The Spinster Sisters Read Online Free

then get out of the bed, stretching.
    “Fine, fine. I give up.” He gets out of bed. “First dibs on your bathroom.”
    “Of course.” On his way by, he kisses the side of my neck and smacks me on the ass.
    I throw the blankets back over the bed and put on my bathrobe. I have to admit, there is something so wonderfully decadent about a midafternoon romp, I feel perfectly wicked. The fact that Abbot is a skilled lover doesn’t hurt matters. Never underestimate those banker types, ladies, they may seem stuffy and conservative, but I find they can be shockingly delightful in the bedroom. But despite his numerous charms, I do have to make sure Abbot knows that my rules aren’t made to be broken. Not even by someone who knows where my G-spot is.
    I hear the toilet flush and the sink running. Moments later, he reappears, salt-and-pepper hair slightly damp, face pink, grin as wide as all get-out. Boys, even forty-eight-year-old boys, always get that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look after sex. It is at once adorable and infuriating.
    “Where are my briefs?” he asks, wandering around my bedroom.
    “Psst,” I say. He turns to see me dangling them off one finger.
    “Thanks, darling.” He dresses while I watch. Abbot Elling IV is a classic mergers and acquisitions guy. Conservative in dress, moderate in politics, sort of pasty from spending all his time in boardrooms, fit enough but not overly muscled. He looks like Anderson Cooper’s older brother. Well, maybe cousin. He doesn’t have Anderson’s chiseled handsomeness; he’s more like a Xerox of a Xerox, a little fuzzy around the edges. Not bad-looking, just not striking. But smart as anything, quick-witted, and excellent company. He shares my passions for theater, old movies, Impressionist art, and Sunday crossword puzzles. He makes a perfect martini. He’s more devoted to my orgasm than his own. The only thing he can cook is an amazing spaghetti Bolognese, which is about the best thing I ever ate postfling at midnight or for a hangover-cure breakfast. Plus he spoils me rotten.
    I’ve been seeing him for four months, ever since he ran into me in the lobby of my bank. Literally. Came around a corner like a bat out of hell, juggling a briefcase and a BlackBerry, and slammed into me. Lucky for me, I’m only five three and far from a lightweight, so my center of gravity is close to the ground. This makes me something like a Weeble, and Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. They do, however, shriek like a banshee and lose control of their overstuffed purse-cum-briefcases. The shrieking echoes off the bank walls with a decibel level somewhere in the U2 concert range, and the bags send their contents skittering across the marble floors with astonishing speed. Abbot, to his enormous credit, made sure I was all right and then assisted me in collecting my personal items, including fetching my tampon case from under the chair of a bemused security guard.
    I liked his efficiency and his warm hazel eyes, and when he offered coffee to make it up to me, I suggested that it was at least worth a dinner. He agreed and took me to Kiki’s Bistro the next night, and over Dijon stewed rabbit and a perfectly chilled Côtes de Provence, we began. So far he has been lovely. A little pushy at times, and with a tendency to be unknowingly condescending, but I always call him on both, and he’s quick to apologize. Plus, he sends flowers the next day every time we sleep together, which, tough broad though I may be, makes me all gooey. I think he’s got Robert Daniel’s florist on retainer.
    He finishes dressing, folds his tie and puts it in his pocket, then looks at me. “Tell me again why I can’t come to the sacred, super-secret cocktail hour? I’m dying to meet these aunts of yours.”
    “Sorry, family only. Besides, you know the aunts are off-limits. I’m not interested in sharing you.” It’s my standard reply. I learned early on in my reentry into dating that bringing