Wrapped Up in You Read online

  @AbbieGrl: Why?

  @DoURe1dMe: I don’t know. I might read it.

  Abbie quietly panicked to death while Will sat in front of her with his ridiculous fucking shorts and his T-shirt that said PUSH IT REAL GOOD and his hopeful, hungry eyes.

  He looked at her like he’d really meant what he said, not in a casual way but in a galaxies-lying-beneath-insufficient-words way. He looked at her like they were both characters from the novel they’d talked about last night. He looked at her like this was a fairy tale, like he’d rip away thorns with his bare hands and climb a lonely tower to get to her.

  But none of that was actual fact; it was interpretation, and Abbie’s social interpretations were often skewed. She’d learned that in therapy. (Therapists were often rude as fuck; that was another thing she’d learned.)

  She was supposed to put her thoughts on trial—it was one of the techniques she’d been taught—but right now, her mental judge and jury had Will’s confessions on trial instead. “I like you, Abbie,” he’d said. “You make me happy,” he’d said. Abbie’s head found those words guilty of reckless endangerment. They were cute but shallow when compared to what lived inside her. The butterflies were waking up again—he’d woken them up—and this time they were flapping hard enough to break free. Which couldn’t be allowed to happen, because then Will would find himself face-to-face with what should be secret, ancient monster butterflies, and he’d be understandably horrified, and she’d lose all claim to dignity.

  “Will,” she said. “What the fuck?” Her body felt too tight, too brittle, swallowed up by a sudden storm of emotion. She usually kept these feelings wrapped up safe and hidden, but his words had them surging like a hurricane. The coil twisting in her belly, the heat racing across her skin, the way she craved his warmth like he was the antidote to life’s frost—

  Stop. This was only a crush, that was all. It couldn’t be anything different. She’d told herself that for years, because the alternative was too depressing to contemplate and too huge to control.

  Abbie needed control.

  What she didn’t need was Will stirring up things he didn’t understand by flirting, by saying soft shit to her, by giving her chained-up urges enough hope to break loose. But before she could make that fact clear (or, alternatively, throw her hot chocolate in Will’s lap to distract him before climbing out of the window and running to Edinburgh), Grandma burst into the room.

  Will and Abbie both jolted, their impossible bubble popped, their attention diverted—for now. “Gravy!” Grandma said from the doorway, still wearing her silk headscarf and frilled nightdress.

  Will, of course, rose to his feet at once. “Is she having the babies?” He looked like a concerned husband being informed his wife’s water had broken. Abbie couldn’t even tell her heart off for squeezing. Calm would be a thousand times more difficult to maintain now that Will was running around claiming to like her.

  Not that like meant anything. It might, if they were strangers, or if Abbie was ordinary. But she wasn’t ordinary. Abbie was the sort of person who, on hearing that an old friend had developed some belated attraction toward her, stepped into what should be the puddle of her responding affection to find that it was in fact a well, a hidden lagoon, a leagues-deep ocean. Abbie was a heart that beat too hard and usually ended up bruised.

  Don’t panic. This will pass. Everything will go back to normal.

  For him it would, anyway.

  “No, no,” Grandma was saying, waving away Will’s concern. “Although she did just wake me up, trying to break out of the window when she knows she’s not allowed outside.” A despairing shake of the head, and Grandma moved swiftly on. “I got up to close the curtains properly, and I saw the snow! Which reminded me—the blizzard! It’s coming—”

  Abbie squinted out at the barely-there snow, opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it.

  “—and we’ve got nothing for Christmas dinner yet. Chicken, rice, gravy, roasties, those giant Yorkshire puddings you love, William…”

  Abbie could hear Will’s stomach grumble at that. He downed the rest of his protein shake and said, “Hm. Yeah. I do love those Yorkshires. Me and Abbie best get to the shop.”

  This sentence had a similar effect on Abbie as a short round of electrocution. “The shop?” she squeaked, when what she really wanted to say was, “Me and you? Alone? For a sustained period of time? After that? I think the fuck not.”

