The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (34 page)

Eying my bag against the wall, I decide to grab my iPad. A few games of solitaire should occupy my mind. Snuggling into the sofa, I power up my tablet, fully prepared to engross myself in the senseless card game.

Ten emails
. Great,
I note the numbered icon, browsing down through the unread Inbox.

A spam message.
Ignore.

A joke from my Uncle Johnny.
Jeez.
Why does he forward these usually long-winded and not-so-humorous tales? Doesn’t he have anything better to do?

An email from Mom.
Oh shit, I haven’t called her in ages.
Guilt seeps through my pores.
Maybe I
will
read Uncle John’s joke.
The thought of avoiding making the due call however, I can’t ignore. I do miss my parents. And I certainly have the free time to catch up. Grabbing my cell phone, I dial the number, rolling onto my stomach, leaning up on my elbows as I wait for the slightly delayed overseas connection.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad!”

“Well
hellooo,
little girl.”

I smile at my dad’s playful switch in tone—the one he always uses when he realizes it’s my sister or I calling. The same voice he used when he read us stories, or pretended he was Santa Claus. “How is everything back home?”

“Everything’s great. Your mother’s driving me nuts, but what else is new? You okay over there? Anything wrong?”

“No, everything is great . . . ”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Do you want to speak to your mother? Dianne!” he calls for her, briefly adding, “Love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.” Smiling, I shake my head at his familiar short phone conversation. He’s so cute that way. He may not be a man of many words, but his love is felt nonetheless.

“Hello?” Mom answers unknowingly. I can totally envision Dad offering her the phone as he usually does, not bothering to announce who’s waiting on the line.

“Hi Mom.”

“Aby! How are you, sweetie? You haven’t called in ages! Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”

“No, everything is . . . wonderful, actually.”

“Oh good. How’s the new hotel? Is it awful? I imagine it doesn’t compare to that posh hotel you stayed at with Stacey.”

“Ummm, I actually moved into my flat yesterday, Mom.”

“Oh, that’s right. Just ignore me. I don’t know if I’m coming or going—your father has driven me nuts. How’s your new apartment, sweetheart?”

Mom’s typical banter makes me smile. “It’s really great. I was so lucky to find it.”
Thanks to Alex,
I remind myself, deciding to avoid falling into a discussion about my new boyfriend. “I finally feel a little settled here.”

“I bet you do! Your week in that other hotel must have been horrible. I really wish you had listened to your father and I and stayed at the . . . what was it? The Intercontinental?”

Ugh.
Does she have to go on about the other hotel?
I could just pretend I actually stayed there . . . but inviting as it is, I can’t in good conscience lie to my own mother. I’m not a kid in high school anymore. “I didn’t actually stay at the other hotel,” I begin, pausing to decide the best way to tell her about moving in with Alex for a week. I hadn’t even mentioned having met someone when I spoke to her over a week ago. It was so new then. I had no idea I would still be seeing him now, so it had been a natural omission. I certainly wasn’t going to fill her in on my incredible sex right out of a novel when, for all I knew, it was just that—an amazingly brief fling with
the
Alexander Tate.

“What do you mean, Aby? You
did
stay at the Intercontinental?”

Oh, God.
Where do I begin? Clearly,
and
luckily, they haven’t seen the ‘Frozen Yogurt’ media images. I had imagined they wouldn’t. It’s not exactly newspaper news—or at least not in the sports section or crossword page that Dad browses. And I’ve never known Mom to pick up the type of magazine that would publish such gossip. Beth, however, may have come across the report.
I really should have called her,
I cringe at my thoughtlessness, having not spoken to my sister in such a long time.

I do have to tell them all at some point, though. I can’t let them find out through international gossip headlines.
Let the games begin.
“Well, for starters, I’ve . . . met someone.” At my mother’s silence, I continue, “His name is Alex.” More Silence. “Alexander Tate, actually. He’s an actor.” Mom remains mute, leaving me no choice but to go on with a deep breath, “I stayed with Alex at his place last week.”

