Chapter 11
Lexie
When we step out onto the sidewalk in front of my building, I stop in my tracks. “Your car is a limo?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“Uh, no.” Walking ahead of him, I smile from ear to ear. I’ve never ridden in a limo before.
Gabriel steps in front of me, waving off the driver so he can open the door himself. I slide into the backseat, and I gasp. I try not to, but I can’t help it. “This is nice,” I say with awe in my voice. “Is that a refrigerator?”
Gabriel slides onto the seat next to me, and I get a whiff of his cologne. It’s so subtle and manly. It reminds me of something, but I can’t think of what. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
“You have champagne? In the car?”
“Of course.” He opens the mini fridge and takes out a bottle of bubbly. Watching him, he uncorks the bottle pouring us each a glass. As he hands me my glass, I can’t help noticing a portion of the label. ‘Dom’. Holy macaroni. Is that Dom Perignon champagne? He sets the bottle back in the fridge and raises his glass to tap mine. “To us.”
“To us.” Huh? “Thank you.” I take a sip and close my eyes to savor the taste of the world’s most expensive beverage because I want to be able to describe it in my journal in minute detail when I get home. Tonight is already filled with a lot of firsts. First real date in years, first ride in a limo, first taste of fancy schmancy champagne, and the first gallery opening I’ve ever attended. I wonder what other firsts I’ll have tonight. “So, where is this event taking place tonight?”
“The Kavi Gupta gallery. Have you been?”
“Um, no. Is it nice?”
He lets out a little scoff, “Of course.”
“Oh, okay.” We ride in silence for several more minutes until the car pulls to a stop.
Taking the glass from my hand, Mr. Parker says, “We’re here.”
Goodie. I take in a lung full of air for courage as he pushes the door open. Steping out of the car, he turns to me, “You can leave your coat in the car. It’s only a few feet to the door.”
In other words, he’s embarrassed by the parka. “Okay.” I’m going to freeze my tuchus off from here to the door, but oh well. I slip off the coat and leave it behind as I take Mr. Parker’s extended hand. Once on the sidewalk, I blink a few times to be sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
What I’m seeing are people with cameras clicking and flashing. Reporters are here taking pictures of the rich and famous in attendance tonight. It’s surreal. I squeeze Gabriel’s hand a little tighter when I realize that I’m going to be in some of those pictures. I cringe thinking about being seen in the paper tomorrow.
Gabriel pulls me along at a brisk pace to the entrance. “Gabriel Parker, Mr. Parker, Gabriel.” People are yelling his name repeatedly as we walk. “Who’s your date? Who are you wearing?”
Who are you wearing? Do guys pay attention to that sort of thing?
“Ermenegildo Zenga,” he says loudly.
Of course, Gabriel does. “Erma who?”
Turning to me he chuckles, “Ermenegildo Zenga.”
“Oh.” Whoever designed the suit, Gabriel Parker wears it well. There was so much happening at my apartment, and in the car, I neglected to pay much attention to his clothing. I did notice how perfect he looked with his hair slicked back on the top and the sides cut short.Did he get a haircut?
I take a moment and look at his suit, and I’m impressed. It’s dark gray with tiny light gray lines crisscrossing all over the fabric. It fits his long, lean body perfectly like it was made for his body. The pants are slim fit and lead down to a dark pair of leather shoes. I’m sure those are expensive too. His shirt is light gray and the tie? Well, the tie is the only part of his outfit that’s disappointing. It’s dark gray and a tad boring, to be honest.
I'm blinded by the flashing lights until we’re safely inside the gallery. When I focus my eyes on the event, I’m gob smacked. The gallery is packed with people, but beyond that, I notice the space is huge with ceilings at least two stories up. The room is stark white with spotlights shining toward the walls. On the art, I suspect, but I can’t see the art. Not with so many people in the way.
“Come this way, Miss Cartwright. Let’s get a drink,” he says pulling me behind him, my hand still in his.
That’s good. I could use a drink. Or twenty. When a waiter passes, Gabriel takes two champagne flutes from the tray handing me one. Tipping his glass toward me he waits for me to tap mine against his, “We made it.”
“We did.” Our glasses touch creating a soft tinkling sound. We did.
Nodding at someone off into the distance, Gabriel takes my hand again, “Showtime,” he says pulling me along. We stop in front of a couple about Gabriel’s age, “Paul? Sofia? This is my date, Alexia.”
