Free R Is for Rebel by Megan Mulry

Stanhope and Caroline Petrovich. Roger knows the whole family history, of course, but I think you’ll be more comfortable with Caroline. Do you want me to make the call?”
    â€œNo, no, I got it. Thanks so much, Max. You’re a good egg.”
    â€œSo are you, Abby. Just put on your big-girl pants and I’ll see you Thursday morning. I think we’ll come into Fulham Wednesday night, so I’ll pick you up at Mother’s at 8:30 and then we can walk over to Coutts together. Sound good?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay? It’s all good, Abby.”
    â€œI know. Thanks again, Max.”
    â€œThank you , Abby. Bye.”
    The line went dead and Abby was grateful her mother chose that moment to enter the kitchen and see about heading over to Wigmore Hall for the lunchtime concert. Abby didn’t think she could stand a solitary minute contemplating the enormity of what she was about to take on.
    â€œReady to go, Abigail?”
    â€œSure, let me just run upstairs and grab my bag. I’ll meet you in front in five minutes.”
    â€œOkay, dear.” Sylvia put her cup of tea into the sink and then turned to watch as her blossoming youngest daughter left the room, a near-palpable mist of new beginnings trailing in her wake.
    ***
    By Friday morning, Eliot was back at his desk in Geneva ready to rip someone’s throat out. The negotiations in Milan were at a dismal standstill. He might as well have taken the flight through London after all, since the small family-owned company of Milanese silk manufacturers had decided they were not very interested in being bought out after all. Family squabbles had erupted the previous weekend, with half the Ramazzotti clan begging for the buyout and the other half digging their heels in and refusing to sell. And to top it off, both sides acted as if Danieli-Fauchard was breathing down their necks, when the reality was the Ramazzotti family had been the ones to initiate the whole screwed up deal.
    Abigail had started texting him a couple of times each day, a delightful mix of snarky seduction ( quick question: why do my fingertips tingle when I think of you? ) and to-do list ( on my way to meet with banker… texting and walking… you have turned me into an absurd multitasker ).
    He was becoming desperate to touch her. At seven in the morning on Friday, he finally picked up his phone and dialed her number.
    She answered with a throaty, confused, sexy-as-hell voice. “Who’s calling?”
    â€œVery funny.”
    She hummed and he could picture her smiling with her eyes closed and burying her face deeper into the pillow. “I’m still asleep.”
    â€œWell, wake up. I’ve had enough of this not-seeing-you nonsense. Will you go out with me tonight? Dinner, that sort of thing?” He heard her rustling around and was beginning to get turned on at the idea of her naked body against all that linen. “What color are your sheets?”
    â€œWhite,” she said with a small laugh. “Why?”
    â€œJust trying to picture you.” He exhaled. “But as I said, I’m sick of just picturing you. Are you free this weekend?”
    â€œMmm. I thought it was just dinner… now you want to make it the whole weekend?”
    I’d like to make it your whole damn life , Eliot wanted to say. “Yes. And a plane ride.”
    She was definitely waking up now. “A plane ride, is it? Sounds glam. I don’t really do glam.”
    â€œWell, then you’re in luck. Because it’s all blue jeans and dirty work boots and sweatshirts where we’re going.”
    â€œReally? Now I am interested.”
    â€œIt’s my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday in Iowa and I want you to come with me.”
    â€œLike a family reunion? Sounds serious. I don’t know, Eliot—”
    â€œNow wait one minute. How many times have I saved your ass at dinner at your mother’s or made you laugh