  “Exactly,” Grandma agreed, apparently relieved beyond measure. “I already wrote you a list.” She hurried into the room, slapped a sheet of scrawled-upon paper down in front of them, and left before Abbie could ask, “Didn’t you say you’d just woken up?”

  * * *

  The car ride was a tad awkward.

  Grandma’s local Asda—she’d insisted on Asda—was an hour away. She usually got the shopping delivered, but apparently, she’d forgotten to organise that because she was so busy massaging Gravy’s pregnant paws or whatever the hell she got up to. Abbie supposed she should count herself lucky that Will had at least gotten changed for the trip; if she’d had to spend an hour watching his golden hair–dusted thighs flex every time he changed gears, she might’ve lost her mind.

  Fortunately, he was wearing jeans and another heinously festive jumper, which was as interesting as his neon sportswear and bare muscles, but far easier to ignore. They spent a solid forty-five minutes in blessed, relieving silence, silence so complete and pure that she almost believed he might have already gotten over his temporary attraction to her.

  Then he ruined everything by asking, “So. About that thing I said before…”

  She tossed him a what now? look of exasperation and dug the fingers of her left hand into her seat, where he couldn’t see. “Yes?” Please don’t bring it up. Please don’t bring it up. This is the perfect moment for us both to silently agree that we will forget all about it and never ever bring it up.

  “Er…” He shrugged, then offered a hopeful smile. “You don’t seem horrified.”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Or deeply offended.”

  Debatable. “No,” she said, but it was kind of another lie. Some part of her wanted to be upset by the trouble he’d caused over a little liking, though she knew it was irrational. This wasn’t his fault. Will didn’t realise that he wasn’t serious, and he didn’t understand that Abbie couldn’t be anything but serious—intimidatingly so, unnervingly so, ruinously so.

  She’d have to teach him as much, however. Because there were rules to living safely. And the last time Abbie had broken those rules, the last time she’d let her reckless emotions make decisions for her, she’d landed herself years of toxicity, one hell of a divorce, and a huge therapy bill in return. Her romantic feelings were much safer in lockdown, where she preferred to keep them.

  “Okay.” Will was nodding. “Okay. Well. I said you didn’t have to answer right away, and I meant it, so, er, I should probably stop fishing for answers now and we will … keep on being silent.”

  Abbie knew for a fact that Will hated being silent, which was probably why his statement doused her in a sudden and unexpected flood of guilt. Really, there was no need to drag things out. He had the sort of easy, loving character that made him susceptible to meaningless crushes, and the sooner she explained that to him and encouraged him to shake it off, the sooner things could go back to normal. So she might as well get it over with, even if, for some reason, her lungs sort of twisted and wheezed at the thought.

  Asda’s lime-green-and-white facade loomed in the near distance as she said, “I’ve decided you’re having a midlife crisis.”

  Will stared at her for a beat too long and failed to see when the traffic lights changed.

  “William,” she said sharply.

  “Shit.” He hit the accelerator. Then he said, his voice laced with incredulity, “I’m having a what?”

>   “A midlife crisis,” she repeated, because it was the only sensible explanation. Hopefully, now she’d pointed it out, he would see that she was right, and she’d be spared the indignity of having to explain it. “I know you’re not middle-aged, but you’re an actor so you’re having it early to be dramatic.”

  “I’m not an actor.”

  She frowned. “Don’t put yourself down. I know you’re not producing the pinnacle of cinematic art, but your films make people happy, and you’re a very believable superhero.”

  He grinned at that and flicked her a look as they turned into the supermarket carpark. Those dark eyes sliced neatly past her every defence and hooked into all her secret soft parts, as per fucking usual. “Am I?” he asked. “Why’s that? Because I’m so naturally heroic?”

  “Will.”

  “Because I’m superhumanly handsome?”

