Funny You Should Ask(88)

Their representatives have confirmed that Horowitz is indeed writing a follow-up to her first article, but the cozy pictures of them at lunch insinuate what people have suspected for years—that despite Horowitz’s juicy profile, there was plenty that she left out.

Fans are dying to know—what really happened that night?





BROAD SHEETS


GABE PARKER:

Shaken, Not Stirred—Part Four


By Chani Horowitz


Gabe Parker has a very nice guest room.

It’s got a big bed and clean, crisp sheets and lots of pillows. I’m sure you’re all wondering what it’s like to sleep in, but I’m going to disappoint you because I didn’t. Sleep in it.

I was more than welcome to, of course. Gabe Parker, at all times, was a consummate host, while I was an embarrassing, sloppy mess that pushed the limits of professionalism multiple times.

I can only hope he doesn’t hold it against me.

But in that moment, I was too embarrassed to face him.

Which is why, while it was just barely light outside, I snuck out of Gabe’s house, hailed a cab, and sent myself home.

Now, there’s something I should have mentioned at the beginning of this article.

I’ve never seen a James Bond movie. I’ve never read any of the books. I know that Sean Connery played Bond and so did Pierce Brosnan and a bunch of other people, but that’s the extent of my knowledge about the canon.

Some might say this should disqualify me from writing about the next—and most controversial—Bond. They might be right, but it’s too late. The article is already written and if you’ve gotten this far, you’ve already read it.

Even though I’m on the outskirts of Bond culture, I still know enough about what he represents as a character. He’s masculinity personified—smooth, suave, debonair. He always gets the girl—and the martini. He’s an icon, and he’s far bigger than the man who plays him.

Knowing this, I can say with all confidence that Gabe Parker is the Bond we need. He might even be the Bond we deserve.





Chapter

28


I counted to one hundred.

When I was certain that Gabe was in his room, that he was probably asleep, and that the front door was far enough away that he wouldn’t hear it open, I gathered my things. My shoes, my purse, my jacket.

I didn’t put any of them on, flinching when the guest bedroom door creaked as I opened it. I held my breath but no sound came from the other side of the house.

I couldn’t stop the swell of embarrassment that hit me each time I thought about Gabe’s face—how he had looked when he came back into the room after I’d turned him down. It was as if every emotion—every feeling—had been wiped clean. As if that moment had never even happened.

It had felt like a slap in the face, but one that I’d needed.

I’d needed to be reminded of who I was. Who he was.

Sleeping with him would have been the biggest mistake of my life.

My bare feet were silent on the hardwood floor and the front door opened without a sound. I pulled it closed until I heard the soft, muffled click of it locking behind me. It felt final. Even if I wanted to get back inside, I couldn’t.

I carried my shoes until I was out of his front yard. I sat on the curb and pulled them on. As I walked to the bottom of the hill, the sun was just beginning to light the sky—a hazy amber that made the houses around me glow.

I called a cab and went home.





Chapter

29


I’m woken by sunlight in my face and a buzzing from my phone.

I stretch my arms wide and find nothing. The sheets are wrinkled, the bedding pushed back like a dog-eared page. I can hear Gabe in the other room. He likes to whistle to himself in the morning.

It’s strange that I know this, and not strange at all.

The air beyond the comforter is cold and fresh. It makes me want to stay in bed all day. Rolling over, I bury my nose in Gabe’s pillow. It smells warm and like the spot behind his ear.

I’m pretty sure the tightness I feel in my chest is happiness.

I find my phone and blink at the screen.

My agent sent me the link to the Rumor Mill post.

Everyone is going to read your article, she writes.

I look at the pictures—clearly shot on someone’s cellphone from a table or two away. I hope they got good money for them.

The photos themselves are fairly innocuous. Nothing like the shots that had been circulating of Gabe and Jacinda in Paris all those years ago. Gabe and I seated on opposite sides of a table. Not touching. It’s mostly Gabe’s face and half of mine, shot from over my shoulder. We look, for all intents and purposes, like two people having a conversation.

There’s one shot of him greeting me, but even that is innocent, Gabe’s hand on my elbow.

The thing that makes all these images worthy of a post, worthy of attention, is the look on Gabe’s face.

He looks like a man in love.

I put my phone, facedown, on the bed.

Gabe comes into the bedroom, with tea, without a shirt. He stops in the doorway and I don’t blame him because I can feel the expression on my face. It’s heavy. Stormy.

He looks where I’ve put my phone.

“Bad news?” he asks.