"You're my personal assistant," I argued. "I need to have you close should I require something of you."
Abbi whirled around and lifted up her chin defiantly to me.
"Then tell me what you need right now, Mr O'Sullivan," she said, her chest pressed against mine. "Or admit you can't stay away from me."
Her closeness sent blood rushing straight to my groin. I swallowed heavily as I tried to control myself.
"I'm about to receive a very important call," I said, my voice strained.
Abbi frowned in confusion. "I don't have any calls on your schedule."
I moved even closer toward her so she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eye.
"I'm about to receive a very important call," I repeated more sternly. "And when I do, I am going to have to leave this ballroom."
Abbi's eyes started to show a hint of realisation.
"I need you, my personal assistant, to steal a bottle of the nicest red and follow after me."
I grinned wickedly when Abbi gasped slightly, her pupils widened. Before she could recover, I reached around her head and pulled a pin from her chignon. Her hair fell like a velvet curtain, covering one dark hazel eye.
"And then," I said, placing the pin between her supple lips, "I need you to make good use of this, Ms Miller."
Abbi
Michael and I stumbled into the linen closet at the Brown Hotel, laughing and yanking the door closed behind us. I had a $300 bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon tucked under my arm and Michael had snagged a half-empty bottle of whiskey as well. We were giggling like naughty teenagers and breathing heavily after sprinting hand in hand through the maze of hallways, people calling after Michael in confusion.
My side ached from laughing so hard, and we were gasping to catch our breaths when we heard someone outside calling for Michael.
"Mr O'Sullivan? Mr O'Sullivan?"
Michael's hand shot out and covered my mouth, pressing me against the shelves, his eyes fixed on the door. I wasn't sure if he knew what his proximity was doing to me as he waited for the person whose footsteps we could hear outside to move on.
His hand was hot against my lips and I could remember that heat on my inner thighs, on my neck, on my breasts. The muscles between my legs tightened as I smelled his cologne mixed with the sweetness of champagne and the bite of a cigarette. His body was pressed against mine and all I could think about was what it was like to have his body moving against mine.
The voice faded down the hallway and after a few more tense moments of silence in the linen closet, Michael finally removed his hand and stepped back from me. I fought to control the heaving of my chest. He studied the small space around us under the light of the single hanging light bulb.
"More might come looking for you," I said. "You're supposed to give a speech later."
Michael just shrugged before his eyes moved to mine. "I'll just blame my personal assistant."
I snorted and crossed my arms. "I'm just following orders here."
Michael grinned and his eyes trailed up and down the length of my body. "I think we both know full well you're not the 'just following orders' type."
I formed my lips into the shape of a devilish, wry grin, but the movement was forced, foreign when once it had been natural. It was like I was following a user guide instead of trusting that instinct deep within me. That rambunctious, wild, devil-be-damned attitude was rusty, covered in a thick layer of dust, shoved out of sight in the back of my mind.
Even as I played along externally, Michael's words sent a pang through my heart. He was seeing the me I'd been nine years ago. The Abbi who gave orders a middle finger was the Abbi I said goodbye to when I gave birth to Zara and a whole world of responsibilities.
It was almost with a sense of shame that I feared admitting the truth to him. That the girl he knew was not the girl standing in front of him, despite the eerily familiar backdrop of neatly folded linens and stolen bottle of absurdly expensive red wine. I was afraid that he might learn exactly who I was: the rule-following type. There were no more one-night stand adventures to the mountains because Zara had school in the morning. There was no more entangling with strange hearts because it wasn't just my heart I had to think of anymore. I drove the speed limit and I didn't just mean in the car on the road: my heart beat slowly, steadily, my dreams obeyed the signs that said slow, slower, slower, my wild, yearning soul sat at the red light and waited.
I didn't want to tell Michael that the girl he knew was gone. I'd caged myself, and for good reason. But that didn't mean I didn't miss an open road and a wide sky. Didn’t mean I didn’t miss her a little sometimes.
Michael watched me as we stood in silence, one in front of the other in the small linen closet.
"I think we should drink," he said.
We arranged ourselves and our long legs on the floor with a series of awkward apologies and excuse me's as we knocked knees, arms, heads. The end result was a tangle of limbs and hearts far too close to one another. I took the bottle from Michael like I'd been wandering the desert for days and he was offering me fresh, cool water. I didn't care that it might be nothing more than a mirage. I'd drown in the fantasy.
"Why are we doing this?" Michael asked, taking the bottle