  “Will. Could you focus, please?”

  “Oh yeah, on my midlife crisis. Would you mind explaining it to me?”

  Yes, she thought, glaring daggers at the side of his head. “Certainly not,” she said, trying to sound unperturbed. “You and I have known each other for decades. If we were remotely compatible, we would’ve noticed by now. Your newfound feelings of affection, therefore, are the result of general attraction—which, in my opinion, means nothing—familiarity, proximity, and the aforementioned crisis.”

  Will brought the Corsa to a sudden, abrupt standstill. The car behind them beeped, loud and long. Will ignored the racket as he turned to face Abbie, his expression a picture of astonishment. “Wait. So. What’s happening right now is you’re really, actually saying my feelings for you are … a crisis?”

  Feelings for you. She really wished he’d stuck with the toothlessness of like. “Will,” she said flatly, “drive.”

  He stared at her for another moment before shaking his head with a despairing air and driving again. “Incredible. Fucking incredible.”

  His apparent surprise and mysterious mumblings were throwing off the nice, sensible conclusions Abbie had drawn for herself, so she decided to ignore them. “The trouble is,” she ploughed on, “you and I have different approaches to romance. You like your relationships simple and light and temporary—”

  “Do I?” he murmured, apparently to himself, as he chose a space at the edge of the car park.

  “—while I … am different,” she said, ignoring the catch in her own voice. “You are the sort of man who can, er, like someone and have a good time with them, then stop liking them and be done. But I don’t think that sort of arrangement would suit our familial circumstances, and anyway, I’m … not interested.” There. That was nice and neat and clinical and very handily avoided any examination of her feelings toward or about Will Reid. Perfect. Now he’d flinch away from her psychoanalysis, realise she was right after all, and move the fuck on from whatever this mental/emotional blip had been. Which was exactly what she wanted. Obviously. Definitely.

  Okay, maybe not exactly what she wanted, but it was the safest outcome she could possibly get.

  Unfortunately for her, Will had never been safe.

  He switched off the engine, undid his seatbelt, and turned to face her. “You’re high,” he said plainly. Then he got out of the car.

  A bolt of annoyance crackled through her. She undid her belt and hopped out after him. “I’m clearly not, William,” she snapped, wrapping her arms around herself to battle the cold.

  “Then why are you being ridiculous, Abigail?” The snow, though light and insubstantial, swirled between them like a barrier. He collected their shopping bags from the car boot, then caught her cold hand in his and pulled her toward the supermarket. Little white flakes smeared on her glasses. His palm was warm and tough, and even though Abbie had fairly big hands herself, she felt like his enveloped hers. It didn’t, not really, not technically. But it felt like it did.

  Will tugged her, not into the bright lights of the supermarket’s entrance, but to the hidden brick alcove where employee bikes were chained up and the light dusting of snow struggled to spread. There, in the icy shadows, he turned to face her. Something about the play of light and dark across his face made him look like a slightly different man.

  “If you’re not interested in me,” he said tightly, “that’s fine. But don’t tell me how I feel about you. Don’t ever.”

  “Stop growling at me,” she bit back, “and get a grip.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Abbie. Get a grip? Seriously? I can’t believe you’d be so—” He cut himself off with this anguished, frustrated sort of groan, dragging a hand through his hair. The image hit her like a slap. She’d spent the last hour panicking and furious, cursing him for dragging her blithely into chaos. It hadn’t ever occurred to her that Will—perfect, golden, effortless Will—might be feeling something like discomfort over this.

  He couldn’t be. Because that would suggest he was serious, and Will was never serious, and he certainly, after all these years, couldn’t suddenly be serious about her. The very idea had the power to upend everything she’d ever told herself, every protective barrier she’d ever built between them.

  Yet the hurt on his face, the deep furrow between his brows, and the way he rolled his lips inward suggested he really fucking was.

  “Will,” she choked out, her stomach dropping like lead. “Will … you … you really don’t care this much.”

