Girl Abroad

THE BOYS ARE HOSTING A PARTY TONIGHT, AND THE FLAT IS heaving with their friends and friends of friends. Strange faces that mostly look past me like I’m the child who’s supposed to be at the neighbor’s house for a sleepover so the big kids can play. I try to be social, and the guys do introduce me to everyone, but they get caught up in conversation that starts to box me out and I’m left drifting on the periphery. It isn’t their fault, this outsider syndrome of mine. I don’t blame them.

I’ve done the rounds. Now I’m tucked into a corner with a glass of wine watching from a distance. Truthfully, I’m preoccupied. Itchy and edgy. Disappointed.

Yeah, I can’t pretend anymore that’s not what I’m feeling. I’m disappointed.

Nate and Yvonne aren’t here.

I shouldn’t care. I keep telling myself not to. But ever since our road trip, I’ve become more impatient to see Nate again. Part of me had even thought he might make the effort to connect again (as friends, of course), but obviously I was mistaken.

I get it, though. Having a girlfriend is a pretty good reason why he hasn’t made the effort.

And why I should banish the thought.

I’m not particularly close to Yvonne and feel no special loyalty to her. Still, sniping another woman’s guy is a shit thing to do. It wouldn’t win me any points with the rest of the group either, I’m sure.

Uh-huh, like it was even a remote possibility that you could steal him from her? the amused voice in my head inquires.

Ugh. This is ridiculous.

I’ve been here more than two months now. It’s been fun, but it’s time to stop letting myself entertain absurd scenarios of unrequited obsessions. Time to face the bitter truth.

And find another glass of wine to wash it down with.

When I enter the kitchen to get myself a refill, I spot one of Jack’s rugby teammates digging around in the drawers.

“You live here, right?” he asks, glancing at me over one broad shoulder. He’s clad in jeans and a striped polo shirt that stretches across his chest.

I really need to start paying more attention to rugby. The guy’s stacked, with rugged good looks and playful eyes.

“Yup,” I answer.

“Help me find the bottle opener?”

I open the dishwasher and pull it out of the utensil bin. “Jack threw it in there so people wouldn’t run off with it.”

“Outstanding.” He pops the cap off his beer and raises the bottle to me. “Cheers.”

We clink and drink.

“I’m Sam.” He leans against the counter. “You’re Abbey, yeah?”

“Yeah. Is there a sign on my back?”

“Jack talks about you.”

“Oh.” An embarrassed blush heats my face. “Don’t believe a word of it.”

“All good stuff. Promise.” Sam’s got a disarming smile and easy demeanor about him. “You’re quite fit, you know. I see why he didn’t mention that.”

I laugh nervously because I don’t know how to take that. “You just put it right out there, huh?”

Sam shrugs with a bright, tipsy grin. “Was that a bit cheeky?”

“Maybe a little. Please, don’t let me stop you.”

His grin widens as his gaze travels over me, lingering briefly on the bare skin revealed by my off-the-shoulder sweater. Despite Lee’s best efforts to dress me tonight, I chose my own outfit. Oversize sweater, denim skirt, and black combat boots. Cute and casual. Even Lee grudgingly admitted I looked good when he saw me walk out of my room. I’m sure it pained him to do so.

Someone turns up the music in the living room. Not a song I’m familiar with, though I’ve been absorbing a lot of British rock lately.

“Shall we have a dance?” Sam asks.

Nashville Abbey would say no. She’d be too far out of her comfort zone and self-conscious about looking silly in front of a crowd.

London Abbey has a few drinks in her and needs something to chase away the idea of a guy out of reach. So I chug my wine and grab his hand, leading him to the living room, where others are crammed together.

For a few minutes, I let go of all my apprehensions and distractions. I let Sam pull me close as he presses his lips to my hair, uttering flirty words I don’t entirely discern through the music and his accent. I just nod and smile, amused for the moment to go with it. There are worse ways to spend an evening and more destructive means of forgetting a guy.

Across the room, I notice Jack noticing me. His usual unbothered smile falters as he sizes up his friend. His eyes narrow. When Sam nuzzles the side of my neck, Jack walks away from his conversation to approach us.

“Oi, mate.” He jabs Sam’s shoulder. “You’re slobbering on the girl.”

“He’s really not,” I counter, still dancing in Sam’s embrace.

“On my best behavior,” Sam says, still grinning and unaffected. “Swear it.”

“House meeting.” Jack gives Sam a shove, and although Sam raises a curious eyebrow, he backs off.

“Thanks for the bottle opener,” he tells me. With a wink, he retreats.

