Scotch always made Les a little maudlin, and Sabrina wasn’t in the mood for maudlin. She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “You and Mom split up twenty-five years ago. That’s a quarter of a century.” She shrugged. “No more mea culpas, Daddy. Just understand me. I’m happy with my life. I’m happy that you and Mom are happy. Really, I am…” She frowned and caught her lower lip between Les’ perfect porcelain caps.
“But what, honeybunch?”
“It’ll be a cold day in July when I let Chet kick me out of my own sandbox. Sharing the same blood and last name won’t ever make us family. Chet doesn’t want that. I don’t either. I shouldn’t have to explain why.”
“I suppose not,” her father agreed, sounding tired. “I shouldn’t push it.” Like countries in the Middle East laying claim to the same sacred turf, relations between her and the partials had always been tenuous at best, fraught with bad blood since inception. Les was a well-intentioned but ineffective mediator.
“Try to enjoy yourself when you come over for Christmas, will you?” he asked.
“I will, Daddy.”
“You called me ‘Daddy’ twice, so I know you’re not pissed off at me anymore.” He offered a wan smile. “Sabrina, if you ever change your mind about the money—”
“Thanks, but I won’t,” she said earnestly, giving him a peck on the cheek. “G’night.”
“What will you do about the house?” he called as she was walking away.
“I’ll figure something out,” she called back over her shoulder. “I always do.”
Sabrina came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the restaurant’s parking lot. Something had been put there that hadn’t been there before. She stared up at a billboard the size of a Times Square marquee and immediately recognized the mug that hogged up most of the space. Gage smiled down at her almost benevolently as he kicked back in his studio chair, earphones hanging around his neck. He held a glazed cruller in one hand. The other grasped a beer. Under the KCAP logo, yellow text screamed:
IT’S 6 AM.
WWFD?
“…the hell?” Sabrina muttered, car keys in hand. The unutterable sangfroid the image projected galled her to no end. Ever since she discovered his real identity, she had tried hard to reduce what she’d earmarked a memorable romantic frolic in the moonlight to a brief footnote. Gage might be able to kiss her senseless, but that didn’t make him any less of a boor. The best she could have hoped for was for them to be cordial in the future when they bumped into each other at Molly’s fondue and Twister parties.
But Sabrina had leveraged her last gasp of hope against Les’ flimsy assurances, and now she’d have to take Gage into consideration as a serious contender, given her nonexistent pool of renter applicants. The thought of interacting with him on a daily basis was too harrowing to contemplate. She supposed they could just make small talk. Starting with the acronym on the billboard. What was that anyway? Some new text-speak she hadn’t heard of?
It wasn’t until she pulled her car into the driveway of her house that the forehead-smacking moment dawned on her:
What would Fitz do?
CHAPTER TEN
“Channeling Lord Byron?”
Carlton stared at the silk ruffles that exploded from the bosom of Sabrina’s jacket and cascaded over her fingertips. She left nonfunctional fashion for social events. Today was the rare exception. Along with the cream-colored poet’s shirt, she’d picked out a dark brown wool jacket with brocade trim and a skirt with a fetching feminine flair. Chocolate-colored Mary Janes completed the outfit. When negotiating a deal, it was essential to present an image desirable to the person being negotiated with.
Gage Fitzgerald seemed like the ruffles type.
Sabrina quickly scoured the cluttered computer desktop for housemate.quest.docx, aware that Carlton was eyeing her suspiciously. He moved in closer for a whiff of her perfume. “White florals?”
“It’s Un Lys,” she said defensively.
“It’s so garden party. It’s so not you,” he said with good-natured disapproval. “I would hate to think that my fearless leader has succumbed to the whims of an oppressive patriarchy.”
“‘Succumb’ isn’t a word in my vocabulary, Carlton,” Sabrina assured him. She printed out the document and swiped it from the printer tray with a flourish.
