I grin at the disgust in his voice, but a small jolt runs through me as I think back on that night. “You remember all of that?”
His hand sifts through my hair, spreading lovely little shivers down my spine. “I remember everything you say, Darling. You talk, I listen.”
I almost tell him I love him then. The words bubble up and dance on my tongue. But my mouth refuses to open. Fear holds me back, as if by saying it I’ll somehow start the beginning of the end. It makes no sense, but I can’t shake the feeling.
I kiss the underside of his jaw, where the scent of his cologne blends with the warmth of his skin, and hug him close.
He holds me until room service arrives. Given the speed at which they show up, I’m guessing we get preferential treatment. A perk, I suppose, of Kill John renting the entire floor.
Gabriel pulls on his suit jacket and tugs his cuffs into place as I pretend to find interest in my meal. But my appetite is gone.
“Don’t poke at your soup,” he says. “Eat it.”
“I’m waiting for it to cool down.”
Apparently I’m terrible at lying because he hovers at the end of the couch, peering at me as if he can pull the thoughts from my head by sheer will.
“I should stay,” he says finally.
When he pulls his phone from his pocket as if to start texting, I touch his hand. “No, go. I swear I’m all right. I’m just having an off night. It happens.”
I need him to go so I can hunt down that fuckwit Martin and tell him to eat shit and die—or something to that effect. I can’t do that with Gabriel around. I’m fairly certain his version of telling Martin to eat shit would probably lean more toward actually kicking the shit out of him.
That would be kind of satisfying to watch, but the idea of Gabriel getting into trouble with the law or having his reputation tarnished horrifies me.
He must see my urgency, because he sighs and leans down to kiss me. This kiss isn’t quick, it’s soft and languid, as if he’s luxuriating in my taste. And I melt under his touch, kissing him back, my hands threading into his thick hair.
High color stains his cheeks when we finally break apart, both of us breathing faster. His forehead rests against mine as he cups my nape. “Sophie,” he says. “My darling girl.”
Tears threaten. He’s too tender. Too wonderful. I close my eyes, run my thumbs in circles along his temples. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Making a sound of agreement, he kisses me once. Then once more. Gentle, kisses. Kisses that feel like love.
“Sophie, I…” He takes a breath, shaking his head. When he steps back, I feel the loss of him like a cold hand to my skin.
He tugs his cuffs in place once more and searches my face. I don’t know what he sees, but his voice is soft when he finally speaks. “Be well.”
“I will.” But my promise is empty; because this sickness won’t go until I make a stand against Martin.
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
I hate meet and greets—the inane parties both before and after each concert, where press, fans, fan club runners, other people of fame, and record industry heavy hitters all congregate into one, boring, who’s-looking-at-who cluster. They’re the bane of my professional existence.
Over the years, I’ve perfected a remote look that keeps people at arm’s length during these torturous hours. Only the very brave or the very stupid approach me. The very brave have my respect and are usually intelligent enough to converse with briefly. The very stupid are easily dealt with.
It is inevitable, however, that I must talk with people throughout the night. And this night is extremely long. I’ve forced myself not to text Sophie more than once, lest I “mother hen” her. But I want to.
I don’t like the wan, yet agitated expression she had earlier, or the way she trembled in my arms, even though she clearly wanted to hide her upset. Something is wrong. Something more than the carsickness she claims.
Whatever the problem is, I want to make it better. It is imperative that I do. My entire life has been dedicated to looking after people I care for, and she sits at the top of the list now.
I should have stayed with her. I’m feeling…possessive—yet another emotion I don’t any familiarity with.
Men can’t go around introducing their woman as, “Mine; Touch her and lose a finger.” Can they? I doubt Sophie would appreciate being labeled as such. Or perhaps she would if I told her to label me in the same manner?
“Scottie, dude, you’re drifting.”
“Pardon?” I find Killian standing next to me.
“Completely spaced out.” His grin is annoying. “I guess the vacation did the trick.”
“I’m cured of the compulsion to check my phone every two minutes,” I tell him grimly.
“Uh-huh, that’s exactly what I was referring to.”
I ignore his smug look. “It was…” The best time of my life. “…I enjoyed it very much.”
Killian makes a noise of amusement. “Good to hear.”