“The house is in Arcadia,” I told him coldly as we idled at the exit of the complex.
“Gotcha,” he replied, then turned right when he had an opening.
“For the record, I’m perfectly fine to drive,” I declared.
“For the record, that’s total bullshit,” he replied.
“You have no idea how I feel,” I bit.
“You get what I do for a living, right?” he asked.
I clenched my teeth.
He didn’t take my hint of no response to let it go.
“You get that I deal with a lot of different people from a lot of different walks of life. I observe them. I investigate them. I question them. Sometimes, I interrogate them. And I’d be shit at my job if I couldn’t read them. And, babe, I am not shit at my job.”
I knew he wasn’t.
The Nightingale team was the best of the best.
It wasn’t me saying this.
They had testimonials on their website. A lot of them.
(Duh, Gabe kissed me! Of course, in my self-flagellation, I looked up his company’s website hoping they had a picture of him on it (they did not).)
And Titus, one of our informant/friends (just to say, if Titus invited us to his man-cave garage for a chill session, I always found a way to make it, because Titus was the shizzlesticks, and his man cave was too) said they were one, if not the premier investigation service in the entire US of A. And Titus always knew what he was talking about.
Oh, and there was the small fact we saw them in action not too long ago—Cap, and particularly Gabe, taking down two bad guys in a matter of what seemed like seconds.
This had happened post kiss, so witnessing it caused a cacophony of emotions in me: awe, shock, admiration, terror, despair and unequivocable lust.
Belatedly, I decided silence was the way to tackle this unexpected situation.
Though, I had to puncture this by giving directions.
Gabe fell in with that silence like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that made me even more ticked at him (because, I’ll reiterate, I was exhausted and making conversation with a hot guy, or fighting with him, took energy) along with grateful to him (which was worse).
We hit the house, and he idled at the curb.
“I won’t be long,” I mumbled as I handed him the cake so I could hop down.
“I’ll be here,” he said when I was out, and he handed it back.
The unexpected velvet blow of his words hit me like a promise I’d been waiting for my whole life had finally been fulfilled.
I lifted my gaze to him, and I just didn’t have it in me to hide what I should have.
The vulnerability.
Just how huge those words were to a girl like me.
Fortunately, I had enough in me to turn away from the flicker of comprehension and the softness that began to infuse his rugged features, and I dashed up the drive to the front door, or I went at as much of a dash as I could while holding the cake.
I hit the doorbell, and the door opened to a member of what I thought of (but being the good sister I was, I would not say it out loud, ever) as one of the Arcadia Squad.
Those being young women who had young children, rich husbands, cleaners and probably nannies. They wore Lululemon almost exclusively, unless they were going out with their men in the evening, or on a shopping and lunch date at Fashion Square Mall. And they always carried Chanel, Dior, Gucci or Louis Vuitton bags.
