Page 82 of Obsessed Heir

“I wanted Abigail in an original piece for yesterday’s photo shoot,” Holly explains. “Camille from the lingerie boutique suggested I try to find a seamstress among the ship’s laundry staff.” She blows out a breath. “I’m lucky we have someone who can make alterations so fast. She’s doing the work by hand.”

Abigail runs her fingertips along the neckline of her dress. “Well, she did a fabulous job.”

“It would go much faster if we had a sewing machine on board.” She sighs. “I’ll see if I can buy one in town. Then I’ll have to figure out where to set it up.”

“You’re going to pay through the nose for it,” I point out. With such limited resources in these small towns, they would have to travel down to Canada or the lower forty-eight for the supplies they need.

Holly tilts her head to one side. “Technically,you’re going to pay through the nose.” She gives me her self-satisfied grin. “But you can afford it.”

I turn away, annoyed by her response. “Another woman who just wants me for my money,” I mutter.

“Where are we heading exactly?” Abigail asks, trying to change the subject.

“We’re to sit at The Martini Bar and be beautiful,” I explain, having gone through this a few days ago. “This is all for people to see you and become curious.”

She raises her eyebrows in question.

“They’ll be curious about the glamorous woman known as the Maiden,” Holly adds. “You smile pretty and make them feel welcome.”

“There isn’t a product on earth that can’t be marketed by featuring a beautiful woman’s face alongside it,” I clarify.

She looks up at me through her lashes with an amused glint. “Mm-hmm.”

I might be wrong, but she may genuinely believe I’m exaggerating. The possibility that her naiveté runs that deep brings a grin to my face. She has so much to learn, including the dynamics of sex appeal in advertising and branding.

“Let’s go,” Holly prompts, raising her chin decisively to indicate which way we should head.

We don’t take more than a few steps before I realize how many people are actively stopping to stare at Abigail as we pass. I’ve been so focused on her that I didn’t immediately register the enraptured gazes following her every movement. A possessive flare ignites in my gut. I don’t like so many roving eyes watching her go by. No. I don’t like it at all.

The Martini Bar seating area is exactly how Holly had arranged it when we departed Seattle—a tall table, roped off from the crowd. As we arrive, Holly gives a signal to themanager, and he swiftly produces two stools for Abigail and me to take our seats, putting us officially on display.

“So, now we sit here and let people gawk at us, as if we’re at the zoo,” I remark dryly.

My statement earns me a signature eye-roll from Holly along with the patented “fuck you” smile she reserves just for me.

“How about we get you some drinks?” Holly smoothly changes the subject before turning her full attention to Abigail. “What would you like from the bar?”

Abigail subtly shakes her head, one shoulder hitching up in an endearingly awkward gesture. “I’m not old enough to drink alcohol.”

The reminder hits home. She’s twenty years old, not of legal drinking age by either Texas or Alaska state law. Not too young to be having a child, my child. My head swims as the heavy reality hits me square in the chest. The image of her belly rounded with my baby makes me want to haul her back to bed.

“That’s even better!” Holly doesn’t miss a beat, ever the consummate professional. “How about a virgin drink? Try a daiquiri, with passion fruit.”

“Yes, that sounds nice,” Abigail replies politely.

“Can you get her something to eat?” I cut in. “With everything happening this morning, she barely had a few bites of toast.”

“I’m okay, really,” Abigail insists.

I shake my head firmly. Not to mention the fact her meager breakfast isn’t nearly enough to sustain a developing baby. If we’re taking my larger size into account, she’ll need extra portions to keep up her strength, especially at night.

“We’re going to be here awhile,” I state, leaving no room for argument. I’ll make sure she’s properly taken care of, whether she likes it or not.

“I’ll have the waiter bring some fruit, cheese, and crackers,” Holly announces crisply, striding off with her usual brisk, determined air.

No sooner does she leave than our first spectator approaches—Bronwyn, lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line as she sizes up the supposed competition. The disdainful look on her face makes it clear she views Abigail as nothing more than a nuisance.

Truthfully, there’s absolutely no competition, but I doubt she’ll realize it.

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