by JB Salsbury
My pulse scrambles to recover from the sensual touch of his finger. Evan nearly had his tongue in my mouth minutes ago, and I felt wretched. Kingston puts his finger on my lip, and I’m a puddle at his feet.
Of course, this would happen to me.
Fall for the one who isn’t available.
Perfect.
I straighten my spine. “I like my Crocs. I don’t want updated shoes.”
He shrugs. “We’ll see.”
I cross my arms at my chest. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”
“I came to see if you’d need a ride home.”
I catch a whiff of expensive liquor. “Are you drunk?”
His smile is slow, lazy, and so sexy. He pinches a lock of my hair and rubs it between his fingers. “Not anymore.”
Why does he have to be so sexy? “You sat here all night just so you could give me a ride home?”
“Not all night, just a few hours.”
“You could’ve texted me.”
He tilts his head. “I could say the same to you. I haven’t heard a peep from you in days.”
“I—”
“Gabby.” Evan’s voice sounds from behind me, making me jump.
I turn to find him standing in the propped-open doorway.
He glares at Kingston. “Everything okay out here?”
As if Kingston is the threat? Ha.
“I’m leaving for the night.” I turn back to Kingston. “Give me a minute to grab my things.”
“Of course.” His hazel laser beams stay aimed at Evan.
I stomp past Evan and head straight for the back room to grab my purse.
“You’re not serious about this guy, are you?” He chases after me.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Open your eyes,” he says as I push past him with my purse. “He’s a fuckboy! He’s using you.”
“Idiot,” I mumble quietly as I pass through the lobby. When I get to the door, he reaches around and holds it closed in front of me. “Let go of the door.”
“Jesus, Gabby, look at him. His money, his fucking clothes.”
“Stop it.” I close my eyes to push out the ideas he’s trying to plant in my head. “You have no idea who he is, and you certainly know nothing about me. Back away from the door. Now.”
Rather than back away, he throws it open.
The sound gets Kingston’s attention, and when he looks over at us, he sees Evan towering over me. His expression turns glacial. “Are we going to have a problem here?”
The driver of the SUV steps out and circles the hood to stand at Kingston’s back. He’s a little shorter than Kingston but double his width, and he looks at Evan as if he’d enjoy rearranging his body parts.
Kingston gets close, so close I can smell his cologne. He offers me his hand without sparing Evan a glance. “Give me the honor of getting you the fuck out of here?”
I take his hand and immediately feel wrapped in warmth and safety. “Gladly.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Evan mumbles seconds before I hear the door slam closed behind me.
I slide into the backseat of the SUV, and Kingston follows me in. “That’s going to make work tomorrow a little awkward.”
“Call in sick,” he says as if it’s the easiest solution ever. “Or better yet, quit.” He nods to the driver, who spots him from the rearview mirror. “You’re too talented to be wasting away at a place like this.”
“Is that right? And what would you know of my talent?” I’m joking. I don’t even care if his compliment is a lie, I love it anyway.
He looks me dead in the eye. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“No!” I cover my mouth and laugh nervously. “Sorry, it’s just… it’s been a long night. I’d kill for a slice of Nana’s apple pie.”
“Nana’s Diner it is.” He lifts a chin. “You hear that, James?”
“Yes, sir.”
He angles his body toward me and leans his head against the back of the leather seat. “Tell me, Gabriella.” He says my name slowly as if wanting to experience every syllable on his tongue. “What made the night long?”
“We lost Mrs. Lawrence tonight. Her family was a mess.” I dart my eyes to his but can’t look for long for fear I’ll get lost in the warm acceptance of his gaze.
“What else?”
“Hm? Nothing. That’s it—”
“You ran out from around that building like you had a madman at your back. Then Evan comes out all fee-fi-fo-fum and banging his chest.” He reaches out and runs his fingers along a lock of my hair. The innocent touch gives me goosebumps. “What happened?”
“The date was awful.”
He grins. Wide. “Sorry to hear it.”
I slap his chest, and he falls back laughing.
“Don’t laugh.” I can’t help but join in his laughter.
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny.” He rolls his lips between his teeth and then bursts out cackling again.
“Okay, get it out. It’s so funny that my date was a disaster.”
I tell him about the sports bar, the food, and Evan being more interested in the game than me.
“What a stud,” he says sarcastically. “I could’ve told you just by looking at the guy that he knows nothing about creating the perfect date.”
“How could you tell that just from looking at him?”
He lifts a brow, seeming to enjoy the challenge. “He has a ten-dollar haircut, overgrown eyebrows, his scrubs were wrinkled and two sizes too big, and his shoes were filthy. This tells me he takes no pride in his appearance and that he pays zero attention to the finer details. He’s a Netflix and Chill Tinder date at best.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” The one word is muffled into my palms. “From now on, you’re meeting every guy I agree to go out with.”
When he doesn’t answer, I sit back and look at him.
