6. Gemma
Chapter six
Gemma
J ust when I thought Eoghan had given up on his ridiculous idea of giving him a shot to prove the chemistry between us is more than a fleeting attraction, my phone rings in the middle of the night. I’m not sure why I answered Eoghan's call. It’s not like the last time I answered the phone from an unknown caller it went well. Though as annoyingly persistant as Eoghan can be, I’d much rather hear his voice on the other end of the line rather than the woman who gave birth to me.
I’ve been out of sorts since the night I heard from my mother a couple weeks ago. She needed money, which was no surprise, and it was the reason I’d changed everything about myself after leaving Virginia Beach. Hell, I even made sure the way I spoke had no Virginian accent that could give people an idea of where or how I grew up. When I was accepted into Yale, I changed my name. I wanted a fresh start, and I wanted Jennifer Wilkins to be nothing but a distant memory. So Gemma Dalton took her place.
No one knows who I used to be, not even my best friend. How my mother found me is a complete mystery. She could have probably hired or fucked a PI, so he would do some digging. She knew I went to Yale, but I never told her I’d completely transformed myself. Cutting ties to her was harder than I thought in the beginning, hence why, during my freshman year, I still answered her phone calls. But those calls were nothing more than her wanting money and to bitch about her life being a dancer and how I abandoned her for some rich pricks in Connecticut. The last conversation we had when she called me a “spoiled little bitch” sealed the deal. That woman never once did anything for me that could be construed as “spoiling.” I changed my number that very day and left all remnants of my past life in the rearview—including her.
Imagine my surprise when I answered the blocked number, and it was none other than my mother. Pure shock was the only thing that stopped me from hanging up the phone when she muttered her greeting.
“Is that any way to greet your mother?” my mother says in a low, raspy voice that tells me she’s probably been smoking at least two packs a day since the last time I spoke to her ten years ago.
Hearing her voice nearly stuns me stupid. Good thing I recover quickly, considering I’m driving.
“What do you want? How did you get my number?”
“Aren’t you happy to hear from me, Jennifer? Or should I call you Gemma?” The scorn in her voice makes my skin crawl. It’s the same way she spoke to me throughout my childhood. Every time she would berate me for wanting even the simplest of necessities, like something other than canned meat for dinner, she’d ask why I thought I was some special little princess. Meanwhile, my mother was never short on whiskey or any of her other coveted substances.
“I’d prefer you didn’t call me anything, Mother.” Not Angela, as she preferred I call her when I got a bit older so she could try to pass me off as her younger sister instead of her teenage daughter. “I’ll ask again: What do you want?” I didn’t bother asking her how she got my number. I doubt she'd tell me anyway.
“Well, sweetheart,”—Oh, this shit is going to be good—“it’s been a little rough here the last few months. My husband, your stepdaddy, well, he lost his job. He worked with a PI who used to investigate insurance fraud, and the asshole made up some lies about Reggie taking bribes and fired him. Can you believe it?”
I can believe it. I do believe it. Plus, I have no idea who this Reggie guy is. My mother was single when I left for college, so the fact she thinks I’d care about a stepfather I’ve never met proves how delusional and desperate she is.
“Are you working?”
“I would, but I hurt my back about two years ago. It's so painful for me to dance, Jenny. The doctors don’t know what the hell they’re doing around here.”
The idea that my mom is even under medical care is laughable. My guess is she tweaked it, they gave her some pills, and she decided she hurt it worse than what she actually did to try to manipulate the health care system into supplying her addiction.
“That’s too bad,” I tell her. “But unfortunately, I don’t have any money to send you.”
“Right. I’m sure you must be so broke if you can afford a place in Boston.”
“How do you know where I am?”
“Your daddy’s a PI.”
“Okay. First off, he’s nothing to me. He’s your husband, and I’ve never met the man, nor do I plan to. Second, I’m not sending you money, Angela. I’m sure you can do something other than dancing, and your husband can get off his ass and find a job, too. I’m not in the habit of supporting you anymore. Figure it out.”
“You ungrateful little bitch. What if I’d told you to figure it out when you were little, huh? You would be nothing without me,” she yells into the phone. “I'm sure you have some fancy job, and you’re just living it up in Boston. There’s no reason you can’t help me out a little ’til I get back on my feet.”
