Thirty Days: Part One (6 page)

His mouth is moving, but I’m distracted by his seductive golden eyes, chocolate skin, and dark stubble. He is the perfect entre, dinner, and dessert of every meal.
Fuck me, he is hot.
He must realise I’m not listening to a single word he’s saying because fingers snap in front of my nose.

“Abi, stop doing that.”

“What?” I mumble with a dry mouth.

“Spacing out like you do. Why do you do that?”

If only he knew. Sammy knows, and she thinks it’s hilarious. Hell, every one of us girls do it. He has no idea how good-looking he is and that’s what we love most about Mosby.

“Are you focusing now?” he huffs, running his hand over short dark strands.

“Sorry, you have my full attention. What do you need?”

“Come out onto the terrace. We need privacy for this.”

If he weren’t dating my best friend, this dress that apparently highlights my eyes, would be floating off that terrace and I would be letting him do anything and everything he wanted to me. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I’m probably a born-again virgin.

“Abi, are you okay? You’re blushing.”

His look of concern causes me to giggle.
Oh God, Abigail, shut down these thoughts.

“Perfectly fine. It must be from this heat. It’s hot out tonight.”

“Yeah, muggy. Trish was all flustered earlier when I was talking to her out here. Do you want to go back into the air conditioning?”

I can’t help but laugh and wonder if Trish’s thighs were pressed together as tightly as mine are right now.

“What’s funny?” he asks, without a trace of humour in his smile.

“Nothing.”

Cautiously, he narrows his eyes.
Poor hot man boy.
“Okay, so can I talk to you now?”

“Sure, shoot.”

“Shit. Umm. Okay, so Samantha is your best friend—”

I nod, and then my heart begins to race when I realise how nervous he’s acting. Is he going to ask her to marry him? “Mosby,” I call out loudly, even though he’s standing at arm’s length from me. “Are you going to ask Sammy to marry you?” I actually feel like I’m going to throw up when the word ‘marry’ leaves my lips.

“No, no. Shit! Shut up, Abi. God.” He begins to pace.

My anger builds as every second ticks by. He’s going to break up with her. I start poking my finger into his tight white shirt that shows off every perfectly sculptured muscle.

“You’re going to fucking break up with her, aren’t you, you dumb arse?”

“Abi, no, I’m not. Stop poking me.”

“What’s your deal, Mosby? Drop it now, or I’m going to drop you.”

He grins.

“It’s not funny, douche.”

“I’d like to see you drop me.”

“For Sammy, I could.”

“Abi, stop. Sit down.” He points to a table in the corner with two metal seats tucked under it.

“I’ll stand. I have a feeling I might have to kill you.”

He chuckles before sitting. Even when I’m mad as hell his chuckle is sexy as shit.

“Spill, Mosby.”

“I want to move in with Samantha, but I don’t know how to ask her. I get nervous about these things.” He shrugs his shoulders.

Well, fuck me.

“Mosby, I want to throttle you right now. Far out.” We stand there in silence… “Okay, look, you know my stand on men…you are all arseholes. But Sammy loves you, and I know you love her. Just ask. She won’t say no.”

“What if she does?”

“She won’t. Trust me.”

“How should I do it?”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this insecure side of Jackson Mosby. It makes him even more appealing, if that’s possible.

“Ask her?” he says, nodding, yet his confusion to such simplicity is obvious.

“I don’t know how, you just do it. I’m not the right person to be asking. God, take her to the park or dinner or something. She loves that romantic shit. She will be happy.” My arms are crossed. I couldn’t be more uncomfortable.

“Ask her?” he murmurs.

“Yep, pretty simple.”

“Thanks, Abi.”

“Don’t toy with me again. Shit, you had me worried.”

“I’ll never hurt her. One day you’ll believe me.”

“Pfffttt.”

His lips peck my cheek. “Thanks again, Abi.”

“Yep.”

Mosby re-enters the house wearing a grin too big for his face. My legs become weak as I plonk down on the chair he just left.

“Old Ginger is getting a roomy. There you go.” I’m in shock.

The door opens to the terrace once more and Leza, an old friend from university, hands me a fresh glass of wine. Her manicured nails are painted the same colour as her dusty blue eyes.

“Hi, Leza, how have you been?” I immediately skull the entire glass of wine. Its sweet fruity flavour is refreshing.

“Great, Abi, I think the question should be, how are you?” Leza looks at me with what can only be described as pity.

I hate pity.

“Yeah, yeah good…great even. I’m sure you’ve seen my latest Chatterbox statuses. Living the life, enjoying downtime. Sorry I haven’t caught up with you for a while. Busy…busy, not enough hours in the day.”
Blah blah blah.
“We should definitely do coffee soon.”
Or not!
I’m rambling. Stop looking at me like that already. “Just doing my thing.” My hands clamp shut tightly into fists.
Stop talking, will you
.

“Abi…” She pauses. “You look so tired, so vacant.”

“Well, you look like you’ve swallowed a bloody basketball, so, yeah.”

“Abi, that’s not very nice. She’s just joking, Leza.”
Oh crap! Sammy.

“I was joking. She looks great. I was just about to tell her how amazing. It was a joke. Of course she hasn’t swallowed a basketball. She’s growing an adorable baby in there.”

Scrambling is definitely a strength of mine. Suffering from foot in mouth is another one of my pleasant abilities. Placing my hand softly onto her tummy, I stand up. Her stomach moves like an alien grows within, pressing hard against my skin.
Yuck!

“You’re glowing. Pregnancy suits you.” I squirm, removing my hand as fast as humanly possible. Who would ever want a child?
Ground, please swallow me in my entirety.

“I knew you were having a laugh. Always a comedian, Abi,” Leza says with a wide smile.

“Something like that.”