“But I’m also not one of those girls who needs the fancy dates or to be wined and dined.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about attention to detail.” That playful smirk is back. “Let me show you.”
My pulse flickers behind my ribs. “Okay.”
Kingston
We pull up to the curb in front of Nana’s Diner. The old train car turned restaurant is the perfect 1950s throwback and ideal for a low-key date.
“I got it, James,” I tell the driver, letting him know he doesn’t have to get out and open the door.
On a date, I’d never let another man attend to the woman I’m interested in.
I pop the door, climb out, and hold out my hand.
She slips her delicate fingers into my palm, and even in her scrubs and ridiculous shoes, she’s royalty exiting the car.
I pull her hand into the crook of my arm. “Watch your step,” I say and point out the curb. I keep pace with her as we walk to the door. Too often, men drag a woman behind them, not thinking about how they have a shorter stride or how walking in heels might slow them down. I open the door and guide her in ahead of me before regaining her hand on my arm. “Two, please,” I tell the hostess. “Preferably something private. Quiet.”
“Yes, of course,” the woman says with a slight flush.
“Okay, we haven’t even sat down yet, and this is already a better date than the one I had with Evan.”
I wink at her while inside my head I’m bitch-slapping that little Evan prick for throwing away the time he had with her. He deserves to have his man card revoked for such an offense.
We’re taken to a small booth at the far end of the restaurant, and I let her pick her side before taking the seat opposite her. She orders a strawberry shake and a slice of apple pie, and I order a root beer float.
“Where did you learn your stellar dating skills?”
I don’t take my eyes off hers when she talks. Eye contact is key. It’s the first step of foreplay. “I grew up quickly. Th
e French don’t have all the sexual hang-ups that American’s do. I learned about women from women.”
“You’re a quick study.” She swirls her straw in her water before putting her lips around the tip.
I hold her gaze, even though I worry she might see the flash of insecurity in my eyes. “I can be.”
Our drinks and her pie arrive, and I wait for her to direct the conversation. Men are too quick to jump in and dominate the quiet parts of a date. If they only shut up and watch a woman enjoy her meal and drink and enjoy the pleasure of her indulgence, it’s all hot, and most men miss it completely.
“Mmm, you have to try this.” She forks a bite of pie and holds it out to me.
Fuck, yeah. This is a great sign. Sharing silverware means she’s considered our mouths touching, and she’s okay with it.
I moan around the sweet apple and buttery crust. “Delicious.”
“Enough about my love life.” She slurps back a gulp of her shake. Her free hand folds the corner of a paper napkin, and I wonder if it’s a nervous habit or if she even realizes she’s doing it. “Tell me more about the special someone you have your eye on at the moment.”
I lean back in my seat. “There’s so much to tell.”
Her blue eyes widen with excitement. “Don’t skimp a single detail. Where’d you meet? Have you asked him out yet? Date?”
“No, nothing like that. Like I said the other night, I don’t think it’s possible.”
Her fingers still work on that napkin. “That’s ridiculous. Anything is possible.”
I record those words in my head, tattooing them into my brain to be used at a later date.
I reach across the table and slip my fingers beneath her fidgeting ones. “Has anyone ever told you that you have gorgeous hands?”
“No, never.” She sucks back more shake, and her eyebrows pinch together. “Ouch, brain freeze.” She uses that hand to press between her brows, leaving my hand cold and alone.
I slide it back into my lap.
“You’re good,” she says, squinting through one eye. “I’ll give you that.” She blows out a breath. “Whew, this is a bad one.”
When the pain finally subsides, she no longer fidgets with the napkin but keeps her free hand in her lap.
“What do you like to do for fun?” I ask, hoping to redirect her thoughts.
“You mean, hobbies?” She scowls at an empty spot on the table. “I don’t have any.” She chews her bottom lip. “I think I used to, but… that was…” She shakes her head, and her face pales.
Sensing her mood, I scramble for a subject change. “My brother Hayes used to play hockey in college. When I came to live with August, Hayes came home for winter break, and he brought a week’s worth of dirty, sweaty clothes with him. I’d never met him before, and I woke up covered in his filthy jockstraps and stinky underclothes.”
“What a jerk!” She laughs, and the sound is the best therapy.
“Smelled like Époisses de Bourgogne.”
“Do I even want to know what that is?”
“It’s a soft cheese. The smell is so foul it’s banned from public transportation in France.”
“Gross!” She forks another bite of apple pie. “Sounds like Hayes has been an ass from the beginning. How can you stand to work with him?”
My quick meeting with that snake Ms. Coleman comes back to me. “I won’t be for much longer. I’m being transferred into a different department.”
“You don’t look happy about that.”
I shrug. “I’m considering all my options.” I smile sadly and then want to kick myself in the nuts for bringing down the date vibe. Rule number whatever, never complain about life on a date. No one fucking cares.