“I have every reason to not help you. Namely, you never did a damn thing for me when I was a kid. I owe you nothing.”
“You’re going to regret this, Jennifer. And real fucking soon.”
With that, she hangs up, and I can’t even call her back to ask what the hell she’s talking about, considering she called me from a blocked number. I’m sure I could track her down like she did me, but Angela’s threats have always been hollow, just like her soul.
The memory of that conversation plays over and over in my mind, like it has for the last two weeks, as I try to fall back to sleep. So fucking typical of her. Every time she pulled a stunt like this when I left home, I would ruminate over our latest conversation for days on end, working my stomach into knots with guilt. Then, one day, I decided enough was enough. I’d never felt more free than I did the day I trashed my old phone along with my old life. Now, here she is again, trying the same tired bullshit. The difference is I’m no longer the little girl who just wanted her mom to love her. Now, I’m Gemma Dalton and refuse to take anyone’s shit—including my egg donor’s.
Three days pass before I hear from Eoghan again while sitting in my office going over some ad copy for the campaign we’re launching next week.
Eoghan: Are you free Saturday night?
Me: No.
Eoghan: What are you doing that you can’t possibly tear yourself away from?
Me: Washing my hair.
Eoghan: I'll let it slide this time because I know it’s short notice. How about next Saturday?
It is short notice, but that’s not why I can’t go out with him this weekend. I just don’t want to give him the real reason.
Me: I’ll pencil you in .
Eoghan: You can write it in with permanent marker, blondie. I'm taking you out next weekend.
Never in my life have I had a guy try so hard to break through my walls. I’ve given him no reason to think it’s ever going to happen, well, not on purpose. I’m still not a hundred-percent sold on the idea that starting anything with Eoghan isn’t going to end up in flames with my heart in ashes, but against my better judgment, that man has worn me down, at least somewhat.
However, this Saturday, I have a date with one of the few straight men in the fashion world. On paper, we’re a perfect match. He’s a photographer who understands the demands of the industry. As far as I can tell, he’s not some playboy you would expect from someone in his position, taking pictures of beautiful women for a living. He’s sweet and tripped over his words when he told me he would be in town for the week and was wondering if maybe I’d like to have dinner with him. Of course I said yes. He’s so far from the guys I typically date. And that’s exactly what I’m looking for.
But then why did I tell Eoghan I’d go out with him next weekend? Because you’ve never been able to resist a bad boy, so why start now? that infuriating voice in the back of my mind likes to remind me. Shut the hell up, I say to that incessant voice and tilt my head down to get back to work.
The next day, after I’ve showered, shaved, and slipped into a new sapphire-blue dress with a low V-neck, I feel like one of the models Stephan normally shoots with. The urge to wear something simple was strong, but that’s not how I would usually dress on a first date. But for some reason, I didn’t feel particularly compelled to put in the effort I usually do. That does not bode well for the evening ahead.
When I pull in front of the upscale restaurant, the valet opens my door for me, and I hand him my keys. Stephan is waiting by the front door. Walking to him with a smile on my lips, he leans in and kisses both of my cheeks.
“You look stunning, Gemma.”
“Thank you. You look great, too.” He’s wearing a white, collared shirt with a tweed blazer and brown slacks. He looks respectable and charming. Though, I would have expected a bit more…I don’t know…something, considering the industry we work in. I’m not saying he looks like some sort of troll or anything, but he kind of looks like he raided his dad’s closet for an outfit.
You’re being a fashionista bitch. Knock it off.
Stephan leads me into the dimly lit restaurant with his hand at the small of my back. And I feel nothing. No zing , no warmth traveling from the spot where his hand is connected to me. Just a big old nothing. Not like when…
Nope, not going there.
The restaurant is beautiful. There are cream tablecloths, votive candles illuminating each table, and the faces of smiling couples as we follow the hostess, who is wearing a simple black dress. It’s tasteful and sophisticated—your classic Bostonian elegant affair. After the hostess seats us, I smile at her as she hands me my menu. It strikes me just how bland this place is. Beautiful, yes. But so, so bland. So typical. Unlike that little Irish pub in downtown Boston run by a man who is anything but typical. I groan inwardly at the thought of Eoghan and plaster a smile on my face, directed at the man sitting across from me, attempting to focus my attention there and nowhere else.
