“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?