"Damn it, Margaret. You tell this child too much."
Still laughing, we say our goodbyes, and as soon as I hang up, Gabriel speaks again. "And now your slightly unhinged verbal onslaughts become clear."
"Eavesdropping is rude, you know … "
"I would have had to cover my ears to avoid overhearing that ruckus." His gaze slides over me with clear amusement. "They talk as loudly as you do."
"Shouldn't that be the other way around?"
"Details."
I smile, despite myself, and give his shoulder a nudge with my own. It's like trying to move a brick wall.
Gabriel takes my sandwich again, and because I'm feeling generous, I leave him to it and take the other half instead. He finishes his side in two neat bites, then wipes his mouth with a napkin.
"Your parents are lovely, chatty girl."
Warmth floods my chest. "Thank you. I miss them."
He nods in empathy. "Do you not see them often? You talked before of living off ramen … "
"I love my parents," I cut in. "And I see them when I can. But there's also only so much I can take. They're … slightly suffocating in their attempts to watch out for me."
I lift my phone and scroll through pictures until I find the one I want. It's an older one of me, smiling wide and pained as I sit between my parents on a couch. I hand it to Gabriel.
He studies the picture for a long moment. "You look a bit like both of them."
"Yes." I know this well. I have my mom's dark brown eyes, cheeky smile, and pert nose. I have my dad's bone structure and wavy, dark blond hair. I look down at Mom, her caramel colored hair stick straight. I've always wanted her hair too. "This picture is of me at my college graduation party."
He quirks a brow, waiting for me to explain further.
I shake my head, my lips pursing. "It was a kegger. They were the only parents there."
A short, shocked laugh bursts from him before he swallows it. "That explains your knickers-in-a-twist expression."
"Ha. That expression was me plotting their untimely and slowly torturous deaths."
He makes a noise of amusement.
"They've always been like that-really, really involved. Mom's half Filipino, half Norwegian American. She used to bring me care packages: big trays of lumpia and lox."
"Lumpia?"
"Filipino spring rolls, basically. Which are delicious. Paring them with lox? Not so much." I make a face. "And then there's Dad. This big, goofy, half Scottish American, half Armenian sociology professor. He used to tease me, calling me a UN baby while explaining the intricate paths of my heritage to bored friends." I sigh. "So, they're best taken in small doses."
"You're loved," he says gently. "That's a wonderful thing."
"It is." I look out over the wide stadium, watching the roadies pack up instruments as Kill John breaks for the day. "And that was also the problem. I didn't want them to know I was failing. Or what I did to make a living. I wasn't lying when I said I was ashamed of my work. It's only within this past year that I've gotten back to wanting to see them, you know?"
Slowly he nods, a frown pulling at his mouth.
"I'm proud now," I tell him quietly. "I love that Mom is a closet Kill John fan."
"Shall I send your mom a signed picture of the band?" A gleam lights Gabriel's eye.
"God, do not encourage her. Next thing you know, she'll be here, and I'll lose my mind."
"It almost sounds worth it."
"I'll sic her on you," I warn. "You're much prettier than any of the guys. She'll follow you around, plying you with food and pinching your butt when you're not looking."
"She's married," he says, as if that matters.
"And has a weakness for pretty men. Go figure," I deadpan.
He makes a face. "Men aren't pretty."
"There are many types of pretty, sunshine." I count them on my fingers. "Pretty girls, so cute and sweet. Pretty women, who are rarely prostitutes with hearts of gold, despite movie claims. Pretty boys, attractive but basically you just want to pinch their cheeks. And pretty men." I give him a pointed look. "You know, the kind often mistaken for internationally renowned models-"
The rat bastard shoves the sandwich in my mouth. "Be a good chatty girl and eat up."
I take a hard bite and slowly chew, my glare promising dire retribution. But inside, my blood feels like champagne in my veins, bubbling and fizzing with happiness. I'm having fun. Too much, because I don't want it to end.