“Aby!”
Finally she speaks!
Sitting up from my lounging position, I brace myself for whatever’s coming next—an inevitable explosion based on her silent treatment a moment ago. “Oh my Gawd! What will the neighbors think? Reggie!” she calls out to my father, “ . . . Aby’s shacked up with an actor!”

“Mom! Don’t tell Dad that! I haven’t shacked up with anyone. I simply stayed with Alex for a week. And the neighbors would have no way of knowing that,” I reassure her, though I haven’t exactly shared the news about the media gossip pictures.
This should be fun.
“There is something I should warn you about, though,” my tone is a little more serious.
Great, she’s not talking again.
“Mom? Are you still there?”

“I’m listening, Abigail.”

Nice.
She’s using my unabbreviated name, flashing me back to my childhood—she would always forgo my nickname when I was in trouble. “It’s nothing bad, Mom. It’s just that, as I said, Alex is an actor . . . so when he’s out and about . . . well, the media like to follow him around.”

“You’re talking about the paparazzi? My Gawd, Abigail! Reggie, she’s in the Enquirer! Abigail Dawn Ryan, you need to come home, sweetheart. You’re going to give your father a heart attack.”

Ugh.
I imagine my father ignoring her, likely rolling his eyes at her typical exaggerated dramatic reaction to almost everything. “Mom, I’m not in the Enquirer.” Although who knows really. Does that crazy gossip paper still exist? I shake my head, preparing to continue, knowing full well that she’ll come down off her cliff edge with a little coaxing. “Mom, we—Alex and I—went out shopping last week and he was bombarded by some fans. A few of them must have posted the pictures they snapped online, or possibly even sold them to a magazine. That’s all. I just thought you should know. Please don’t overreact, it’s really not that big a deal.” Who am I trying to convince—Mom or myself?
Julia certainly considered it a big deal—her own theatrical intrusion at Alex’s flat last week on instant replay. According to the blonde feline-bitch crossbreed, our reported gossip images were nothing short of a nuisance.

“Last week, Aby? Surely someone we know has seen these pictures, this . . . gossip. Why didn’t you call us sooner? What about Liam, honey? It would break his heart.”

The sound of Liam’s name, and the sudden reminder that he may very well have seen the images, elicits an instant stabbing pang in my gut. I’d been so overwhelmed with Julia’s letting the cat out of the bag to Alex with her informative detailing of my history—her claws clearly sharpened—I hadn’t stopped to think about Liam. The last thing I want to do is hurt him further. However, I’m allowed to move on with my life. I can’t spend my future thinking about the man in my past—regardless of how long and important his role had been in it. “Mom, I would never want to hurt Liam, but . . . ” I’m not even sure what else to say. I’m struggling with this renewed undertaking of having to explain myself—my choice and its repercussions—yet again. My parent’s surprise, and somewhat disapproval, of my leaving the perfect son-in-law is clearly still on the table. “I have to move on, Mom. Your respect of my decision is important to me. But, I am willing to live without it.”

“I know, honey, I’m sorry,” she finally begins coming back down from her dramatic brink. “We just worry about you, sweetheart, your father and I. It’s been an emotional year for you, for all of us.”

Releasing a sigh, I’m unable to dodge her subtle attempt to further remind me how shocking my departure had been. My ego takes a defensive turn—my own typical reaction to guilt trips, “Well, you still have Beth and her flawless model family to make you feel better against the scandalous behavior of your second born.”

“Aby, is that what you think? Oh honey, I’m so sorry. Your father and I were surprised, yes, when you decided to leave your marriage. And shocked even, when you announced that you were moving away. But don’t you ever, for one minute, doubt how much we love you! We’re very proud of you. I
am very proud of you . . . my beautiful, brave girl.”

Feeling the swell of emotion at her sudden acclamation, I realize that I don’t want to allow her to hear my own lingering doubt and insecurities through tearful submission. “Mom, I really have to go. I promise to call again soon,” I attempt to satisfy her in my abrupt dismissal, wiping an escaped tear from my cheek.

“Okay, sweetheart. Please call your sister. She worries about you, Aby.”

I shake my head at the idea of delving into another punishing diatribe with my perfect sister. “I will, I promise. I love you. Give Dad a kiss for me.”

