Guilt followed me down the stairs. Gabe sat at my kitchen counter, reading through my extremely thick restaurant folder. As I rounded the stairwell, Gabe tapped the pages.
“Are you thinking about a franchise? That could be smart.”
“One of the options.” A distant one, unless I found someone willing to take a chance on me. “Ready to go?” I asked, suppressing the urge to hide the folder away from Gabe. But I wouldn’t even have that folder if it wasn’t for him, so instead of snatching, I held the door open.
“Once you open your restaurant, will you close down your OnlyFans account?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I might need the additional income for a while.”
He pushed his lower lip out and slipped on his sunglasses.
“How long are you here for?” I asked, both curious and wanting to change the conversation.
“I’m not sure. Maybe through summer. We’ll see.”
“Did you move here permanently?”
“No. Some shit’s going on in New York. This place has the added benefit that if I’m needed for any reason, I can make it back within a few hours. And Tate’s here.”
“Shit’s going down? Why didn’t you say anything in our texts?”
“Nothing in writing. You’ll find my texts are always straightforward and on point. Remember, you should never put anything in a text you don’t want read by a judge.”
The statement sounded rote, like something he’d written out a thousand times on a blackboard as punishment.
“Did you break the law?” Poor people pretty much stayed and waited for their trial date, but maybe the rich did things differently.
“I didn’t. But there’s a Justice Department investigation. I’m taking a leave of absence so I can focus on the case.”
“Where I’m from, we call them cops.”
He chuckled. “It’s not important. It’ll blow over.”
“And then you’ll move back to New York?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been out of the city for less than a week, and I’m on edge.” He clapped his hands together, and the loud sound caught me off guard. “I need things to do. It’s like my body is in city withdrawal.” He pressed the gas on his cart, and the cool wind whipped my hair.
“Yeah, I’d think you could find a better place to get away to.” I certainly had a long list of bucket list locations. If I had his money, I’d be in the Caribbean. Or on a cruise ship.
“Nah, it’s perfect. You and Tate are here. I’ve just got to get used to the quiet. No horns. No car engines. And the grocery store here has a shit selection. It’s more of a mart than a grocery.”
“I’ll agree with you there. That was an adjustment for me. About once a month, I go over to the Costco on the mainland and stock up. It’s a year-rounders’ secret.” I winked at him then bit back my laugh at the idea of Gabriel Chesterton roaming the aisles of a Costco searching for a good deal.
He tapped his palm against the steering wheel to the beat of the music playing and blasted through an empty intersection without a hint of a stop. “So, tell me about Vegas.”
“Not much to tell. Classes all day. Work all night.”
I couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but his head tilted more to me than to the road he flew down at warp speed.
“How fast does this cart go?”
He grinned, clearly proud of his new toy. “It’s basically a car. It can go up to fifty miles an hour.”
“Holy shit.” I gripped the side rail tighter.
“I’m not going that fast now.”
“If you say so.”
“No, see, it tells you. I’m going about thirty.” And with that, he pressed the brake and slowed down in front of an enormous house in the private section of East Beach. I’d seen the house a million times on my beach walks and had always admired the expansive ocean front home.
“This is it?” Holy Moly.
He hopped off the cart. “Home sweet home.”
“It’s huge.” I sat planted in my cart seat, gaping.
“Most women say that a little later in the date.”
It took me a moment, but then I got it. I rolled my eyes and joined him on the pavement. “We’re not on a date.”
“No, we’re not, but we should be. When do you want to go out? My schedule is wide open.”
I waved my hand in my best subtle brushoff. He followed me up the steps to his front door.
“Well, if you won’t let me take you to dinner—on a date—I guess you’ll have to walk back home.”
“You’re blackmailing me into a date?”
“No, I’m offering gentle encouragement. Come see my place.” He gave me that grin of his. The one that said he got whatever he wanted.
A middle-aged woman opened the front door and smiled when she saw Gabe. She wore a velour track suit and a good number of diamonds. I judged her too young to be his mother, but too old for him to date.
“Good timing. Your kitchen is all stocked. Cleaning crew will be in on Thursday at nine. The paddle boards should arrive within the next two days. I’ll handle having them delivered. Is it okay if I have the hanging racks set up right over there?”
She hustled down the stairs and pointed toward the side of the house on the ground level near the sheltered golf cart parking.
“Sure. That works.”
She smiled at me. She looked familiar, and I wracked my brain trying to place her. Gabe said goodbye without offering an introduction.
“Who was that?”
“Shelly Brownlee. She’s the property manager.”
“Ah.” So that was how the rich lived.
Chapter 13
Gabe
Poppy followed me as I charged up the stairs, dropping house stats on the way. The six-bedroom home’s design was more traditional than I preferred, but I planned to eventually tear it down and build exactly what I wanted. The lot itself smacked with perfection. Set back from the ocean with enough distance to be safe during storms, at least during my lifetime, the location boasted sweeping panoramic views. The oversized front door opened onto the main
