Page 13 of Shark’s Pride

“Mooommm! Come on!” Vela’s shout had us both rushing to follow her down the driveway. Our ever-full-of-energy light beam was back to fulfilling both our lives. At least I had a genuine reason to smile as I trudged back inside the big, lonely house.

As I went to shut down the laptop Vela had been playing on during the show, I hesitated—for the better part of a minute. And then another.

Finally, decision made, I sat and pushed open the monitor all the way. “Well, here’s to things you never thought you’d do, man,” I muttered.

But I didn’t waver while typing Abbi’s name into the search engine.

All right, maybe I wavered for half a second. Being all too familiar with people invading my privacy, I’d never even considered being the perpetrator of such a gesture. Nervous energy bubbled in my gut as I waited for the screen to populate. What if I saw a bunch of facts and pictures I didn’t like or expect? Although it was unlikely, I was braced for anything. I hoped.

The first story was a recent entry from a tabloid newspaper. It was dominated by a picture of the two of us from Vela’s soccer game. How the hell hadn’t I seen it before that moment? And why hadn’t Grant or Elijah told me about it? Not that anything could be done about it now. A quick scan of the short write-up revealed no misconstrued facts.

I voiced my final conclusion in a new mumble. “Water under the bridge.” Quickly, I scrolled on to the next hit.

After two full pages of entries, I learned my beautiful redheaded obsession led a pretty dull, law-abiding life. She worked hard to get her catering business on the map in Los Angeles, gave a lot of her free time to the Intrepid Entrepreneurs mentorship program, and spent very little time on social media.

Because I didn’t have social media profiles of my own, I couldn’t snoop around those very far. Most access required being “friends” or “followers” of the person one was trying to spy on. After cruising the usual suspects in that realm, I stumbled onto a colorful website called Pinterest, where Abbigail apparently had an account too. She had pages that were called “boards,” filled with all sorts of ideas, recipes, and pictures others had also liked and then added to their boards.

“Jesus Christ.” I scowled, despite a bizarre inclination to keep scrolling. “Is this really how people really spend their free time?”

But I clicked on, fascinated by the things Abbi found fascinating. It was like rummaging through someone’s desk drawer while they were out to lunch. I probably shouldn’t be doing it but couldn’t stop myself. Every new gem was like finding more hidden treasure.

Then, I hit the mother lode.

A board titled “#Goals”—filled with picture after picture of everything from cookware that was astronomically overpriced to exotic vacation destinations. Handbags, shoes, sparkly baubles, slinky dresses—which honestly, I’d kill to see the woman wear—and even a little kitten with huge blue eyes.

“Jack. Pot.” I punctuated it with a face-splitting grin. Ideas were now like fireworks in my mind. It was all right there in 4K glory. I could give her every single thing on that board and not blink an eye. If the sassy little spitfire never wanted to receive roses from me again, she’d just given me all the ammunition to make that happen.

And damn, did I like surefire ammunition.

“Oh, yeah,” I drawled.

The opportunity was too good to pass up. It was a fucking gold mine of information, and I couldn’t let it go unexcavated.

I promised myself I’d pick just a few items. Five at most. I would send them to her with meaningful notes so she would know without a doubt that I’d picked them out myself. Fine, so the woman herself had helped—but this had to count for something! Best of all, this violated nothing about our new agreement. I was giving her the time and space she needed, but I’d also show her I was a persistent motherfucker when I wanted something. When I believed there was something worth fighting for.

And that was what we were. What she was.

This was a no-fail plan.

Still, I thought about double-checking the idea with Pia. I had to be sure.

No. I already was sure. I didn’t want to run the risk of Dub being a killjoy, like she had the tendency to be.

No. Fail. Plan.

I knew it in my gut. There wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t love gifts. I would forge ahead. Abbi would love this. And soon, she would love me too.

Whoa there, Captain.

What the fuck? Was that really what I wanted? For her to love me? And what was with the “too” bullshit?

Was I falling in love with Abbigail Gibson?

Fuck me.

Which was what I really craved from the woman right now—only first things first here. I had to raise my game on this courtship. The “love talk” would come again soon enough, and I’d truly discover the answer to my inner questions.

Or have my heart destroyed once and for all in the process.