Unfortunately, I said that right as the real estate agent was walking back into the room.
“I think you’re right,” Gabe said before turning to her. “I might need to rethink what I’m looking for.”
“Of course,” she said with a smile, but the moment he turned away, she shot me a glare.
I couldn’t really blame her. I’d be pissed too if I lost the commission on this house.
We drove back to his rental in Laurel Canyon. The puppy fell asleep in his lap, but rested her nose on the armrest between us, her hot breath tickling my elbow. Gabe didn’t say much on the ride home, gazing out the window while I only got lost once.
“Hey,” he said, as I stopped at a stop sign. “The mountains.”
I glanced over to what he was pointing at. We were almost to his house, about to go around one of the many cliffside curves. The sun was beginning to set.
“Gold and pink,” he said.
It was beautiful—a shadow across half of the Valley—the rest of it looking like it had been painted with vibrant watercolors.
Behind me, a car honked.
As I pulled into his driveway, I knew that I’d totally blown the interview. That I was going to have to go back to my little apartment that I shared with two people I didn’t like very much and attempt to write an article that I knew was not going to be very good.
It would be functional and it would serve its purpose—I’d find a way to make Gabe seem like he was a perfect fit for Bond—but it wouldn’t be anything more than that. It wouldn’t be special, and I desperately wanted to write something that was special.
I shut off the car and turned to Gabe, planning to thank him for his time and make as much of a gracious exit as I could.
“I should probably have some coffee,” he said before I could even open my mouth. “Do you want some coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” I said.
It was such a dumb thing to say. If it meant more time with Gabe, I could drink coffee. I could choke down a whole fucking carafe of it.
“I have tea,” Gabe said.
VANITY FAIR
GABE PARKER:
The Man Who Would Be Bond
[excerpt]
By Tash Clayborne
He can’t stop gushing about his family. Parker is the youngest of two, though “we were practically raised as twins,” he says. “We shared birthday parties, shared a room, shared almost everything until she started going to school. I know technically you’re only Irish twins if you were born within the same year, but we’re only thirteen months apart. Maybe you could call that Montana twins, or something.”
He has equally loving things to say about his niece, who just turned two.
“She’s the love of my life,” he tells me, pulling out a picture of a chubby-cheeked child with dark curls. “I mean, she’s way smarter than I am, but besides that we’re actually pretty similar. When I go visit my family, it’s usually just the two of us at the kids’ table, laughing at how silly peas are. Because they’re pretty silly, aren’t they?”
We talk about his list—about the things he always wanted to do when he became successful—and how most of them ended up being gifts for his family.
“My mom was a high school teacher,” he says. “We didn’t have the kind of money that other families had to go on trips and vacations. I wanted to take her everywhere that she dreamed of going.”
They’ve been to Bali, Paris, Argentina, and Kenya. Next on the list?
“She wants to eat her way through Italy,” he says. “I think we’re going to take the whole family for that one.”
All that in addition to the bookstore he bought for her and his sister.
“The Cozy.” He makes sure I write the website down. “They have everything. Books, crafts, everything. And if you aren’t sure what you want, write them an email—they’re great at recommendations.”
Chapter
6
“I used to have a good recipe for chai,” Gabe said as he rummaged through his kitchen. “But I keep misplacing it.”
“You have a recipe for chai?” I asked.
“From Preeti,” he said. “She used to bring it to work every morning and it always smelled so amazing. She gave me the recipe on our last day.”
He pulled his head out of the cabinet, revealing a box of pink tea bags in his hand.
“Is peach okay?”
I nodded, wondering who he had bought peach tea for.
“Why do you hate New York?” Gabe asked as we waited for the water to boil.