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Regina doesn’t seem to be one of them, however.
“This is Torin O’Grady,” I’d told her.
“Yes, you said that when you called before, Mr. O’Grady,” she’d said.
“Prince Torin. I’ve been working with Mr. Riley and Ms. Davis-Bennett.”
“Okay.” She’d sounded bored.
“There’s nothing else you can do?” I ask.
“I can put you through to Mr. Riley or Ms. Davis-Bennett.”
“I don’t need to talk to either of them.”
“I can take a message.”
“I’ve already given you the message.”
“Then no, there’s nothing else I can do.”
I’d gritted my teeth.
“Have you considered,” Regina had asked, with a tone that made me think she and my grandfather would get along well. “That if the phones are fine and Abigail is fine, there is still a third potential reason you’re not hearing from her?”
Yes, Regina, I have definitely considered that. But hey, thanks for the punch-to-the-gut confirmation that it’s me.
Abigail doesn’t want to talk, or text, with me.
I pick up the glass of whiskey sitting on the desk in the hotel suite next to the final plans I wanted to review. I haven’t been able to concentrate on them. I down the rest of the liquor, glaring at my phone.
Fuck it. I’m going to text her.
But rather than all the words I want to say, I pull back my frustration and need and kick off my shoes, prop my feet on the desk in the hotel suite, and take a photo of my stocking feet.
My socks are pink, yellow, and green striped. They’re not the neon colors of hers, but they’re…bright. Nothing like what I typically wear. They also don’t go up to my thighs, but I definitely thought of her when I saw them and had to have them.
I send the text with a simple
thought of you all day.
Then I wait.
And wait.
I finally text her again.
You should know…I am into cowgirls.
She replies within two minutes this time.
I’m not a cowgirl. I just happen to have some boots now.
I frown at the message. That doesn’t sound flirtatious. Or like a thanks. And she didn’t comment on the socks I’m wearing.
You could definitely be a cowgirl, Abigail.
With me. For me. On my ranch.
