CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I drift out of the spa on a cloud of endorphins, ready to pour myself into bed for a long Sunday nap.
I feel rubber-limbed and squeaky clean after being purified, scrubbed, massaged, plucked, and polished. I also look ridiculous, my face red and blotchy from threading and my yoga clothes sweaty from the walk home.
I check my phone and Mom’s sent me a text to say Dan’s taking her to the airport. I smile. I know she has to get back to Eugene for client appointments tomorrow, but I’d bet a pint of gelato that she’ll be back in New York soon.
When I open the door to Gavin’s apartment, I immediately feel something different.
The terrace doors are open. The living room lights are on. And Jasper doesn’t greet me with his familiar baroo—I don’t see him anywhere.
I kick off my sneakers at the door and pad into the apartment. A ratty-looking backpack is slumped on the couch next to a battered guitar case. A glass of ice water sweats on the kitchen island.
Gavin.
I don’t call out. Instead, I tread silently through the apartment, looking for him in the office, the music room and the downstairs guest rooms.
Nothing.
I take a breath for courage and ascend the spiral staircase, wondering if I should somehow knock.
Dirty jeans and a T-shirt are piled on the floor of Gavin’s bedroom, his bathroom door ajar. Jasper’s snuggled in the center of the new white comforter, curled in his dog-bagel shape.
I hear the shower shut off and I’m caught—should I run back downstairs? Should I have knocked and waited outside? Before I can flee, the bathroom door opens and I see Gavin in a billow of steam with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
Hot damn.
I shrink back toward the stairs but Gavin sees me and his face shifts from surprise to a smile.
“Beryl.” He opens his arms, beckoning me closer. I can’t walk away from this magnetic pull and I come to him, closing my eyes as I bury my face against his neck. Holding him is a thousand times better than I imagined.
I feel his damp skin against my cheek, his hands sifting through my newly straightened hair. I open my eyes and I’m inches from the tattoo that I’ve looked at a million times in pictures—reckless inked just below his collarbone.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, wrapping my arms more tightly around his waist. “You’re real.”
“You’re a dream,” he says. “I got home and it was everything you promised. The only way I was sure this was my place was the piano.”
“Do you like it?” I tilt my head up, my hazel eyes meeting his pale blue ones. His full mouth is inches from mine and I flash to the wicked things I’ve imagined it doing to me, over and over.
“Oh, yes.” Gavin steps back, holding me at arm’s length as his eyes sweep my body. “I like.” He’s not talking about the apartment.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me, too. We have a lot of catching up to do.” He guides me to the foot of his bed and has me sit. I follow his direction, docile and curious, wondering if he’s going to do the things he’s promised in our most intimate conversations right now.
I lick my lips in anticipation.
But he goes to a dresser to retrieve new clothes. As if sensing my train of thought, he grins. “After everything we’ve talked about, I’d rather just drop this towel and ravish you, but I have learned a few manners on my trip.”
Gavin’s smirk is wicked as he retreats to his bathroom and puts on clothes. The fact that he leaves the bathroom door ajar has my body on high alert even though I can’t see him dress.
“Let’s try this from the beginning,” he says, taking my hand as he leads me down the spiral staircase. “Hi, I’m Gavin, and it’s nice to meet you.”
His grin is boyish and sweet. His blond hair sticks up in every direction after being scrubbed dry with a towel and left uncombed.
“I’m Beryl.” I giggle as we walk toward the kitchen. “And if you play your cards right, I’m willing to share some of the passion fruit gelato a cute guy gave me.”
“Cute guy? Should I be jealous?”
“Depends on if you think you can compete.” I take the gelato from his freezer and grab two spoons from a drawer, feeling weird that I know Gavin’s house better than he knows it, considering I’ve reorganized and redecorated every inch.
Gavin follows me to the squishy leather couches in the living room. “What do I have to do to beat this guy?”
I love that he’s playing along. I sit and tuck my feet under me. Gavin sits close, one bare foot on his knee, and helps me pry the lid off the gelato. “Well, for starters, this guy isn’t just some bad-boy rock star.”
Gavin frowns. “Does that mean I have to be a good boy?”
I grin. “Not too good. But reformed a bit. No more self-destructive jags.”
“Agreed. What else?”
“He listens. I mean, really, really listens—he gets me. One time I randomly mentioned I liked gelato and he sent me four pints of this.” I tip the carton for Gavin to take a spoonful and he puts it in his mouth, savoring it.
“This is really good.”
“Duh.”
“The guy who found it for you must be a genius.”
I laugh. “He’d like to think that.”
“So he’s not? Well, then, all I’ve got to do is prove my genius-ness and I win.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Then tell me. What’s the magic recipe?”
“When I met this guy, he was a screwed-up, irresponsible celebrity and I was an ultra-responsible New York newbie.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m try-new-things Beryl. And I want to get to know a guy named Gavin who’s found a new muse, ditched his pity party, and decided he’s ready.”
“For what?”
“This.” I lean forward and press my lips against his, my eyes open and searching his reaction. His hand freezes in midair, still holding an empty spoon, and the other hand plunges into my hair and tightens into a fist.
The spoon falls and Gavin turns me, in one fluid motion pulling me on top of him as he reclines into the couch. His lips are hot and demanding, speaking with a thousand kisses to the dam of passion and need that’s been opened now that we are finally face to face.
I open to him, feel his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body. I hear his breathing shift and quicken, and I moan as his lips blaze a trail along my jaw, then down toward the hollow at my throat.
I sink my teeth into his shoulder, grasping to bring him closer to me. I move my hips to his. I feel him harden in response, his arms pulling me so tight I’m breathless and alive and soaring.
And then, just as suddenly, he breaks us apart, his breath heavy as he pushes me away. He twists his head and struggles to sit, righting us from the deep dive of passion.
“Gavin? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He scrubs his hands against his face, as if he’s trying to wake up from an intense dream.
“Is it something I—?”
“No. You’re damn near perfect, Beryl. This is just—I have to go. I have to deal with something before we can do this. I promised myself when I was traveling that I would do this.”
“Can I help?”
“No. I have to do this alone.”
His statement stings and I blink hard. “Then when can I see you?” I realize I’m committing a major slide into neediness and I balk, feeling stupid as I ask the question.
Fear and insecurity wash over me but Gavin pulls me close to him, planting a few soft kisses across my cheek, with a final sweet touch to my lips.
“Meet me for dinner. Tonight at eight. We’ll go to Sant Ambroeus and sit outside. You’ll love their sangria.”
“OK.” I hesitate. A question hangs in the air, waiting for me to ask it. “What do you want me to do about accommodations tonight? I didn’t know you were coming home today or else I would have gotten my stuff out to give you space.”
Gavin runs a gentle hand over my jaw and tips up my chin. “Let’s talk about it—and us—tonight.” He offers me one more kiss and then sweeps through the apartment for his shoes, wallet and keys.
“Bye, Beryl.” Gavin waves at me, still shell-shocked on his couch, and is out his front door.
My chest heaves in a shuddering breath.
What. Was. That.