As if reading my mind, she snorts, and her mouth quirks. “It’s ceramic, designed to look like a takeout cup.”
“Why on Earth would someone design a cup to look like something it’s not—”
“Just take the tea, sunshine.” She shoves the cup at me, and I have no choice but to obey. While I inspect it, she sighs. “Before you start complaining again, the lid is rubber. You could drink through that little hole, but I know you won’t. Take it off and drink.”
Afraid to disappoint her, I do as directed. The tea is hot, and a bit weak, but it soothes the sudden lump in my throat. I take two more sips before clutching the cup in my hand and staring down at the murky tea. The steam rising from it makes my vision blur. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing. Oh, hey, your tie is all pulled out.”
She sets down her camera bag and reaches for my tie. I lean toward her so she doesn’t have to stand on her toes, and hold still. Or I try to. I find myself listing closer until her lemon-sweet scent fills my lungs and the warmth of her body buffets my skin.
“How did you do this?” she mutters as she tugs at the tie and tucks the length farther down beneath my vest. “You’re never mussed.”
“I don’t remember,” I say, fighting the urge to rest my forehead on hers.
“Tough day?”
I think about where we are, and everything clenches cold. “I’ve had better.”
“Well, drink your tea.” She smoothes a hand over my chest and across my shoulders. “Let it work its magic on your British soul.”
Stroke me more. Forever.
But she stops and gives me another happy look. “Oh, I found your phone on the dresser.”
She pulls it out of her pocket and gives it to me.
I stand there, phone in one hand, tea in the other, unable to form words.
Sophie pats my shoulder. “Can’t believe you left that behind.”
I can’t believe anything about myself anymore. I don’t know whether to run or grab hold of her and never let go.
“Walk with me?” I ask, pocketing my phone.
“Where?”
Anywhere. “Outside. I need air.”
Neither of us mentions that we’re in an outdoor venue. She simply takes my free hand. “Lead on, sunshine.”
* * *
Sophie
* * *
Outside the stadium isn’t exactly conducive to a nice walk, as it’s in a fairly industrial area. Of course Gabriel, being Gabriel, texts his driver to pick us up and take take us to a nearby harbor.
It’s gorgeous here: the Riviera sparkling in the sun, palm trees rustling overhead. Gabriel fits right in with his tailored light grey suit, sunglasses covering his eyes, his coal-dark hair swept back from his face. Images of Cary Grant dance in my head.
I’m no Grace Kelly in my jeans and Chucks. But he never makes me feel frumpy or underdressed. Even now, he walks at my side, his hand lightly touching my lower back as he guides me around an older couple strolling along hand in hand.
As soon as we pass them, Gabriel shoves his hands deep into his pockets and stares out over the sea. He’s so pretty against this backdrop it almost hurts to look at him.
But he also appears distracted and unsettled.
“You okay, sunshine?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “We didn’t have very much money growing up. My father was a mechanic. Originally from Wales, but he settled in Birmingham.”
I have no idea why he’s talking about his dad, but I’m not about to stop him. I know without a doubt that The Book of Gabriel doesn’t open very often, if ever.
“Was? Did he retire?”
He snorts. “Retire would imply that he worked steadily. He never held down a job for very long. He preferred to live on the dole.” Gabriel’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know if he’s alive, actually, since he walked out of my life when I was sixteen.”
“Oh.” I don’t say anything else, sensing that he needs to talk more than I need to question him.
He keeps walking, his pace slow and steady, his eyes to the sea. “My mother was French. Her parents emigrated to Birmingham after her father took a managing position at the Jaguar plant. For a time, she worked as an accountant. She met my when she did the books for one of the shops where he worked.”
“Do you get your love of numbers from her?” I ask softly, because he’s drifted off, his expression tight.
“I suppose I do.” He glances at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the shades. “My mum died when I was fifteen.”
“Oh, Gabriel.” I want to take his hand, but they’re still tucked in his pockets. I wrap my fingers around his thick forearm instead, leaning slightly into him. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “Lung cancer.” A deep breath rattles him. “Rather, she was diagnosed with stage four, non-small cell lung cancer. However…she, ah, decided to take her own way out.”