Managed (VIP 2)

I roll my eyes. “I’d stick with him if he was a pauper.”

Gabriel looks up and a quiet smile softens the hard edges of his expression. I return it, my heart beating a little faster. Relief that he isn’t terminally ill weakens my knees, and the lump has returned to my throat.

I will stay by his side in sickness, in health, the whole deal. Yet I’m so very glad that he’s safe, my voice comes out thick and husky. “Given that Positano is the only place we wouldn’t have to fly to, I vote we go there.”

His eyes search mine for a long moment. “Do you truly want to go?”

I could give him a hard time about trying to pawn this off as doing me a favor, but there’s something to be said for picking your battles. So I nod and give him the puppy eyes.

“Do this for me? Please, sunshine?”

He sighs, and his shoulders lower from their defensive stance. “All right, chatty girl. You win.”

“Awesome,” Jax says, lifting his hand for a high five.

Gabriel doesn’t move.

“Always leaving me hanging.” Jax shakes his head.

“Just one thing.” Killian rises from his seat to face Gabriel. “You’re leaving your phone with Brenna.”

“What?” Gabriel snaps. “Absolutely not.”

Killian holds out his hand. “Give it up, Scott, and nobody gets hurt.”

“Over my beaten and bloody body.”

The guys all stand, and Rye rolls his head, setting off a dozen cracks in his neck. “Fellas,” he says, flexing his hands, “let’s do this.”

And they do. They actually jump him.

The scuffle is a loud, curse-filled tangle of flailing limbs and grappling men.

It ends with a bloody lip for Rye, a poked eye for Jax, Killian without a shirt, Whip without a shoe, and Gabriel on the floor, suit rumpled and his precious phone spirited away by Brenna, who can run surprisingly fast in her heels.

“Bastards,” he mutters as they file out the door.

“It’s for your own good,” Killian says.

“We love you too, Scottie boy,” Jax calls.

I kneel and kiss a scuff mark on Gabriel’s forehead. “Poor baby. I’ll make it better. I promise.”

He does not look appeased, but his lip quirks. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sophie

* * *

Gabriel has something to pick up for our trip, and he’s gone when I wake. He’s left me a note that says I should be ready to go by nine. Mother hen that he is, he also set my phone alarm for seven, something I bitch about for a good ten minutes as I bumble my way into a hot shower.

As it nears eight, room service arrives with cappuccino and a little bowl of extra creamy, ridiculously thick yogurt, topped with roasted hazelnuts and drizzled in golden honey. It’s not something I’d have thought to try, but I scrape up every little bit clinging to the glass bowl.

Determination steels my spine. I’m supposed to be taking care of Gabriel, helping him relax, and here he is pampering me, arranging every step of my morning without even being present. I cannot let myself forget that I’m contending with a professional manager of people’s lives. I need to step up my game.

I’m not remotely surprised when a bellhop arrives at eight forty-five to take my bags and escort me down to the lobby. Mr. Scott, he tells me, is waiting.

Wry amusement puts a bounce in my step as I walk through the lobby. Were I someone into high fashion, my heels would be clicking on the marble. But I’m in white flip-flops and a red, cotton eyelet sundress. Gabriel has warned that it will take about four hours to get to Positano, and I intend on being comfortable.

The bellhop leads me out to the front drive, and my steps slow as I catch sight of Gabriel waiting for me.

“Oh, fuck me,” I blurt out.

At my side, the bellhop makes a gurgled sound of shock. I’m too busy staring at my man to care.

Dressed in a crisp white polo shirt, which shows off the deep gold of his skin and stretches around the bulge of his biceps, and slouchy, gray slacks that highlight the narrowness of his hips and drape over his thick thighs, he leans against a red Ferrari, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Move over Jake Ryan.

When Gabriel smiles—a full one, complete with that cute dimple on his left cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy—I’m tempted to look around before mouthing, “Who me?”

But I don’t do that. I run to him like a loon. He catches me with a soft oof and wraps me up in his arms as I kiss his cheeks, the corner of his eye, the edge of his jaw. Chuckling, he captures my mouth and gives me a proper kiss.

He tastes faintly of tea. His body is warm and solid, and he is mine.

I give his lip one last nibble before pulling back. “Sexy beast, you’re going to melt me on the spot one day, you know.”