The first floor of the Capitol Extension smelled of General Tso’s. Just outside the Capitol Grill, a standing placard reminded her that it was Pan-Asian Wednesday. The grill’s seating area, with its muted red Formica-topped tabletops and clashing turquoise chairs, was only slightly smarter than the cafeteria in her freshman dorm and had the same institutional dine-on-the-fly atmosphere.
She spotted Gage sitting at a corner table stirring something into a steaming cup. He wore jeans and the same shirt recycled from last night, only he’d added a ball cap to the mix. Worn backward. He looked up and let out a low whistle when he saw her coming his way.
“My, what a fetching ensemble,” he said, a lazy smile curling his lips. “Frills, frills, frills. All this on my account?”
He whipped off his cap and ran a big hand through clean auburn waves. Sabrina really wished he hadn’t done that, because for a scant second, she remembered the texture of that hair and how it had curled around her fingers. And the way it smelled like freshly cut herbs and castile soap. Then another more intense recollection popped into her mind of the scent of the tender spot under his earlobe, sweeter, warmer, muskier and intensely human.
Why did he have to be so incredibly … male? Around the dawn of fire, speech and erect spines, she could well imagine that men like him — the earliest of alpha Homo sapiens — had whipped female cave dwellers into a state of mindless, illogical lust. Something about him certainly inspired it in her, especially now when he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.
Or like he was about to roll back into it …
Oh, yes. Men like Gage Fitzgerald had definitely been responsible for the survival of the species.
The best way to proceed was to keep reminding herself that this was Gage “Fitz” Fitzgerald, atrocity of the airwaves. She made herself give him a stony look. “I don’t have much time, so let’s get on with it, please.” She pulled out a seat and placed the printed questionnaire on the table between them. So he was a cocoa drinker, she noticed. Heavy on the marshmallows. A plate with a cruller on it sat next to the cup. Fancy that.
“You brought a checklist?” Gage looked amused.
“It’s to expedite the compatibility determination process.” She retrieved a pen from her purse. “Level of education?”
“Bachelor’s degree. I got a scholarship into the master’s program but ditched it after two years.”
“Really? Why?” Sabrina looked up, fascinated. She would have pegged Gage Fitzgerald as a man who had always been one decimal point away from scholastic probation.
“Molly told me you’ve written a thesis. You tell me,” came the droll reply.
“Do you smoke?”
“Kicked the habit.”
“Pets?” she asked.
“Does the python count?” Gage waited for the stunned look to spread across her face before his lips spread into a mischievous smile.
She gave him an irritated look and briskly checked off “None.” Now she’d get to the heart of it. “Will you be having, ah, overnight guests?”
“Mind your own business,” he said promptly and blew the surface of the steaming cocoa. Sabrina clicked her pen and gave him a pointed stare.
“Look, if I have anyone over, I’ll cap it at once a week and promise to keep it down to a dull roar.” He winked. Sabrina felt her cheeks flush.
“Do you use illegal drugs?” she asked.
He looked at her sharply, but his eyes sparkled. “C’mon. What kind of question is that? I’m thirty-eight, not eighteen.”
“It’s important to ask these questions. Haven’t you ever had the housemate from hell? It’s a rite of passage for anyone who remains s
ingle in his or her twenties. Sort of like pregnancy scares and adult acne.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I thought a sense of humor was a big n-o in your line of work.”
She scrutinized him carefully. Men his age were usually married, laying claim to a kingdom of two-thousand square feet of Berber and a satellite dish. Then again, this was Gage “Fitz” Fitzgerald, shock jock. She couldn’t envision him tucked away in the ’burbs with a wife and kids. Not now. Not ever. Hippie co-ops and gypsy encampments came to mind.
A portly, balding man in a gray pinstripe suit walked by and nodded at her cordially. Sabrina nodded back and smiled.
“Friend of yours?” Gage inquired, noticing the exchange.
“Not remotely.” She let her smile fade. “He and his ghastly contingent vote ‘nay’ on every one of Theo’s bills out of sheer spite.”
