Page 66 of Obsessed Heir

“If she’d like to stop anywhere, go ahead. Just make sure she’s back safe.” It’s the least I can do, considering I’ve robbed her of her assistant.

Ah, that image…

“Of course, sir.”

I inhale, knowing what she’s capable of. “If she wants to go shopping, just have it charged to my suite.”

“Yes, sir.”

Which gets me to thinking about Abigail just as James walks away.

“One more thing.”

He stops in his tracks.

“You know the T-shirts from the Polar Bear charity?”

“I think so. If not, I can ask,” he assures me. “Which image do you want?”

I can’t describe the shirt other than cubs playing, but that should be all of them. In a way, that makes it easier. “Get all of them, in Abigail’s size.”

He smiles, which shouldn’t grate on my nerves, but it does. “Very well. What color?”

Interesting question. She was admiring the simple white T-shirts, despite having several colors to choose from.

“White.” Then I think better of it. “Make that white and purple. Some in one color and some in the other.”

“Miss Holly didn’t give me a schedule for tomorrow,” James says. “Where are they set up?”

Set up? Ah, he thinks it’s for another photo shoot. “Deliver them to my room tomorrow morning. I’ll see she gets them.”

“Consider it done, sir.” He goes off after the photographer and the assistants with the lighting.

I cross over to the alcove and have a seat.

“That was wonderful,” Mother says with enthusiasm.

Yes, she would find the whole thing “wonderful,” while I…well, my baptism into modeling was memorable, to say the least.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I take one of the champagne flutes set aside from the photo shoot.

“Did you know Abigail is afraid of open water?”

It’s never good to have a woman narrow her eyes when she’s focused on you. It’s twice as bad when said woman is your mother, and it doesn’t matter what age you are.

“You spoke to Abby?” she asks, her champagne paused halfway to her mouth.

I set my linen napkin on the table. “Holly had me sit in during the photo shoot they did this afternoon.”

Her lips flatten into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is Abby okay?” she inquires, concern flashing in her eyes.

“Of course she is. She was nowhere near the water,” I reassure her, trying to keep my tone even and dismissive.

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, arching a perfect eyebrow, “and you know it.”

It’s moments like this when I’m reminded that despite her petite stature and polished manners, this woman is as formidable as they come. I know better than to underestimate her. I’ve often wondered how people can think she’s just a sweet little old lady.

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