“Where’s Abby?” Rachel asks, her voice laced with suspicion.
I sit and then reach for a slice of cake, not that I’m hungry after the huge dinner, but it gives me a reason to be here. “Abby has a headache. She’s going to lie down.”
Rachel’s eyes narrow. “Should I go check on her?”
“No need,” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. “She just needs some rest. Her electricity went out last night, so she didn’t sleep well.”
Abby’s mom smiles. “You take good care of her.”
“Always.” I mean it more than she or anyone at this table would ever know.
Before I can say more, Rachel shows off her engagement ring again, her voice rising with excitement. I focus on my cake, but each bite tastes like sawdust. How can they be so oblivious to Abby’s pain?
Mrs. Sinclair mentions a bridal registry, and I can’t take it anymore.
I place my fork on my plate. “Thanks for dinner and your hospitality.” I stand, forcing myself not to rush from the table. “I’m going to check on Abby. I’ll probably turn in, too.”
Upstairs, I stand outside the closed guest room door with a clenched jaw, and I take a deep breath. Abby doesn’t need my anger. She needs support.
I knock softly. “Abby? It’s me. John.”
“Come in,” she says.
As I enter, Abby is curled on the bed, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She is wearing fuzzy red socks on her feet.
My heart twists when I see her looking so small and vulnerable—nothing like the confident financial consultant I know from work.
“Hey.” I sit beside her on the bed. “How are you holding up?”
Her weak smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve been better. Thanks for making my excuses downstairs.”
“No problem.” It would be weird to ask if I can hold her on my lap, but I can try to get her ready for bed and lighten the mood. “Let’s get into our pajamas and build a pillow fort.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “You brought pajamas?”
I grin, grateful to see a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, though I thought it would be the pillow fort that would do it. “Of course. I never leave home without my silk monogrammed set.”
This earns me a genuine laugh, the sound warming me from the inside out. “I want to see these fancy PJs, Mr. Barrington.”
“Ladies first.”
Abby returns, and I eye her reindeer-covered pajamas. “Are those…?”
Blushing, she clutches the clothing to her chest. “Reindeer pajamas.”
“Reindeer pajamas.”
She shakes her index finger. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not saying a word.” I reach into my bag and remove an identical set of reindeer pajamas.
Abby’s eyes widen in disbelief. “We match? How is this even possible?”
“Great minds think alike?” With that, I go change in the bathroom.
When I return, her giggle is music to my ears. “I don’t think flannel qualifies as silk?”
“What can I say? I forgot what I packed.” I strike a pose. “Just call me the flannel fashionista.”