She studied the piece of paper in front of her. Other than her question about overnight guests, Gage had given sufficient answers to all of the others. She hadn’t expected that. Maybe he was a deeply closeted alcoholic. Or had a gambling addiction. Why else would a man his age need a housemate if money weren’t an issue? One large, square hand landed in front of her.
“Put away the paper,” he said, dragging it to his side of the table. “Let’s talk, man to man. Or in this case, Chief of Staff to man.”
“Fine.” Sabrina forced herself to ignore the sleight to her femininity. “We’ll take it open-ended, starting with this question: Why do you need a cheaper place to live?”
“Same reason you probably need a housemate. Financial problems cropped up, and I’m not wild about foisting myself on my friends and their guest rooms. If I downsize just a little, I can free up more cash.”
An ex-wife? Sabrina wondered. Maybe he was embroiled in a paternity suit …
“I don’t have any kids to support,” he said as though reading her mind. “But I do have people in my life that I care about. It’s nothing shady. Let’s leave it at that.”
People probably meant family, Sabrina reasoned. Perhaps a mother whose pension had run out or a sibling who’d been fired from a job. Suddenly, she realized that she knew nothing about Gage Fitzgerald. Nothing at all.
“What about you?” he asked. “Trying to hang onto property in Austin’s sweet spot?”
“It has nothing to do with that. I grew up in the Corners. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.” A wistful note slid into Sabrina’s voice. There was no way she could explain to Gage Fitzgerald what it meant to be a Corners girl, born and bred. “I don’t expect you to understand, and I mean that in the least condescending way possible.”
“I understand all right,” Gage told her. “I’ve moved around a lot. Every time I landed in a new city, I hoped that would be the place I’d settle into. I’m getting to an age where I want it to be the last place.”
“Yes. It’s like that exactly.” Sabrina felt her lips moving of their own volition. She didn’t know if it was because the steady timbre of his voice had an oddly hypnotic effect or because he was speaking her language. Just when she was playing with the possibility that living with Gage Fitzgerald might be bearable, he opened his mouth again and spoiled everything.
“Of course, given what houses in Austin proper cost, ‘home’ may as well be a co-op in Manhattan with a Central Park view,” he said nonchalantly, reaching for his donut.
Sabrina resigned herself to the options. She could agree to rent the room to Gage and suffer his presence. Or she could live from paycheck to paycheck and hope that rot wouldn’t settle into the foundation before Theo gave her a raise.
She cleared her throat. “If we live together, I want to make something clear. That, um, thing that happened between us at Green Pastures?”
“‘Thing’?” He looked at her as though daring her to elaborate. “You mean when I kissed you? Or when I slid my hand down the side of your—”
“—All of it,” Sabrina interrupted, blushing furiously. “I didn’t tell Molly. I didn’t see any reason to. Did you, ah…”
“Did I tell Sebastian? No. I don’t kiss and tell, no matter how many kisses that entails.” He wasn’t smiling, but his slow, deliberate wink still rankled her.
“I don’t make it a habit to make out with strange men at weddings. Just so you know.” Sabrina’s face flamed as she thought of his fingers delicately tracing the curves of her breasts.
“Now that I can definitely believe,” Gage said as he lustily took the last bite of cruller. “And you’re telling me this why—?”
She bristled. He knew why. Damn straight he did. “Let’s just say I don’t want you getting the impression that I’m looking for a ‘friend with benefits’,” she informed him stiffly. “I don’t need complications in my personal life.”
He chuckled and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Why?”
“You want the truth?”
“Do I look like I need to be mollycoddled?” She returned his shoot-straight look with one of her own.
“Because you, darlin’, are a walking, breathing, talking complication. You’re climbing up the top rungs of the career ladder, but you couldn’t have screwed your personal life up any better than if you’d been handed blueprints.” There was no criticism in his voice, she noticed. Just what had Molly and Sebastian told him?
“That doesn’t make me complicated; it makes me a human being, just like everyone else,” she defended herself.
“It makes you a woman who doesn’t know what the hell she wants out of life. Except for a house in Cadence Corners — and a political pedigree.” Gage looked around at the men and women dressed in expensive business attire.
