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This is where Abigail belongs – on this island where she can paint to her heart’s delight.
Come hell or high water, she will marry me and not some random fucker her pathetic father chooses for her.
For Abigail, I will go to war against Emilio Sartori.
When I walk closer and enter the den, Abigail’s smile widens. “Hey.”
I shrug off my jacket and ask, “How’s the painting coming along?”
She scrunches her nose. “Slowly.”
At least she’s painting.
I move to stand behind her and look at the canvas. “Are you painting the trees?”
“Yeah.” She sets the palette and paintbrush down, then stands up. “What time is the barbecue? Should I make a salad?”
“It’s at two pm.” Taking her hand, I tug her closer to me. “Don’t worry about the salad. My grandmother will take care of everything.”
“I’m nervous,” she admits.
“My family already loves you,” I assure her.
As I brush a wisp of hair from her face, she asks, “Can we watch a movie, or do you have work to do?”
“I can do both at the same time.”
“I just want to snuggle next to you,” she admits.
We walk to the living room, and I gesture for Abigail to sit.
“So the whole family lives on this island?” she asks as she makes herself comfortable.
Today she’s wearing a dress, and even though it reaches her feet, her cleavage is on full display, and it’s clear she’s not wearing a bra.
Was she hiding her body beneath the oversized clothes while at St. Monarch’s?
I missed the self-assured woman who couldn’t give two fucks about what people thought of her, and I’m glad to see she’s slowly coming back.
I grab the TV remote and take a seat beside her. “Yes, it’s for safety reasons, but I love having my family nearby.”
“I’d die if I was stuck on an island with my family,” she chuckles.
I switch on the TV, then ask, “What do you want to watch.”
Abigail grins at me. “John Wick.”
“Hmm,” I grumble. “Do I have competition?”
“Oh, definitely,” she laughs. “I’m sorry to say, but no one beats Keanu Reeves.”
Smiling, I lean back, resting my arm on the back of the couch. “Is that where your love for old men started?”
“Old men. Pfft,” she scoffs. “Age is just a number.” She snuggles against my side. “I like my men mature. I’ve never been interested in boys my age.”
I select John Wick and press play.
Abigail pulls her legs up, resting them against my thigh. Letting out a sigh, she whispers, “This is nice.”
