quite good looking!”
Now I’m the one raising an eyebrow at her. “You looked him up?”
She grins at me. “Of course I looked him up! After everything you’ve told me…”
The doorbell rings, startling both of us for a second, before Alaina chimes: “He’s picking you up! What a gentleman!”
I don’t miss the sarcastic tone in her voice, but let it pass without comment. Instead, I hurry to bid her goodbye before she can even think of forcing that bizarre manifesto on me again. I slip out the door and run down the stairs as fast as I possibly can in these heels, suddenly flushed with a sense of shame at the thought of Gabe stepping into this house, or—God forbid—our shabby apartment.
He insisted on picking me up, despite my attempts at objection. I never liked the idea of him coming over here. Of course, it’s more comfortable to be chauffeured around town in a nice car, especially with these brisk temperatures, but the self-reliant soldier in me will never feel completely comfortable with such redundant pampering.
My humiliation reaches a new high when I rush out the front door, and I find Gabe waiting for me right there, standing in front of a black limousine with his arms crossed in front of his strong chest and a smug grin on his face. Of course, he looks outrageously impeccable in his black suit and heavy overcoat, his dumb, short hair gelled into place and his shoes so shiny that it makes me want to scream. Why does he have to look like this? Polished, perfect—incredibly gorgeous. I hate it!
I fumble at my scarf and tighten my coat, driven by the need to hide myself and my cheap getup next to his lavish appearance.
“You look good,” he welcomes me, adding a wide gesture with his arm as if to invite me to a hug.
“Thanks,” I utter as I slowly approach, stopping more than two feet away from him.
My eyes flit back and forth between him and the car, when he opens the door to the backseat for me.
“A limousine, really?” I snark, hesitating to follow his invitation to get inside. “What a show off.”
He chuckles. “I’m sorry, would you have preferred an old Toyota Prius, adorned with dents all over and barely running on its last leg?”
“Well, it would be more eco-friendly for sure,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him.
Having said that, I can’t help feeling flattered that he remembered my battered ride from college. It was the first and only car I ever owned, given to me by my parents on the day I graduated High School. They had to work hard and save up for a long time to be able to give me this present. I will never forget my dad’s proud smile when they revealed it to me, my younger brothers excitedly jumping up and down next to him while my mom fought hard to keep her tears at bay. It was the perfect car for me, and they knew it.
A smile plays at the corner of my mouth as the memory materializes behind my eyes. I haven’t thought about my old Prius in years, and now one little remark by Gabe has sent me right back to a time in my life that seems so far away. So different, so easy in comparison.
I climb into the back of the limousine, and try my hardest not to gawk at the sight of its interior. It’s even more spacious and plush than it appears from the outside, warm and soft leather gracing my skin as I let my fingers run across it in adoration. The glass screen at the front is blackened, hiding us from the driver’s view, and—to make the cliché perfect—a bottle of champagne is sitting in a small ice bucket right in front of us, two silver champagne flutes and a tiny bowl with something that looks like green peas next to it.
Those champagne flutes. I bet that’s real silver. Of course it is, it must be.
“Not that bad after all, huh,” Gabe remarks.
“Wow,” I blurt out, despite myself.
He leans forward, bestowing two strong knocks against the screen, and the car starts moving a moment later.
“Roasted edamame,” he educates me, pointing to the small bowl in front of us. “Remember? We used to eat these at Captain Seaweed’s all the time.”
I shake my head, but when he says ‘we’ he’s mostly referring to him and the boys anyway.
“Not really,” I admit, reaching for the bowl, mostly because