for me to know. You’d think after all that I’ve told her, every depraved and wicked part of me, she would have felt comfortable enough to finally tell me who she really is and what she really wants.
If what she wants happens to be me, well, I can’t say I’d be disappointed.
That’s kind of what this whole trip is about, if I’m being honest here. I wanted to get her out of that house, away from what’s holding her down and putting that fear in her eyes, the way she’s on edge when she’s in a darkened room, how she’s always tense and looking over her shoulder. I don’t know what it is; maybe it has something to do with her mother, maybe something to do with my father, maybe the letters are freaking her out—I don’t know. But here I was hoping she could let her guard down, if only just an inch.
Speaking of the letters, I roll over, wincing as I do so, and grab my phone. I text my mother to remind her about the mail. I wait for her reply and close my eyes as I lie back down with my head on the pillow. Sun is spilling through the window, which makes my headache worse.
I swear I hear clatter from downstairs.
I really hope it’s Gabrielle, though I have no idea why she’d be up so early. Then again, it’s nearly eleven in the morning.
Last night, my plan to get her to relax and open up morphed into getting her ridiculously drunk. I got drunk, too, hence the headache. But then while we were dancing, she practically passed out in my arms, and I had no choice but to pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, and carry her back like a caveman.
Of course, if I truly were a caveman, I would have brought her into this room with me. But even though I’ve done some despicable things, I draw the line somewhere. I have no fears in being forward with Gabrielle, but I’m not going to take advantage of her like that either.
My mother texts back, telling me that nothing came for my father, and with a sigh of relief, I get up and head to the washroom, then go downstairs, where the smell of coffee and food frying gets increasingly stronger.
Gabrielle is in the kitchen, bent over the stove and flipping some eggs. She glances up at me and gives me a shy smile. “I hope I wasn’t making too much racket, but if I didn’t eat something, I was going to die.”
I stop where I am and admire the scene. She’s wearing just shorts and a V-neck T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a low bun, and when you combine that with the fact that she’s cooking, well, all those caveman instincts come flooding back. It takes a lot of effort not to go over to her and kiss her in the crook of her neck where her shirt has started to slip off the shoulder.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, standing on her tiptoes to grab some plates from the shelves, giving me a very nice view of her ass.
“Very,” I tell her, my voice coming out low and gruff. Her ass looks juicy enough to bite.
She glances at me over her shoulder, and if she notices me staring, she doesn’t seem to care. “You’re not curious where I got all the food from?”
“It’s hard to care about anything else other than you in those shorts, little sprite.”
Her lips twist in a dry smile as she starts sliding the eggs onto the plate. “Last night we talked about how you don’t have a cook anymore, so I thought, since I’m technically working here, I might as well make your dreams come true. Plus, I’m ravenous, like I said. So I took the car and drove to the nearest town, Cala something or other, and went shopping. I was hoping to bring you breakfast in bed, since you mentioned it, but now that you’re up . . .” She holds out a plate for me.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, coming over and taking it from her. I remain in her space, not too eager to step away. Beyond the delicious smell of the fried eggs is the sweet coconut scent of her shampoo. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Don’t get carried away,” she says, brushing past me to take her food over to the breakfast table that’s already set up with