All the furniture belonged to my landlady. Each and every piece of slipcovered furniture designed to be easily cleaned should a guest or renter spill a beverage. The art hanging on the wall consisted of cross-stitched shells. Would I want a film crew associating all of this with me? Was this the brand I wanted to portray? It was one thing to carry on a website almost no one in my world had heard of. But Netflix? People might recognize me. And you couldn’t photo edit video.
I supposed you could put in restrictions, like no camera views inside my refrigerator, or watching me eat, or in the bathroom. Maybe they’d use lighting and edit the footage to make their actors…or was the word talent…look their best?
A low level of nausea circulated through my belly. I needed air. I texted Gabe, Are you there?
His response came through in a minute or two. Yep.
I slipped on my furry boots and headed out the door.
It didn’t occur to me until I’d ascended the last step to his front door that his sister and friend could still be visiting. But before I could backtrack, he saw me through the glass. He stood at the far end of the house, in front of the glass sliding doors. In his hand he held a highball glass with a golden liquid, and he raised the glass in greeting, then turned his back to me, staring back out over the ocean.
I opened the door with caution, scanning the area for skinny bitches.
“Hi,” I called, and held my breath as I listened for any feminine response.
I shrugged off my boots and crossed the floor in my socked feet, quiet. Gabe stood rigid. The familiar smell of bourbon wafted through the air as he swirled the amber liquid. The muscles along his jawline flexed as if he gritted his teeth.
“You okay?”
He exhaled, lifted the glass, raised his arm as if he was going to hurl the glass like a baseball, but he caught sight of me and changed his mind. He shook his head and stepped outside.
I followed him to the railing, looking out over the beach. Far off in the distance, two surfers sat on boards, both in wetsuits. A woman and her dog strode down the beach. I didn’t say a word, simply waited.
Gabe emptied his glass. I estimated he had at least one shot worth in that glass. From the aroma, I guessed he just downed an expensive sipping bourbon. He leaned over the deck railing, resting both forearms on it. The wind whipped at his dark hair, sending the short ends swirling up and down.
“Bad day. I’m pissed off.”
“Who pissed you off?” The skinny bitches?
“A guy from my office. Accused me of a whole load of bullshit. This whole thing…this whole case. It’s a nightmare. And I don’t think it’s going to go away very soon.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“You’ll be stuck here with me for a little longer, then, huh?” I bit my lower lip through a grin, aiming to make light of the situation.
The cold glare he returned whipped through me more thoroughly than the chilly wind over the ocean.
“No. I’ll be back home soon. Fuck them if they think they can send me away like some leper.” He set his empty glass on the deck railing and once again gazed off in the distance.
“Is your sister still here?”
“No. I flew them back this morning.”
“Did she like your place?”
“She’s always thought this island was a shit hole. She’s a Hamptons girl.”
“Well, I’m going to get out of your way.” I backed up carefully. A splinter snagged a piece of my sock, and I centered my gaze on the wooden boards, searching for any remaining hazards on my retreat.
“Wait. Stop. Fuck. I’m sorry.” I paused, watching him in the reflection of the glass. He ruffled his hair, making himself look really adorable, then rested his hands on his waist. “I was in such a great mood all day today. Then Reed called and he…I’m sorry.” Those green eyes seemed darker than I’d ever seen them.
“No worries.”
“It’s almost time for our date. Stay. You don’t need to go.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. I need to get out of my head.” He strode past me, back into the house, leaving the sliding door open for me to follow. “What can I get you to drink?”
His tone rang a false high. I reached for his hand and tugged him over to the sofa. “Sit. Let me try something.”
He sat down on the sofa, legs out front, and I reached for his shoulders. His muscles were firm, like iron rods. When I pushed my thumb down, it barely made an indention.
“Jeez, you’re tight.” I scrambled on the wide sofa to get in a better position behind him. I dug the base of my palm into the tight shoulder muscle, and he groaned. He wore an off-white cable knit sweater, and I tugged on it. “Take this off. It’s getting in the way.”
He obediently removed it. A heather gray t-shirt remained, but it was thin and wouldn’t impede my assault on his tight shoulders.
“Fuck. You’re good at that.” My fingers pushed, prodded, and pulled his shoulder and neck muscles. I even used my elbow. His muscles were responsive, and within minutes, they loosened.
“One of my stepdads taught me. He used to spend a lot of time at the computer, and he wouldn’t do the right stretches. He’d get super tight.”
“How many stepdads do you have?”
“Four.”
“Wow. That’s…”
“Yeah.” Nothing else to say to that. “Here. Lay down on your stomach.” I tossed off some of the pillows, making room for him to lie flat, then climbed up over him once he did as I said.
He groaned loudly as I pressed into the muscles along his back and tracked the tight cords along his spine.