Jack takes his place, but with quite a bit more distance between us. That doesn’t stop his addictive scent from gripping my senses. He always smells so fucking good, like soap and sandalwood with a hint of spice. He’s wearing a soft gray sweater and black trousers that make his ass look delicious. (I know this because I confirmed it with my eyes. Multiple times.)

Propelled by the music, I continue to dance, defiant. After a beat, Jack begins to move too, probably because he feels awkward standing still.

“That was cute,” I tell him. “Petty but cute.”

“Go on,” he says, sporting a scowl that’s more endearing than threatening.

“No, it’s cool. I get it. Don’t want other kids playing with your toys. I’m sort of flattered.”

He lifts a brow. “You think I’m jealous?”

“Sam already gave you up. He told me all about how you can’t stop talking about me to the team. Like you’re basically obsessed with me.”

It’s the wine talking. A lot of it. More than I realized until I remember I had a glass while we were cleaning up for the party. Then a glass while I was getting dressed. A glass for every time I resisted the urge to ask Celeste if Nate and Yvonne were coming.

And, well, they’ve kind of added up.

Jack grins at me. “I’ve never mentioned you once. Someone asked me earlier if you were a lost neighborhood child. I said no, that’s the mouthy American who doesn’t know how to put her dishes away.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why you practically threatened to fight your friend so you could cut in, right?”

“I was protecting him. He’s very dumb and unsuspecting.”

“Protecting him from what? I mean, worst I’ll do is take him upstairs and fuck him. Seems like a sweet deal for Sam.”

Oh my God.

I can’t believe I just said that. And it isn’t even true! I’m not the bring-a-total-stranger-upstairs-and-fuck-him kind of girl. Yet for some reason, wine always emboldens me when it comes to Jack.

I glimpse a spark of heat in his eyes before his features strain. “Don’t think I’ve heard you say that before.”

“Say what?”

“Fuck.”

My forehead wrinkles. “I say the word fuck all the time.”

“Not in that context.” He licks his lips. “So. Is that it? You want to fuck my mate, do you?”

“No,” I stammer. “It was just a joke.”

My heart’s suddenly pounding louder than the bass line of the song, beating even faster when I realize we’ve managed to work ourselves closer together. His hands on my hips. Mine resting on his chest. A rapid rush of excited nervousness charges across every inch of my skin. I tip my head up at him to see his expression is slightly hazy. Eyelids heavy. I wonder if he feels it too or if it’s just the alcohol crossing our wires.

It’s the same exhilaration I felt the first time I saw Nate. Which is even more confusing, because the two of them are so diametrically different. Jack’s easygoing. Quick with a laugh. Nate’s more complicated. Intense and guarded.

I’m attracted to both of them.

And they’re both equally out of reach.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Jack peers down at me, searching my face.

“I don’t know. You’re just…you’re impossible to read,” I admit.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org: ©.

Just like that, his crystal blue eyes become shuttered. Proving my point.

“Am I?” he drawls.

“Yes. It’s maddening sometimes.”

“Yes, Abbey, I’m the maddening one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I protest.

He shifts his gaze away. “Nothing.”

“Jack.” He can be so frustratingly confusing.

When he looks at me again, his blithe demeanor is back. “Ah, don’t mind me tonight, Abbs. I’ve too much liquor in me. I talk nonsense when I’m drunk.” His grin stretches wide. “And you’ll be in for it when Lee catches you trying to grope me again.”

My gaze drops to my hands, which are splayed over his pecs. His hands brush mine as I snatch them away and take a self-conscious step backward.

I’m not able to respond, as a commotion suddenly breaks out across the room. Everyone rushes to watch a couple of Jack’s teammates scuffling in the hall. Not a fight but more a drunken wrestling match that bounces off the walls and clatters into the dining room.

Jack trudges after them, shouting at them to knock it off as knickknacks and photos tumble to the floor. I cross the threshold in time to see the guys crash into the dining table where the Dyce portrait is propped in a chair. I’d been taking more photos earlier and brought it down for better light.

Now I watch, helpless, as it falls under the feet of these two-hundred-and-thirty-pound clumsy buffalo.

“Oh no,” I gasp.

“Enough!” Jack pries his friends apart while I lunge for the painting. “You’ve fucked it now. Dickheads.”

I’m nearly hyperventilating as I lay the portrait on the table to inspect it. I promised it to a museum, for Pete’s sake. Luckily, there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the painting itself. The paper backing is torn, but that can be replaced.

A wave of relief crashes over me. Thank God.

“We’re sorry, Abbey,” one of the contrite men say.

“Yeah, we didn’t see it there,” the other chimes in with appropriately sad puppy eyes.

“What’s the damage?” Jack comes up beside me.

“It’s okay. Just this torn area— ” I stop.

In the process of prying the tear open a bit further, I suddenly realize there’s something hidden beneath the backing of the painting.