Managed (VIP #2)(27)

“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 f*ck 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?

I should go to bed, but I can’t sleep. As in literally cannot fall asleep. I’ve been this way since arriving in London. Awake at night, exhausted come morning. In short: I’m in sleep-deprived hell.

Swearing, I take another turn around my room like some sort of deranged character in an Austen novel. Only I’m alone. I’m in the first house I bought myself. Eight million pounds to secure a private sanctuary in Chelsea. I love every inch of the place, every floorboard and old plaster wall. And yet standing in the middle of a room I paid a decorator to furnish, it feels like a tomb.

I should call one of the guys. Someone must be up; they’re all night owls. But I don’t want to talk to them. I want someone else entirely.

“Hell.” I pull at my collar. The cashmere lays light and warm on my skin, but I feel suffocated all the same.

She’ll be up. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

It’s so silent, the sound of my feet striding across the floor echoes. I pick up my phone before I can stop myself. Don’t do it. Nothing good can come of engaging. She is an employee.

I put the phone down and circle the room three more times before my feet take me right back to the sideboard where it lies. My hand hovers over the damn thing. Just let it go. She’ll read too much into it.

“Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” I grip the back of my neck where the muscles clench in angry protest.

In my head, I hear her light laugh. I see her face and the way the bridge of her nose wrinkles just a bit when she grins. My gaze drifts around the room, with its comfortable furniture and pictures of me and the guys on the wall. Despite the decorator, I had my say in every design decision made here. This house is a reflection of me at my most personal. What would she say about it? Would she find it cold or welcoming?

And why do I give a bloody damn?

“Because you’re finally cracked, mate.” And talking to myself as well. Perfect. Just perfect.



* * *



Sophie



* * *



My room is so cute, I’m still half-convinced I’m dreaming. Cream, white-paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There’s even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It’s too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I’d be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn’t stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We’d make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we f*cked.

A nice picture.

Only I’m alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of passing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I’m so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

I’m concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I’m not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn’t consider him.

Sunshine: If you don’t sleep now, you’re setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he’ll see me through the phone.

Me: If you’re so worried about my sleep, you shouldn’t text me in the middle of the night.

He pings back an answer.

Sunshine: Small chance of waking you. I knew you’d be up.

Me: Oh? You psychic?

Sunshine: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.