Page 51 of Save Me
My mouth gapes for a moment. “I didn’t put heranywhereor claimanything.” There’s more bite in my tone than I intended, but he blindsided me with that jab. Plus, he’s tossing around Gigi’s name as if he personally knows her, as if he gives a shit what happens to her. I take a calming breath. “She registered herself at Palm Oaks, and she loves it there.”
He hums. “I’ve never understood how anyone can enjoy living in one of those places.”
I can’t help myself. “It’s quieter than the last few years at her home. No constant hammering and saws and drills all day long. But I’ll be sure to let her know you asked about her.” I mock frown. “Wait, did you two ever actually meet or are you just regurgitating what your creepy PI told you?”
Henry studies me a moment. “No, I don’t believe we did, officially.”
From my peripheral, I note Abbi chugging her water.
Jacquie returns then, ending a chance for me to toss another barb. “Okay, folks, have we decided?” She peers down at Abbi, prompting her to begin.
I steal a glance across the table at Ronan to find him studying me, the corner of his mouth curvedupward. At least he’s not annoyed by me antagonizing his boss.
“Well, I can’t have the wagyu tartare or the smoked salmon. What about the blue cheese in the pear appetizer?” Abbi holds up the menu, pointing at the line. “Is that unpasteurized?”
“Very likely, yes, but we have an excellent vegan substitute that the chef has confirmed is safe for you.”
Abbi’s face lights up. “Yes, perfect. And then the salad, but can you substitute the goat cheese? Again, the unpasteurized thing.” Her face squishes up like she’s afraid to impose on people. As if her husband doesn’t own this hotel and can literally demand everyone walk on their hands and sing for their suppers. “And the chicken in puff pastry and risotto is fine.”
Jacqueline nods, mentally cataloguing everything like only the most exceptional fine-dining servers can manage. The next test is not mixing things up.
“And for you?” Jacqueline waits for me expectantly.
Fuck. How am I supposed to know about unpasteurized cheeses and smoked salmon. What the fuck even is wagyu tartare? How am I thirty-one years old and not aware of any of this? I guess because I’ve never been pregnant before. I still don’t even know if I’m keeping it—a decision I have to makeverysoon.
“Oh, um, you know what? Everything Abbi ordered sounds great, so I’ll just do the exact same.” At least that way, I’ll know I’m not eating something I shouldn’t.
“The vegan substitute as well?”
“Yes. I try to avoid dairy as much as possible. Dietarything,” I lie, thinking about the wheel of camembert waiting for me at home.
“Perfect.” Jacqueline moves on to Henry and Ronan.
“That entree is going to be so good.” Abbi adjusts her napkin on her lap. “The pastry chef here is incredible.”
“Good because I’m hungry.”
“Ronan and I ate a plate full of her pastries this morning, and they were to die for. Well, actually,Iate them.” She giggles. “Ronan had maybe one bite.”
Abbi Wolf is nothing like I imagined her to be. Sure, she looks like the photographs—polished and gorgeous, her hair a fiery red that you can pick out from across the room. But I expected a snooty, greater-than-thou woman, and she’s warm and friendly and unpretentious, and she is putting in a genuine effort to tame her husband for me. Or perhaps it’s for Ronan. That’s more likely the case.
Either way, I hate to admit it, but I like her, despite her choice in husbands. I suppose I can’t blame her. She married a disgustingly handsome billionaire who seems to dote on her.
The man to my left leans over then, throwing an arm across the back of my chair and invading my personal space as he says, “Abigail, I brought my camera. When will we take your photos?”
“Oh!” She bites her bottom lip in thought. “Maybe tomorrow morning if you have time? Henry will be golfing.”
“No, Henry must be present,” Henry says, referring to himself in third person.
Abbi scowls at him. “Relax. They’re maternity pictures. With my giant belly hanging out.”
“Joel, what will Abigail wear for this photo shoot?” he asks calmly.
“Uh, how do we say … less is more?” Joel says with a grin. He’s classically handsome, though there’s a devilish gleam in his eye that I don’t trust.
“Less is more.” Henry’s smile is superior as he regards his wife. “I’ll be there for this photo shoot.”
She opens her mouth to answer—or argue.