Perhaps he is too, because his pleased expression grows. He sits with me in companionable silence as I devour the rest my lunch and drink my water. When I'm done, he hands me a napkin and packs up the trash, stuffing it into the bag he brought it in. It's all done so simply, neat and quiet. Nothing that would draw attention to the act. It's as if he's always taken care of me-no big deal, just part of his job.
And yet it's all a lie. Gabriel Scott might know everything about everyone under his management, but to them he's the unapproachable shadow in the corner of the room. He likes it that way. The fact that he's taking care of me spreads warmth through my chest.
Before he can get away, I lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He flinches but looks at me through lowered lids as I ease away. "Thank you for lunch, Gabriel. I feel much better now."
His gaze moves to my mouth, and my lips swell and part as if he's licked them. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and the tip of his thumb finds the corner of my lip. The touch sizzles in a tight line straight to my sex. Everything there clenches, hot and sweet.
"You've egg on your face." His voice is a rasp laced with dry humor. He flashes me a quick, evil grin, his thumb lingering before he backs away, hopping neatly off the stage. "Back to work, Darling."
I smile with false levity, though my body has been reduced to a hot, quivering wreck. "Yes, dear."
A couple stagehands lift their heads at hearing me call the great Scottie dear and gape at me in horror. Which means I'm the only one who sees Gabriel miss a step. He covers it quickly, but it's enough to keep me grinning for the rest of the day.
Chapter Six
Gabriel
There is a game I play with myself: delayed gratification. If there's something I really want, I hold off on having it. My first nice car, I waited for a year, told myself it didn't matter if I had the car or not; my life wouldn't be any better or worse for purchasing it. I indulged only in glancing at pictures of the Aston Martin DB9 now and then to feed my need. I let myself pick a color-slate gray with red brake pads-and then finally, finally, when the year was out, I bought the car. By that time, the thrill had dampened, my need for the car muted. I had conquered my desire.
I've done the same with every nonessential need in my life: cars, houses, a small Singer-Sargent painting I coveted. And it has served me well. When you do not yearn for anything, nothing can let you down. And I know full well this stems from losing my mother at an early age. I do not need to sit on a couch to know I use control to protect myself. And I don't give a flying fuck what it says about me. It works, end of story.
I tell myself this again as I prowl my living room. The house is silent around me. Too silent. I can hear myself think, and who the bloody hell wants to hear himself at one in the morning?
I should go to bed, but I can't sleep. As in literally cannot fall asleep. I've been this way since arriving in London. Awake at night, exhausted come morning. In short: I'm in sleep-deprived hell.
Swearing, I take another turn around my room like some sort of deranged character in an Austen novel. Only I'm alone. I'm in the first house I bought myself. Eight million pounds to secure a private sanctuary in Chelsea. I love every inch of the place, every floorboard and old plaster wall. And yet standing in the middle of a room I paid a decorator to furnish, it feels like a tomb.
I should call one of the guys. Someone must be up; they're all night owls. But I don't want to talk to them. I want someone else entirely.
"Hell." I pull at my collar. The cashmere lays light and warm on my skin, but I feel suffocated all the same.
She'll be up. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.
It's so silent, the sound of my feet striding across the floor echoes. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself. Don't do it. Nothing good can come of engaging. She is an employee.
I put the phone down and circle the room three more times before my feet take me right back to the sideboard where it lies. My hand hovers over the damn thing. Just let it go. She'll read too much into it.
"Bugger. Bugger. Bugger." I grip the back of my neck where the muscles clench in angry protest.
In my head, I hear her light laugh. I see her face and the way the bridge of her nose wrinkles just a bit when she grins. My gaze drifts around the room, with its comfortable furniture and pictures of me and the guys on the wall. Despite the decorator, I had my say in every design decision made here. This house is a reflection of me at my most personal. What would she say about it? Would she find it cold or welcoming?