“I’m going whether you’re here or not,” she says. “I won’t let you make me late.” With that, she shoves her pants off and gives me a clear view of her first-rate ass. My heart thumps erratically and threatens to quit. Holy fuck, her panties match her bra and I was right—they’re sheer. My throat closes over. I can’t breathe. It’s all I can do not to grab her rounded hips and yank her back into my erection. I want to rub myself on her. To peel down those panties and do dirty, filthy things to her. It’s been too long since I got laid, and she’s too beautiful for me to handle.
Then, thank God, she slips a buttery yellow dress over her head and lets it fall into place, covering all of the important parts. But then I get a better look at the dress. It’s too pretty. She looks fresh and playful, and I’d much rather she change into a sack. Knowing her, she’d find a way to make that sexy, too.
She grabs a hairbrush and a bunch of pins from the cabinet and wrestles her hair into a messy bun. “All right, Gabe,” she says, turning to me. “I’ll try to explain.” She wrings her hands and I want to grab them and tell her to stop. She’s a surgeon, so she can’t afford to be so rough on the tools of her trade. “The thing is, I feel like I’ve become too dependent on you to meet my emotional needs, and that’s not fair to either of us.”
I don’t see why not, but this is clearly difficult for her and it must be important or she wouldn’t be putting the both of us through it, so I hold my tongue.
“I need to find someone who’s more available for me,” she says, and her words cut with the accuracy of a scalpel. She’s right; I haven’t been around for her lately. I’ve been consumed by winning the Ruby Knuckles. But even when she’s had a stressful day at work, she’s always been there for me and I haven’t returned the favor.
Fuck, I feel like a shithead.
One of her hands flutters over her chest. “I need that, for my own wellbeing, and I’m going to put my needs first for once. So please don’t make this harder than it already is. You know it takes a lot for me to prioritize myself.”
“I do.” My voice is rough and I feel lower than low. Sydney didn’t grow up with much in the way of love or affection. Her parents were distant, which is part of the reason she adopted mine as stand-ins. She deserves all the devotion in the world. I accepted years ago that I can’t give that to her, so I ought to get out of her way and let her find it. That doesn’t make me want to crack her date across the jaw any less, but the gleam of tears in her eyes fells me more effectively than any opponent ever has.
“Sorry, Syd. I wasn’t seeing clearly. You’re right.” Bending, I kiss her cheek. She smells like antiseptic, and it may be weird, but I love it. “I’ll see myself out, but can we spend time together tomorrow?”
“I suppose that would be all right.” She smiles hesitantly. “Text me?”
“I will.”
She grabs my hands and squeezes. “Thanks, Gabe. I appreciate that.”
4
Sydney
Yesterday’s date was a bust. The guy was a jerk, which only made me feel worse about how I’d behaved toward Gabe. In his own style, he’d been trying to help. I feel like we’ve made up some ground, but we have a long way to go before we get back to normal—if such a thing is even possible. When Gabe texts to set something up, I suggest he comes over to my place because honestly, I’m half-afraid he’s going to forget despite making such a fuss about it. I can’t handle the thought of sitting in Moretti’s waiting for him to turn up again.
But at seven o’clock there’s a knock on the door and I answer it to find him standing there in dark jeans and a charcoal-colored shirt with a grocery bag in one hand.
“Hi.” I smile tentatively. Things have been weird between us, and while I know that’s largely my fault, I’m not going to take back all of the things I’ve said because I meant every word.
“Hey, Sydney.” He bends and brushes a kiss over my cheek. Blood rushes to the surface, the same way it always does when he kisses me, even though it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the way he and his family operate, and while he’s closed-off with most people, he’s affectionate with the few he’s close to.
“What’s all this?” I gesture at the bag as he enters.
“I’m making you dinner.” He drops the bag on the kitchen counter and starts pulling items out. “Grilled vegetables with some of my mama’s homemade chimichurri.”
“Really?” I lean against the counter and watch as he switches the oven on and takes the cling wrap off a plate of prepared vegetables. Valentina Mendoza’s chimichurri is legendary. “That sounds delicious. I can’t believe you’re cooking.”
He gives me a look. Darkly amused. “Least I can do after… you know.”
“Do you need help?”
He shakes his head and grabs a baking sheet from the cupboard. He’s here at least a couple of times a month so he’s familiar with where everything is kept. While he’s setting out the vegetables, I open up the container of chimichurri and sniff.
“Smells delicious.”
“Of course.” His hand movements are precise and assured. I shouldn’t expect anything less. That’s how he approaches everything in life. He’s not outwardly boastful but he has confidence aplenty. I bet he’d touch a woman with the same care. “As if Mama would let me away with anything less.” He gets the vegetables in the oven and washes his hands. “Might be forty minutes or so. Want to start a movie?”
“That sounds perfect.”
He comes around the counter and pauses at my side, close enough that my stomach flutters in excitement. He’s not even touching me, but his scent fills my nostrils and electricity sparks between our bodies. His face is impassive, so maybe I’m the only one feeling it.
Jerking into motion, I cross the room and settle on the sofa. The laptop is on the other cushion so I shift it to my knee and turn on the screen. The Match-Me site lights up and I click out of it before he can see.
“What kind of movie?” I ask, opening Netflix.
