tea, it was downright dangerous. The only thing more dangerous could be his response. “Of course I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

“Yes, you do.” She yanked her hands from his and stood, though unsteadily. “You think I’m a pathetic prude.”

Shoulders squared, she moved past him. She was halfway through her living room when he caught her arm and turned her around to face him. “Abigail, please—”

She shrugged off his hand. “For your information, Mr. Sinclair, if I really wanted a man, I could find one. I’m not as big a prude as you think I am.”

“Abigail, I don’t—”

She tugged off her jacket and threw it on the floor. “I have a nice enough body.” She reached for the buttons on her already-half-opened blouse.

“Abigail—”

“See?” She opened her blouse and stared down at herself. Her mint-green bra was lace and satin. “They aren’t so bad.”

So bad? His blood shot to his head, then straight down below his waist. Good Lord, she was beautiful. He was only human, for God’s sake. He stared wide-eyed for a full two seconds, then closed his open mouth and pulled the front of her blouse together. His hands were shaking as he closed the top button.

She slumped against him. “Who am I trying to kid?” she said softly, closing her eyes. “I am a prude. I’ve always been a prude. I’ll always be a prude. Abigail Thomas, Queen of the Prudes.”

With a sigh, Callan cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face to his. “Abigail, I don’t think you’re a prude.”