What was he implying? That her most pressing mission in life was to obtain a sterling reputation as a behind-the-scenes agenda pusher?
“I won’t add to your worries,” he went on blithely, placing the empty cup on its plate, “and I don’t waste my time with reluctant women. See, I’m a simple man. I need a home base to conduct the basics.”
Sabrina eyed him with skepticism. “Which are?”
“Sleep, shower, shave and another word that begins with an ‘s’ that I try not to mention in polite company. I also have something you really need.”
“What?”
He produced a footprint-muddied envelope from the pocket of his jacket with the address of her mortgage company printed on the front. “This, which I serendipitously found blowing around in the parking garage. And—” He then produced a tattered checkbook. “—this. Name your price.”
In a weak voice, she told him and watched as he proceeded to write out a check for twice the amount. He took his time stuffing the check in the envelope and licking the flap. Gage Fitzgerald had to be one of the last human beings on the planet to write paper checks.
“My first and last month’s rent.” He flapped the envelope at her seductively, eyes sparkling with mischief. Sabrina suddenly understood the meaning of the old adages “over a barrel,” “up a creek without a paddle,” and “shit out of luck.” She was stuck with Gage. Or no one at all.
She eyed the envelope wistfully. “Okay, Fitzgerald. Give it.”
“Magic word?”
“Give it to me, please,” she repeated, feeling like a trained parrot.
“Good girl,” he grinned and tipped the enveloped in her direction.
She plucked it from his fingers, feeling slightly dirty. She’d gotten by on her own her entire life. She didn’t need a man for financial reasons. Not for his physical brawn or his willingness to take out the trash and clean the air conditioning ducts. Even though having someone to do household chores that involved ladders and heavy lifting didn’t sound too bad.
“Don’t worry, the check won’t bounce,” Gage assured her.
Sabrina gave him a copy of the house key and watched as he slipped it on a double ring glutted with keys.
“Do you mind waiting until Friday before you move in?” she asked. “I ne
ed to clear a few more things out of the guest room.” The truth was that she craved a few more days as a single occupant. Housemate. Such an innocuous word, yet so filled with frugal, cumbersome connotations, she thought, imagining the smell of Jimmy Dean in the morning and Ragu at night.
“Works for me,” Gage agreed, looking tired. “I’ve got a few things to square away at my old place.” The opalescent blue circles under his eyes made him look older. “Anything else I should know now that you’ve handed over the spare key to your kingdom?”
“Yes,” Sabrina said. “I prefer the parking space on the left side of the garage. The right side is all yours. There’s something wrong with the water pressure. When the shower in one bathroom runs hot, the shower in the other runs cold. I can’t explain why. Oh, and don’t mess up the kitchen. Housekeeping is not included as part of the deal.”
“That won’t be a problem. Most of the time, I eat on the fly. I don’t expect we’ll see each other much, because we practically work reverse schedules. Speaking of which, this is my prime crash time. I’m starting to fade.” He did look really peaked, she noticed. “Hasta mañana, roomie.”
She watched him walk out of the grill completely unaware of the curious gazes of Capitol staffers. Gage really didn’t give a damn where he fit in. Or if he even did. Outside a few walks of life where people skills didn’t matter — brain surgeon, research scientist and rock star — there was a word for that: incorrigible.
It wasn’t as if she and Gage Fitzgerald had to become best buds because they shared the same roof. She’d have to adapt to a new lifestyle. Her routine habits would have to be kept under wraps. She’d take her monthly Lifetime Television for Women marathons to Molly’s. But like Nola always preached, “You don’t always get what you want.” With Gage’s rent rolling in, she could keep her house. Rebuild her nest egg.
Maybe even take a vacation in summer.
She felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders as she posted the mortgage payment in the Annex mailroom and walked back to her office with a lightness in her step. She had to admit that it felt good to know that her home was safe from lease, sale, foreclosure and greedy half-brothers. The chorus of an old Stones tune ran through her head. She hadn’t gotten exactly what she had wanted.
Something About You (Just Me & You) Page 11