  He looked up at her, incredulous. “And you really believe that, don’t you?”

  Shit.

  Okay. Okay. Some sort of monumental fuck-up had just occurred, because she could practically see him papering over his sadness. Her body began to hum with anxiety, like an electric generator kicking in.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, only realising how true that was once the words hovered between them. “Sorry. That was … rude.” Understatement. Had she really just explained away his feelings to him like he was five?

  More shocking: did he really have feelings to explain away? Because that … did not compute. Not after all this time. Years and years ago, she might’ve allowed herself to tentatively hope for it—but then she’d grown up enough to figure out that best friends didn’t seamlessly become lovers, much like dead dogs didn’t come back to life and fairies didn’t exist. So she’d left. She’d fallen for someone else, she’d gotten married, she’d gotten divorced. She was an adult, but she was also vibrating with uncertainty and confusion and—and—

  Things with Will weren’t supposed to be complicated. That was a truth she’d trusted in her entire life, a truth she’d worked hard to uphold, and now it was shifting beneath her feet.

  But here was another truth: he didn’t hurt her, and she sure as shit tried not to hurt him. She didn’t always succeed, since she was practically made of spikes, but she tried.

  “I really am sorry,” she repeated, her tongue like lead and her words inadequate as ever. She wished she was better at saying sweet things. If this were the other way around, Will would give her the best apology of all time. “That was—a dick move. You caught me by surprise, and I overreacted. Shouldn’t have done it. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

  Something in his expression shifted, his gaze sparking, his lips parting. “Is that right?”

  Abbie suddenly felt very hot and very closely observed. “Um.”

  “It won’t happen again?” He took a step toward her. She took a step back and found herself pressed against cold brick. “So if I say it again—if I tell you I have feelings for you—you’ll give me an honest reaction instead of freaking the fuck out?” He was looking at her like he couldn’t see anything else—like, if he tried to shift his gaze even a half inch to the right to stare at the brick, it physically wouldn’t work. Like she was a black hole and he couldn’t escape. Which wasn’t that far off how Abbie had always seen her own hunger for this man, except she’d never imagined he’d look so eager at the prospect of being s
wallowed. He was supposed to flinch away from this kind of intensity. Everyone else always had, and Will was the lightest, brightest person she’d ever known.

  She cleared her dry throat and pressed her palms against the icy, rough brick to keep herself in the here and now when she felt like floating away. “Er … maybe?” She sounded so uncertain, and she hated it. But when she searched for her favourite unconcerned, ironic mask, she couldn’t find it. “I—just—Will. This whole thing is entirely out of the blue, and it doesn’t make sense.”

  “There we go,” he said, and took another step toward her. “That’s what’s really bothering you, yeah? So say that, Abs. Just say that.” He took one final step, and they were chest to chest. She was trapped between the wall and his searching eyes, perfectly aware that she could push him away and he would go quite easily.

  She didn’t.

  “You panicked,” he said.

  Her treacherous mouth was so used to being honest with him, it said “Yep,” before she could stop it.

  He smiled, and it was like daybreak. “Wow. Well. I had no idea I could make Abbie Farrell panic.”

  Her stomach folded up like hopeless origami. God, she loved his smile. “Don’t get too excited,” she told him sharply, because nothing about this conversation erased her need for control. She wouldn’t be a dick to him, but she wasn’t going to let him look at her like that, either.

  Didn’t he know how dangerous it was to look at her like that?

  “But I am excited, Abigail. Because I know you well enough to realise that you freaking out always means something.” He was seeing through her again in that way he had, like her forehead was transparent and her thoughts were scrawled out in glyphs only he could decipher with just a little effort. “I told you I have feelings for you, and you flipped your fuckin’ lid. What does that mean?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she said firmly. “I’m not trying to belittle your feelings, Will, but”—I’m desperate—“don’t you think a friendship as old as ours should be protected from … heterosexual compulsions?”