He’s looking right at me from his spot across the lobby. The calculating glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly who Gabriel is, and he’s figuring out how to use the knowledge that we’re obviously together.
A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as Gabriel puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me into the elevator. The last thing I see before the doors close is Martin’s smug grin and ugly wink, as if to say, “I’ll be in touch soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sophie
* * *
We need to talk.
I stare at the text on my phone, and my rage grows to a black haze that blurs the edges of my vision. My gut churns. That motherfucker still has my number. I’m sorry I didn’t change it long ago. But it wouldn’t have mattered; Martin always finds a way to get what he wants.
My stomach lurches, and I press a hand to it.
I should tell Gabriel that Martin is skulking around the lobby. But I don’t want to. Speaking his name is like calling forth the devil. I don’t want to remind Gabriel of what I did. Of course he knows, but seeing Martin, visually linking him with me, will make it more real. More pungent. Because that’s what Martin is: a foul odor hanging around, stinking up the place. The bastard wants to talk. It takes little imagination to discern about what.
A breeze blows in from the harbor. I huddle down in the lounge chair on the balcony, drawing my knees to my chest. It’s not cold out here, but I’m freezing inside, while my skin burns hot.
“Sophie.” Gabriel’s face hovers in front of me, a frown marring his brow.
Startled, I blink and look around, taking in the dark sea and the lights along the shore. “Yes?”
He sits on the foot of the lounger. “I called your name three times.”
“Sorry. I…” I don’t know what to say, so I shrug.
He assesses my face, worrying. “What’s going on in that head, chatty girl?”
“I don’t feel well.” It’s true. I want to climb under the covers and cry. “Too much driving on mountain roads, I guess.”
The cool press of his fingers to my brow almost has me weeping, and I have to blink several times to keep from losing it.
His frown deepens. “You feel warm.”
“And you feel nice and cool.” I force a smile. “Kiss me and make it all better.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead. But he’s on a mission. “I’m serious. I want you to stay in tonight. I’ll text Dr. Stern and have her come look you over.”
“No, don’t,” I say to Gabriel. “I’m fine. I’ll be better off working.”
“Bollocks to that.” Without an apparent effort, he scoops me up and carries me inside. Despite myself, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been carried around, or handled as if I were precious. And though I’m not really sick, his care makes me want to cling to him and cry my troubles away.
He sets me on the couch. “Stay.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute him, but he’s already going into the bedroom.
He returns with a blanket, which he promptly tucks around my body. “There.”
“You’re acting like a mother hen.” Which I love.
“Cluck, cluck,” he deadpans as he picks up the house phone with one hand and grabs the TV remote with the other. I’m impressed by his multitasking; he scrolls through the movie selections and selects a rom-com, while simultaneously ordering a soup and bread basket through room service.
“And a pot of tea,” he adds, finishing up the call.
My poor, battered heart turns to mush there and then. He’s getting me tea. My voice is too thick when I speak. “Italians aren’t known for their tea.”
“It’ll likely be rubbish,” he agrees. “But it will have to do.”
And though I’m all tucked up like a package, he moves me once more, lifting me onto his lap and snuggling us both under the blanket. It’s so much better being held. I burrow against his chest, and his arms wrap around me.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs in my hair.
“I’m fine. Really. I can go with you—”
“No.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Even if you aren’t ill, you need rest. Now, shut up and do as directed for once.”
“Bossy.”
“You’re only sorry it’s my turn to do the bossing.”
Unable to help myself, I stroke his chest. Touching him is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. “What was you said about forced relaxation being an oxymoron?”
“I don’t recall that at all. You’ve grown delusional in your exhaustion.”
I snort, and he kisses me on the forehead, chuckling.
The movie starts playing, and we fall silent.
“How did you know I love When Harry Met Sally?” I ask softly.
He shifts a little beneath me, propping one foot on the table. “You told me.”
“What? When?”
“The third night on the coach. You were taking a piss at my love of all things Star Trek, and I asked what your favorite movies were. And I still take umbrage that you think Spaceballs is on par with Star Wars.”