She puts an elbow on the table and her chin into her palm. “What would you do if you could have any job in the world?”
“Something that makes the world a more visually appealing place.”
“You want to make things pretty,” she says dreamily. “I love that.”
“What about you?”
The contented look on her face dissolves, and she avoids my eyes. “I like what I do now. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Is that true? Because in my experience, everyone always wants something more.”
She smiles and shrugs. “Not me. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Bullshit.
“My Uber is here,” Gabriella says as she looks between her phone and the curb outside the diner.
“This is not the way a proper date is supposed to end. Why won’t you let me take you home so I can walk you to your door and—”
“Give me a kiss goodnight?”
“Of course not. A gentleman never kisses on the first date.” I am far from a gentleman. I’d kiss her, and if she’d let me, I’d do things to her body she only ever dreamed about.
“That sounds lovely, good sir, but I’m happy to take an Uber. If you take me home, it’ll take you an hour to get back to the city.” She gathers her purse into her lap. “This has been the perfect date.”
I fold out of the booth and offer her my elbow. “At least let me walk you to your chariot.”
She walks slower than she did when we got here, and I wonder if she’s as reluctant to end the night as I am. Or maybe she’s just tired. We’ve been here for almost two hours talking about things that don’t matter, and I could do it for months straight if she’d be willing.
“Thank you for the pie and shake.”
I open the door to the Uber, grateful to see her driver is an older woman. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tomorrow.”
She jumps at my quick response. She’s not the only one. Rule number whatever, don’t act over-eager. It freaks women out. “I can’t. I have to work.”
“The next day.”
“I can’t.”
“The next?”
When she doesn’t immediately say no, hope swells in my chest.
“My house. Netflix and Chill.”
She throws her head back and laughs.
“Is that a yes?”
“Fine. Day after tomorrow night.” She climbs into the backseat of the waiting car.
I lean into the door. “Six o’clock Friday.”
I close the door on her smiling face and watch her drive away.
Seventy-two hours until I see her again.
Let the countdown begin.
God help me, what the fuck am I doing?
Thirteen
Gabriella
“Gabby, honey, I’m home!”
I sigh into my coffee as my peaceful morning on the terrace comes to an end.
“You’ll never believe who I ran into at the bakery.”
“I bet I will,” I mumble into my latte.
My mom breezes onto the terrace, all one hundred and ten pounds of Pilates-sculpted body wrapped in Lululemon’s finest. “I brought scones.” She places an open bakery box onto the table between us.
She always gets food she doesn’t eat. Filling bellies is her way of showing love, which says a lot about why she never fills her own.
“Kirby Greenfield.” Her eyes sparkle with scandal, and I wonder how my mom would spend her time if she didn’t have people to gossip about.
I grab a scone and take a bite. “How is she?”
Kirby and I were best friends through high school, and when she moved to Santa Barbara to go to college, I almost went with her. We visited each other on holidays, and people said we were inseparable. But that was before.
“She’s engaged,” she says excitedly. “To William Walker. Do you remember him?”
Yes. “Hmm… no, I don’t think so.”
Billy Walker was a prick of epic proportions. The definition of wealth and entitlement, Billy had one goal—to land a woman from a wealthy family. Gag.
“He’s a partner in his father’s firm, and she says they’re buying a summer house in the Hamptons.”
“Good for them.” I
shove half a scone in my mouth.
“Oh, Gabby, don’t be so bitter.” Her gaze slips and settles on my scars.
“I’m not bitter. I just don’t care.” I stand and prepare to leave her to what I’m sure is going to be a million phone calls to share Kirby’s news.
“The only person holding you back from the kind of happiness Kirby has is you,” she says to my retreating back.
I freeze, just shy of the French doors. “I’m not holding myself back from anything. And don’t assume I want Kirby’s life.” I move into the kitchen. “Can’t think of anything worse,” I mumble.
“Kirby said she’s tried to get in touch with you since the accident—”
“I don’t want to talk about this—”
“After two years of you avoiding her, she finally gave up.”
She’s not lying. I did avoid her. Her and everyone else. After the accident, I lost a lot of friends because life-altering experiences are just that—life altering. I’m not the same person I was three years ago. Nothing refines a person’s values like death. If Kirby had been through what I had, she’d never agree to marry a jackass like Billy Walker. Not that I blame her for living in the dark. She’s never had the blinders taken off.
Neither has my mom.
“If you see her again, please tell her I wish her the best.” I walk away only to hear my mom’s sneakered feet follow behind me.
“How long are you going to keep up this ridiculous charade?”
I drop my coffee cup into the sink and brace my hands on the cold marble. “Charade, mom?” I tilt my head to see her eyes, which are the same blue as mine. “This is the life I’ve chosen to live, and I like it—”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were at the top of your class at Ju—”
“Stop it!”
She bites down so hard her cheek twitches.
“That is not my life anymore, and it never will be again. You have to accept that. I have.”
