Stepbrother Thief(105)
“Yes,” I say, and then pause. “You get to tell Papa about it though.”
“Done,” Gill says and then his voice drops low. “So … that whole speech … you weren't just caught up in the moment? You'll stay? We'll give this the go it was always meant to have?”
“If you leave me again, you're not getting another chance,” I say, and I'm dead serious about that part. “But yes, I'm here and I'm doing this.” I reach over and curl my fingers over Gill's hand, meeting his bright blue eyes so he can feel the truth behind my words. “Like I said, no matter what you tell me tonight, it's okay. My forgiveness isn't conditional, and it's not something I can ever take away. It's there, it's yours, and that's that.”
“Did I ever mention how much I love you?” Gill says absently, pretending like his words aren't that big of a deal. We both know they are.
I turn back towards the windshield, my eyes on the wet and the dark, the sounds of my heartbeat mixing with the pound of raindrops on the roof. I don't take my hand away from Gill's and he doesn't move either, letting the comfort of skin to skin contact ease us both into a companionable silence.
When we hit the parking garage at Pike Place Market, I know I'm ready to hear whatever it is that Gill needs to say.
Gill takes me to our destination, a restaurant located on Post Alley between Virginia and Stewart, his arm hooked in mine, his body warmth radiating through the fabric of both our coats. I even let him hold the door open for me, stepping inside and finding my gaze drawn up, up, up to the rough wood planks on the ceiling and the chandeliers hanging at regular intervals. The windowless brick facade and the industrial steel door hide the true beauty of this place from prying eyes.
“Fancy,” I say as Gill checks our coats at the door and a waiter guides us to a waiting table in the back. “Good thing, too, because I'm from Paris—we're experts at being wined and dined.” I give Gill a smile that he returns, almost sheepishly. Only … I wouldn't consider anything about Gilleon to be 'sheepish'. Wolfish, more like.
“Voted best place in Seattle for a first date,” Gill says after we're both seated and staring at one another across a table too tiny to be accidental. This place is designed to breed closeness, to beg romance. I reach out and poke the velvet soft petal of a red rose in the small glass jar that decorates our tabletop, my senses heightened and my breath still coming in small gasps. I'm nervous as hell, won't lie about that. It isn't everyday that you declare your intent to … date isn't the right word … partner with? To partner with someone? God, I know I just confessed my love to Gilleon, but this is all still new and weird for me. Time to do what we do best—talk shit out.
“Ahh,” I say, trying to keep the mood light, “this qualifies as a first date?” Gill grins at me, handsome as hell with his mismatched buttons and mussed up hair. I consider telling him he should fix his shirt, but no … I always liked Gill's imperfections. Loved them, actually. Besides, I think I was the one that buttoned him up in the first place. Hard to remember considering the hot, heavy quickie that transpired only twenty short minutes before.
“If my only other choice is to consider that time Cliff took us both to the mall as our first date, then yes, this is our new official first date.” His words are playful, his grin lopsided, but I can see the tension in his forehead, in the strong set of his shoulders. Gill's nervous. But that's okay—I'm nervous, too.
“I recall you buying me a hot dog and a soda, some chips and a really dry chocolate chip cookie for dessert.” I smile, drawing my eyes away from Gill just long enough to accept a glass of water from the waiter. “I think we held hands, too, if I remember correctly.”
“You do,” Gill says, his voice soft, his long legs brushing mine beneath the table. His slacks are still wet, the fabric cool against my bare skin. And the memory of his body inside of mine is still so fresh. Ugh. Not to mention the things I just said, that I admitted to. Gill, the only man I want is you.
Yikes.
Guess the romantic comedy I watched the other night really wore off on me.
“I want to tell you everything,” he says, leaning back and taking in a deep breath. Even now, even in the midst of all this, Gill is still Gill; his eyes still sweep the restaurant, and under his suit jacket, I know there's still a gun. He makes it seem casual, but I know he's on the lookout for trouble. Better not be any tonight or I'm liable to grab that gun and shoot someone myself. I swallow hard and push that thought from my mind. A romantic dinner isn't the best place to bring up memories of people being shot—or the fact that the guy sitting across from you is the one that did it.