Managed (VIP #2)(92)

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.”

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 f*ckwit 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.



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Gabriel