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“Go, Dad. Please. We can deal with this in the morning.”
I can’t look at Jack either. It hurts too much. So I turn on my heel and stiffly exit his bedroom. I find Lee in the hall, wearing his silk pajama pants, and a shirtless Jamie standing at his open doorway. Their faces are stricken. I don’t know how much they heard, but I wasn’t trying to be quiet about it, so I assume they got the gist of it.
“I’m going to bed,” I say flatly, then walk into my bedroom.
Whispers sound from the hallway. The soft thud of footsteps near my room. I scowl at the closed door. Swear to God, if Jack or my dad are out there… But then the voices fade and footsteps echo on the stairs.
I hear the front door close. I hear the lock engage.
Then footsteps again, and this time, theydostop outside my door.
“Abbs,” Jack says softly. “Can I come in? Please.”
I wanted to wait until morning, but I realize there’s no way I’m going to sleep tonight. Not with so many unanswered questions gnawing at my brain.
I open the door and am nearly knocked off my feet by the wave of raw emotion rippling in Jack’s blue eyes.
He enters without a word. I stand at the foot of my bed. He leans against the door.
The silence is excruciating. Bitterness rising in my throat, I stare at him, this guy I believed to be my friend.
No, much more than a friend.
I was falling for him.
Jack drags a hand through his blond hair before his arm drops to his side. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.
“Show me the emails.”
My request startles him. He furrows his brow. “What?”
“Show me the fucking emails, Jack.”
He flinches at my sharp tone. My harsh expletive.
“If you stand any chance of me understanding this, then I need to see the emails.”
“Okay. Okay.” He lets out a ragged breath and pulls his phone from his pocket.
As he hurriedly swipes a finger over the screen, silence once again fills the room. Even Hugh has decided not to intrude. There’s not a meow to be heard from our aggressively vocal feline. The cat lies in the center of my bed, giving Jack the shifty eyes.
Finally, Jack passes me the phone.
I swallow my nausea and read the first email in the thread.
It’s from [email protected], my dad’s throwaway account, the one he gives acquaintances or uses to sign up for online newsletters. He introduces himself as “Abbey’s father” and, proving he wasn’t lying to me before, informs “Jackie” that this is the first time his daughter is traveling alone, and gee, it wouldreallyease his mind if “you guys could watch out for my daughter.” Stick close to her for the first little while.
Then comes the embarrassing part. He says he “totally gets” how it might cramp their style or feel like a “chore,” so he’s happy to pay them for this arduous task. He’ll cover all their rent for the year, how does that sound? “Easy gig, right?”
Again, I’m a gig.
A fucking gig.
He signs itMr. Bly. I don’t blame him for that. Fame isn’t always something one wants to advertise.
Particularly when you’re trying to hire a covert nanny for your hapless daughter.
But who’s bitter?