“I love you too, Aby. Call soon.”

JUMPING AT THE chime of the doorbell, I’m jolted from my stupefied lost-in-space reverie. Still in place on the sofa, the numbness that had ensued when I hung up the phone is lingering.

With a slow return to the present, I make my way down the hall, refreshing my demeanor with a deep breath as I open the door.

“Hi,” the unknown man offers a friendly smile. “I thought I should stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood.” I take in the attractive stranger’s face, from his thick, downward tilting eyebrows, and strong nose above his unshaved stubble, to the upward twitch of his closed-lip smile. It reveals a blend of melancholy and mischief, a fun-loving kind. And his warm, puppy-dog blue eyes are calming beneath his thick brown hair.

If Barbie’s Ken was modeled after an all-American, carefree-styled man, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that its muse was standing on my doorstep. Of average height, he’s clad in a grey V-neck t-shirt and blue jeans. You can tell he takes care of his body—his muscles evident, though not overstated, on his lean frame.

His accent clearly gives away his ex-patriot status. I would guess him to be American, if not Canadian. He seems harmless enough. Living in this neighborhood, as he claims, he can’t be any sort of trouble. But who really knows. Foregoing any inappropriate typecasting, I join him on the front step in the safety of its openness, closing the door behind me.

I offer him a slight smile as he raises his hand in greeting, “I’m Andrew. Andrew Davies.”

“Hi Andrew,” I shake his hand in return, still open for a little more information before sharing my own name.

“We’re neighbors, literally,” he gestures toward the adjacent door at the front of the house. “Mine’s a studio apartment, your flat’s the money maker,” he winks.

“Oh,” I take in our side-by-side entries, his description lending me a clearer visual breakdown to my flat’s odd floor plan—its larger second floor atop the single sitting room downstairs. “I’m Aby. Thank you for the welcome, Andrew.”

“Of course,” his warm smile is uplifting. “Amira spoke fondly of you. She asked that I keep an eye out in case you need anything. That girl has me wrapped around her little finger. I’ve been watching out for her since we both moved into the house about the same time last year. She’s a good kid.”

“That was sweet of her to think of me,” I smile warmly, “When in need of a cup of sugar, you’ll be the first one I think of—and vice versa, okay?” With his cheerful nod of acceptance, I turn back towards my door, my hand at the knob as I prepare to say goodbye, “It was great to meet you . . . ”

“Wait, Aby . . . Do you have any plans tonight? Can I offer you a home-cooked meal in welcome? I’m quite the cook for a bachelor-pad guy.”

Is this where I tell him I have a boyfriend?
Or at the very least, that I’m totally enthralled with my who-knows-how-long-it-will-last fairytale with a famous, sexy-as-shit actor? Whichever way you want to look at it.

Maybe he’s just being nice. There’s no harm in getting to know my neighbor over dinner. Besides, I have to get through this evening ahead of me—ahead of three more days without Alex—not to mention the lingering conversation with my mother earlier. “You know what, that actually sounds great. My boyfriend is away for a few days, so I have no plans. What time would you like me to come over?” Beautiful, I’ve let him know I’m taken
—
however passive-aggressively
.

Clearly, it’s a non-issue for him, if his unfaltering smile is any indication. “You can come over anytime you’re ready. You can come now, if you like. I don’t mind slaving in my little kitchen with my new neighbor.”

“Sounds great. Just give me a sec,” I run inside, grabbing my keys and cell phone—
Wouldn’t want to miss a text from Alex.

“All set?” he stands in his open doorway as I lock up.

“All set,” I smile, following him in.
Wow. It’s really small.
I span the entirety of its minimalistic contemporary décor. A charcoal loveseat is set against the wall adjacent to the large front window. I recognize it as the matching piece to my own larger sofa. The simple rectangular metal coffee table is flanked on either side by two small black leather accent chairs, a large flat screen TV adorning the wall. Just beyond, there’s a very small kitchen area with a miniature version of the island upstairs; and an open-style tall, and equally wide, bookcase separates it from the bedroom space, its shelves lined with beautiful pieces of art.