Jeremy had always said I lacked voice. I knew that he was trying to be helpful. That his comments—his criticisms—truly came from a place of care and concern. After all, he had voice. All our teachers had said so.
“Your writing is ordinary,” he would say. “It doesn’t have personality.”
The worst part was that I knew he was right.
I just didn’t know what to do about it.
I wanted more. I wanted to work more. I wanted to write more. To be honest and real in my words. To put something out there that I was proud of. That felt like me.
It had been a long time since I’d written anything close to that, and even then, it hadn’t impressed anyone.
This was my chance.
But.
“Can we trust you?” Gabe had asked.
I realized that I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I didn’t want Oliver to hate me. I didn’t want Gabe to hate me. Maybe I was being na?ve, thinking that I was here because of some genuine connection between us, but even if there wasn’t, I didn’t want them to think I was the kind of person who would do anything for a story.
I didn’t want to be that kind of person. Not even if it meant I’d be a better writer.
“It’s not a problem,” I said to Oliver.
He relaxed.
“I’m not hiding,” he said. “I just want to control the narrative.”
“But won’t someone here tell?” I asked.
“I’m a regular,” Oliver said. “Have you ever heard about it?”
I shook my head.
“And Gabe’s not…”
“No,” Oliver said. “But I think you know that.”
As if he could hear us—an impossibility given the volume of the music and the size of the room and all the people in between—Gabe turned to look back at us from the bar. Both Oliver and I lifted a hand. Gabe grinned, but didn’t look away.
Instead, he did the same thing he’d done when he saw me on the red carpet—a long, agonizingly slow look—from the top of my head to the tips of my aching toes.
In any other circumstance, I knew what that look meant.
But he was Gabe Parker. And I was me.
I’d seen the way heads had turned when we walked into the after-party. I’d seen the way people had stared when we’d been at the restaurant yesterday. The way people on the red carpet had screamed and reached for him. The way club goers were looking at us now. Hell, I’d even seen the way the real estate agent had all but promised him a different form of commission if he put me back in my car and let her show him the hot tub on the roof.
He was a hunk. A bona fide, certified hunk. He could have anyone he wanted.
I was a tall, flat-chested writer with cute little cellulite dimples on her cute little butt. I plucked a hair off my chin the other day. I still broke out all across my shoulders. I didn’t wax.
We were from different worlds.
And yet, he was staring at me.
“Did you get your story?” Oliver asked.
“Huh?”
Gabe was walking back toward us with a tray.
“Here,” he said.
“Cheers,” Oliver said, and this time, we clinked Jell-O shots.
Even though I’d already had three and a half cocktails, and a swig of flask whisky, I swallowed the Jell-O shot—cherry—and immediately felt like I was in college again.
Gabe leaned back against the velvet couch, his arm stretched out across the back of it. He nodded his head toward the space between us. Moving there would mean sitting close to him, snuggling up against his long, hard body, his arm already in position so he could pull me even closer. He could put his hand in my hair if he wanted. If I wanted.
I wanted.
I really, really did.
I took another shot, but didn’t move. My lips felt bee-stung.
“Now that you’re done with your research, let’s have some fun,” Oliver said.
He passed me another shot. I took it. Downed it.
I felt good.
Oliver smiled. “Come on.” He pulled me up, and I eagerly followed.
Gabe stayed where he was, only shifting to move his long, long legs so we could pass.
“He never leaves the couch when we go out,” Oliver said.
He swung me around as if we were ballroom dancing instead of in the middle of a gay nightclub where everyone was half-naked, sweaty, and about one Jell-O shot away from retreating to a corner to fuck.
“Oliver—”
“Ollie.”
“Ollie.” I’d just connected a few things that I hoped weren’t connected at all. “Does Bond know about this?”