Sammy helps her back inside and then closes the door so we’re alone.

“I hate this bloody pretence bullshit conversation,” I spit.

Sammy puts her hand on the arch of my back and whispers, “Remember we all love you,” into my ear as she escorts me off the terrace and back into the house.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re going to the media room. It’s important.”

Walking behind her, I can’t help wondering why she would say such a thing. My mouth drops open in absolute shock. My eyes must be deceiving me. Maybe that glass of wine, gulped down in uncomfortable conversation, was laced with something. Ten sets of eyes stare at me with despair or disappointment. Ten faces say all the things their minds are thinking. You have got to be shitting me.

“What the actual fuck, guys?” I yell as my hands press firmly into each hip bone. “Why do I think that this little shindig is an intervention for me? Let me see…because there is a huge fucking sign that says intervention.” I begin huffing furiously. “Why? Alcohol? Weed? I only smoke that occasionally to help me sleep. The curse? It’s fucking real. Do you want me to spend tonight going through the bullshit that has been my life? We only do interventions for real messed up issues. Like the time you refused to shave, Leza, for a year.” I point in her direction. She doesn’t reply. “Now, that was intervention worthy. The time you refused to continue university, Sammy.” My eyes lock with hers. She remains silent. “What about the three months Ange said ‘righteous’ after everything? These were issues. What is my issue, huh? What?” I scream out of anger. I know my face is red because heat is radiating from my skin and I’m sweating profusely. It’s not being caused from the fucking humidity, that’s for sure. I’m so mad right now I could put my fist through the cinema-sized screen behind me. “Well?”

“Abigail, you need to sit in the chair, right there,” Sophie says, pointing. One lonely chair—dead centre—up front.

“I know how this works,” I groan. “I invented the entire concept and rules of the intervention.” After I plonk my body into the chair like a dissatisfied toddler, Sammy clears her throat.

“Stop scowling, Abs.”

“Fuck you.”

“Charming.”

My arms cross defensively and my breathing starts to quicken. Sammy sits with a sheet of paper and one leg placed over the other in the first seat from the aisle.

“Your skirt is too short, Ginger,” I spit in annoyance at this whole fiasco. She ignores my taunts.

“So yes, this is your intervention, Abigail. Tonight we are all here to help you. We are your friends and we love you.”

“You already said that before you blindsided me.” I throw my head back and sulk.
Please make this night end.

“Now you know the rules of intervention. You must listen to each of us. We all get a turn to talk if we want to say something. We have written letters for you, which you can take home and read to help you understand your misguided ways.”

I begin rolling my arms over, signalling they need to hurry up before my brain explodes.

“Tonight we’re allowed to say his name, Abigail.”

“You pinkie promised, guys.”

“We are not in primary school, Abs. Plus, interventions remove all previous promises. You know that.”

Abruptly, I stand. “I don’t have to listen to this. I have to go.” My head spins. My heart thuds loudly into my ears.

“It’s okay, Abigail.” Trish’s tone is empathetic as she strokes my arm. “Sit down. It won’t take long.”

I sit. Even though my feet want nothing more than to run.

“I’ll go first.”

“Okay, Ginger. You do that.” I sneer.

“I love you and you know that, even if you are angry at me. But you’re my friend who needs help.”

“Best friend, traitor.”

“Abigail, you have lost your spark, your soul. You were the most positive person I had ever met and even when Mike ended it…”

My entire body cringes as his name leaves her lips, my face scowls, and my legs begin to jig.

“You still hung onto that part of yourself. But after the day he got engaged again and Bella passed away…not to mention the leave you’re being forced to take, everything about you has changed.” Her eyes become misty. She swallows hard. “We miss you. Please, you need to start somewhere. This is why we have pitched in to help you. Sophie, your turn.” She sits quickly and turns her head.

Front and centre, now stands Miss Prim and Proper. I shake my head erratically in disbelief that these fools would put me through this.

Nothing is wrong, dammit!

“Hey, chick, sorry for springing this on you, but it has to be done. You’re a Debbie Downer, let’s face it, and you need something to do apart from sleeping all day and drinking. The weed thing I didn’t know about. Stop smoking weed, you idiot.” Sophie rolls her eyes. I do the same back to her, which causes her to glower momentarily. “It’s time for you to go back to work. It’s been over five months. You need to do something with your life. We love you, so we have organised an interview for you.”

There’s no way I heard that correctly. “What?”

“We have arranged a job interview for you.” She bats her eyelashes.

“You can’t go around organising interviews for people, that’s insane.” My hands stretch out in front of me.

“No, it’s not,” Sophie states with innocence. “Trish, your turn.” Her voice is confident as she returns to her seat.

“Please tell me you aren’t all going to speak,” I mumble, just loud enough to be heard. Nobody answers.
Great!

“Hi, Abigail.” Trish’s face screams sympathy. My mind screams punch it. But I manage to keep my now clenched hands tucked in my lap. “I know you’re probably really angry with us, and I understand if you think we’re being nasty, but we’re really doing the opposite, we’re being kind. If this was one of us, you wouldn’t let us wallow in self-pity or hatred or whatever this meltdown is. I have spoken with my father. As you know, he has the biggest law firm on the Coast...well, throughout the country, actually. Your interview is tomorrow morning in Maroochydore at ten forty-five a.m. You know where Sims, General, and Klein Attorneys is, don’t you?”

“That’s not the point. I’m not a lawyer, or have any law experience. What would I possibly do there?” The need to flip her off makes me giggle.

“This is not funny,” she retorts. “Dad is looking for a second assistant to work under his personal assistant, and since you taught Business Technology and Accounting, you would be perfect for the job. He knows about the situation with the school and that you’ll probably be returning come January. He’s fine with it. Please say you will go tomorrow?” She stands with her fingers crossed in prayer.