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After we’ve both finished our food and Abigail’s had enough caffeine to power an electrical grid, she pushes away from the table and stands.
“Okay, time to put on my war paint. We have to get out of here soon.”
The woman is a vision when she’s dressed to the nines, ready to paint the town red, but with no makeup and in a simple robe? She’s breathtaking. Seeing her like this, fresh from a shower, makes her, I don’t know… softer. Not that I didn’t get that from her before in her vulnerable moments, but the fact that she allows me to see her pre–war paint is doing something to me that I wasn’t expecting. I wouldn’t mind waking up with her like this every day.Slow your roll there, Hayes.
“Let me take a quick shower, then you can have the bathroom and all your girly shit in there,” I tell her as I stand.
She shoos me into the bathroom, obviously trying to hurry me along.
“You didn’t offer to wash my back. I’m disappointed, Red.” Pouting as I walk to the bathroom, I see her roll her eyes in my direction.
“I think you’ll do just fine in there alone, Prince. Now hurry up. Golf and bridal luncheons wait for no man.”
Abigail is unzipping her garment bag, pulling out a selection of dresses. The color in her face has returned, but she’s still not her sparky self.
“Such a ballbuster in the morning,”
“If you don’t get your ass in that shower right now, I’ll show you a ballbuster.”
“I’d gladly allow you access to my balls. Just let me know when.” I shoot her a smirk.
The squint of her eyes and straight line of her mouth tells me she’s not happy with my taunts.
“I swear to God, Jackson, get in the damn shower this instant. I want nothing to do with your balls or any other part of you at the moment. I’m not going to waste all fucking day trying to get you to get a move on—“ I close the bathroom door midrant and turn on the shower, drowning her out. I just needed her to get out of her head. And since I already know that giving me shit is the quickest way for her to get there, I went with it. But if I hear Abigail talk about my balls anymore, in any capacity, this shower is going to take a lot longer than either of us has time for.
After dropping Abigail off at the restaurant, I head to the club that she put into my GPS for me. I’m no stranger to these kinds of places, having spent plenty of time on a course with my dad and brother. On the way there, my mind keeps replaying when Abigail saw me come out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped deliberately low around my waist. I may have purposely “forgotten” to bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with me. The heat in her eyes when she got an eyeful of my naked chest almost made me whip the towel off to see what trouble we could get into instead of the hell we have to put ourselves through for her family today.
I toss the valet the keys to our rental car and head into the opulent reception area. When I give the young girl my name at the front, she directs me into the bar where she says the rest of my party is waiting. I figured it would be her father and the groom, along with a few of the groom’s friends.
I spot Abigail’s dad at the bar sipping a drink.
“Jackson,” he bellows across the bar. “You made it.” By the volume of his voice, it sounds like what he’s drinking contains some sort of alcohol. And that this isn’t his first.
Walking up to Marshall, I reach out to shake his hand. “Wouldn’t miss it, sir. I love golf.” I actually hate golf, but my dad made sure we learned how to play, reminding us that some of the most lucrative business deals he and my grandfather brokered were on a golf course.
“Let me introduce you around. This is Dawson, my soon-to-be son-in-law.” A younger blond man with glassy eyes shakes my hand. I sneak a peek at my watch. It’s only eleven thirty in the morning and this entire group seems to be three sheets to the wind already.
Marshall quickly introduces me to the rest of the men that will be playing with us today. All young and all look barely old enough to have graduated college. Or maybe I’m just getting old.
As the thought percolates in my mind, a round of loud cheers fills the bar, and I turn around to see who everyone is excited to see. An older version of Dawson is walking in with a wide smile on his face, obviously relishing in the excited reception he’s receiving.
“Boys,” he hollers back, walking over to our group. “Sorry I’m late. Long night and busy morning.” He adjusts himself with a lascivious grin on his face as the group roars with laughter.
You have got to be kidding. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is Dawson’s brother, Abigail’s ex. I don’t know why it didn’t cross my mind that he would be here this morning. Of course, he would be partaking in the week’s wedding festivities, being the brother of the groom.
The douche is making his rounds, shaking hands and clasping backs in greeting when he reaches Marshall, and his eyes zero in on me.
“You must be Abby’s new man.” No one has ever referred to Abigail as Abby that I know of, and if they have, they haven’t lived to tell the tale. Kasey told me once that she absolutely hates the nickname. One of their coworkers called her Abby once, and according to Kasey, the scathing look she gave him had him quickly correcting himself and apologizing. Abigail made sure he was aware that her name was Abigail, not Abby, and went so far as to spell it for him so he wouldn’t forget for future reference. No one ever called her that again. It makes sense now why she hated the nickname so much.
The man in front of me looks like some overgrown frat boy. His hair is messy and blond like his brother’s, but he must not have had time to run a comb through it this morning. The polo shirt he’s wearing looks to be about two sizes too small, probably to accentuate his thick arms, but also succeeding in accentuating his thick waistline as well.
“Jackson Hayes.” Taking his limp hand in a firm shake, I give him a smile that tells him I know exactly who he is and what he did to my girl.
“Alright, boys, tee time is in about ten minutes,” Marshall tells the rowdy crowd. “Jackson, I took the liberty of bringing an extra set of clubs for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Barnes.”
We make it out to the golf carts, and wouldn’t you know it, Davis and I are stuck in the same cart with Marshall and one of the groomsmen who looks at Davis like he’s his long-lost hero. Davis continues to regale us with stories of his supposed exploits and lewd jokes. I can’t believe Abigail’s father tolerates this asshole, but it just reinforces the complete lack of solidarity he has with his oldest daughter. It astounds me that he hasn’t laid this guy on his ass for what he did to his daughter or the way he lewdly talks about other women. It seems his balls are locked up tight in his wife’s purse, even when she’s not around.
