I ask about his family—if they’re looking forward to his Broadway debut.
“My mom’s my date for opening night,” he says. “She’s very excited.”
And his wife, former model and Bond girl Jacinda Lockwood? Rumors are that she’s still in London, unable to see her hubby’s debut.
“She’s always cheering me on, in spirit, if not in person,” Parker says.
Chapter
18
“I’ll check out the site tomorrow,” Gabe says to Ollie as we cross the parking lot.
“We could go right now,” he says. “It’s not too late.”
Gabe looks at me. This trip has a distinct third-wheel vibe, but the truth is, I’m not entirely sure if I’m the third wheel or if Ollie is.
“I’m pretty tired,” I say.
Gabe looks at Ollie. Something wordless passes between them and Ollie shrugs.
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “It’s been a long day.”
To any casual observer, the rest of the meal probably looked like a subdued affair. But my entire body felt as if it was on high alert. I didn’t know what Gabe was planning to say before Ollie returned, but things between us have shifted. I can still feel the rough press of his calloused fingers against mine. The heat has lingered, and there’s a line of tension running between us, pulled so taut that I’m certain it’s bound to snap.
I don’t know what will happen when it does, but I’m both eager and terrified to find out. It’s the reason I got another whisky on the rocks. The reason I’m feeling just a little bit tipsier than I’d like.
Ollie gives me a hug. If he’s disappointed that he’s lost the battle for Gabe’s attention, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks positively gleeful.
“Go gentle on him,” he whispers. “He’s delicate.”
“He’s delicate?” I ask. “What about me?”
He leans back and gives me a look.
“Sure,” he says.
When he hugs Gabe goodbye, he looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a thumbs-up.
I worry that I’m going to disappoint him.
Gabe has a truck, and knowing nothing about cars, I can still tell it’s an expensive one, even though it needs a wash. We sit there, in the parking lot, the heater blasting, my fingers pressed against the vents.
We’d been outside for less than ten minutes but it was enough. Even the winters in New York were never this cold—almost as if there’s an absence of anything beyond the chill in the air. It’s bracing.
“You have a choice,” Gabe says. “I can get you a hotel room. A nice one. For Cooper, that is. Or you can stay with me. I have a guest room. Plenty of space.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, practically on autopilot.
Gabe nods.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re already here. What’s one more bad decision?”
Describing Gabe’s home as an apartment is a misnomer. It’s a house on top of a bookshop.
I hear her before I see her. That wonderful, comforting, perfect sound of nails across a hardwood floor. I put my bag down in the entryway of Gabe’s apartment and kneel as she comes around the corner.
“Hey, girl,” I say.
Her muzzle has a lot of white on it, and she’s tall now—so tall—the puppy weight long gone, replaced by a leanness that indicates her age. I can see the knots of her hip bones, but she’s wagging and when she sees us, she barrels toward the door—ten weeks old again.
At first, I think she’s going to fling herself against Gabe—her owner—but she throws her body into mine, knocking me off balance. I hit the floor with my butt, hard, but I don’t care.
Gabe’s dog is alive and licking my face.
I start to cry.
“She remembers you,” Gabe says, not yet noticing my tears.
“Good girl,” I say, burying my face in her side.
I know it’s ridiculous and I’m definitely still a little buzzed from the whisky, but I inhale and convince myself that there’s still the tiniest hint of puppy smell there.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Gabe is kneeling down next to us. “Are you okay?”
I wipe my nose on my sleeve—it’s wet and sloppy and extremely gross but I don’t care.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just happy to see her.”
“She’s happy to see you too,” Gabe says with the hushed, slightly questioning tone of someone who doesn’t understand why another person is crying but doesn’t want to do anything to set it off again.