No more mistakes.
She moved into the kitchen to find Andrew sitting with a morning paper. He jumped to his feet when she walked in. “Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The need to remind Andrew to call her by her first name stuck in the back of her throat. Cold and detached.
“Good morning, Andrew.”
“I’ve made coffee, or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
He was around the counter and pulling a cup from a cupboard before she could stop him.
She accepted the cup and took a sip before muttering her thanks.
“Hunter asked me to tell you that he’d gone to the office.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after nine. “Fine.”
She heard footsteps and then the familiar call of her new name. “Mornin’, Mrs. B.”
“Good morning, Solomon.”
He headed straight toward the coffeepot and hummed his approval as he gulped the brew.
“I’ve been perfecting my pancake skills, if you’d like some,” Andrew said.
“I’m fine with this,” she told him.
His smile flattened.
The sound of the buzzer of the gate interrupted the silence that followed.
Andrew answered and let in whoever rang.
Gabi sipped her coffee and contemplated her day, her life, as the men in the house regarded her in strained silence.
Andrew pulled her out of her thoughts after he opened the front door.
Gabi set her coffee aside and found the valet standing at the door, his hands behind his back.
A deliveryman, one with an armload of flowers, stood with a mocking grin. “Special delivery,” he said as he thrust the bouquet into her arms.
Her nose flared, her eyes swelled with unshed emotion. “Who sent them?” As if she didn’t know.
“A Mr. Blackwell.”
She didn’t trust too many coherent words to pass her lips. “Andrew,” she lifted her free hand. “Can you—”
“I have it, Mrs. Blackwell.”
Andrew dug into his pocket and tipped the man before shutting the door.
They were beautiful. Much like the ones Hunter had sent her the first time they’d met.
I can’t do this again.
Gabi plucked the card from the flowers and enjoyed the fragrant blooms for the time it took to cross into the kitchen. Once there, she opened the door to the garbage receptacle, and dropped the flowers inside.
She knew, without a doubt, that every move she made would be reported to her husband.
As much as it killed her to throw away perfectly lovely flowers, it was the crossing to the fireplace and the strike of the match that gutted her.
She lit Hunter’s note with a flame, watched it lick up the sides of the waxed paper before threatening to burn her skin. Then she tossed the card into the cold, dark fireplace unread. “Fool me once,” she whispered to herself.
As the note evaporated into ash, so did Gabi’s concern about the thoughts of others. “Solomon?”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. B?”
“I’m not a very good driver,” she said in a monotone voice as she watched the rest of the note smolder and smoke.
“Yeah, I, ah . . . Neil mentioned something to that effect.”
She turned away from the message that she’d never read and tried to smile.
Both men were staring at her as if she suddenly sprouted a tail.
“You’re a good driver.”
Solomon stood a little taller, added a half-ass smile. “I considered the NASCAR circuit before I joined the service.”
A thought formed in her head.
“The Aston is back from the shop, right, Andrew?”
“It is . . .”
That solved that.
“How do you feel about offering a lesson in defensive driving?”
Solomon lifted a brow . . . blinked.
“We’ll take my car.”
Blink.
Blink.
“The Aston Martin?”
Gabi shrugged. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He couldn’t concentrate. All it took was one text sent to Hunter to blow his entire day. Andrew took a picture of the flowers he’d sent to Gabi in the trash and added the message: The card is in the fireplace, unread and smoldering.
The next message simply said, Duct Tape!!!
He needed to fix this. Admittedly, he had no idea how. All his life, money and power fixed his problems. With more money came more power and a quicker resolve. Andrew’s words stuck in his head. Slow down. He needed to slow his personal life down or watch it spiral out of control. Flowers in the trash were a sign of an impending tornado.
He twisted his desk chair until he was staring out over the city. It was gray . . . not at all the Southern California weather he’d grown used to. It matched his mood, he supposed.
Gabi’s, too, he guessed.