Our waiter comes over with two glasses of water and asks if we would like to start with a bottle of wine.
“Yes,” Stephan answers. “We’ll have a bottle of the 2018 pinot noir.” He hands the wine menu back to the waiter and nods before turning his attention to me. “You’ll love it. It’s the one I get every time I’m here.”
“You come here often?” I ask with a chuckle and try not to be irritated with the fact that he didn’t ask if I like red wine.
“Every time I’m in the city,” he replies without picking up on my joke.
“It’s a beautiful restaurant. I’ve never been here.” I open the menu and scan the contents. “Oh, the rib eye sounds good,” I say and set my menu down.
“It’s okay, but the linguine with clam sauce is what you should get.”
“I’m not really a fan of seafood.”
“Trust me. It’s the best you’ll ever find, and it doesn’t have that seafood taste.”
I never understood why people say that. Oh, the fish is delicious. It doesn't taste like fish , or Oh, the venison is amazing. It's not gamey at all. That’s exactly what it is. Fish is fish and game meat is gamey.
When the waiter comes back with our bottle of wine, he uncorks it and pours a small amount into Stephan’s glass. He does the whole swirl, sniff, sip thing that I’ve always found so damn pretentious before setting his glass on the table and nodding toward the waiter again without even a simple thank you. That’s another thing I’ve always found annoying as hell in places like this. No one can manage to mutter a polite thank you anymore.
“We’ll both have the linguine with clam sauce and an order of lobster rolls for the appetizer. And two Caesar salads to start,” Stephan says as he hands the waiter his menu.
I stare at Stephan as though I’m seeing him in an entirely new light. Seems the shy charm I found so endearing when I accepted the date has flown out the window, replaced with whatever the hell this is.
“I’m glad you came out with me tonight, Gemma. I’ve been wanting to get to know you, but it’s rare I’m in Boston for more than a night or two.” And he’s back to being sweet. This back and forth is starting to give me a head rush—and not in a good way.
“You spend most of your downtime in New York, right?”
Stephan nods. “Between there and a studio I have in San Francisco. But my real love is traveling. I’ve visited Thailand and Sri Lanka recently and was honored to stay at the Buddhist temples. It was life-changing. The oneness, the connection you feel with the very grass you walk on. You won’t be able to look at the world around you the same after that.”
I’ve always appreciated people who can find that kind of peace in their lives. It’s not something I’ve ever been able to achieve, that’s for sure.
“I swear, it’s what keeps me going when I have to do those god-awful shoots with vapid models. I can’t wait to get out of the fashion industry,” Stephan continues with a small shudder. “I’m sure you can relate.”
Okay, I’m getting the distinct impression I made a mistake coming here tonight. I'm just about done trying to be nice enough to give this guy a chance when a head of dark-blond hair and blue eyes lasering in on me catches my attention. My eyes track Eoghan as he walks to the bar on the other side of the restaurant and orders a drink from the bartender, having a seat on one of the stools. The bartender hands him a glass of what looks like whiskey, and he turns his entire body in my direction, sipping from the glass. His gaze is piercing, and he doesn’t look particularly amused seeing me here with Stephan.
“Gemma, are you listening?”
I shake my head and turn my attention back to Stephan, trying not to bristle at the eyes I feel staring a hole through me. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew. What were you saying?” Oh right, he was trying to talk down the industry I’ve spent my entire professional career working my ass off for.
“I was saying that the fashion world is nothing but smoke and mirrors, and people put too much stock in the pretty pictures. Life isn’t pretty. It’s gritty and layered, not shallow and shiny like what the magazines would have you believe.”
Well, that’s certainly an opinion. “Or you could say the industry highlights artistic expression because, at its core, that’s what fashion is. Whether it’s expensive couture pieces or a look that you put together with what you find at a secondhand store, it all falls under the umbrella. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the pretty shiny things, Stephan. And it’s a bit shallow to think that because people like those things or are attracted to a certain lifestyle that’s showcased, that they’re somehow vapid creatures who only care about beauty. I don’t apologize for liking what I like, and I certainly don’t shit on the industry that provides not only beautiful things for people to wear and feel good about themselves in but has provided both of us the means to support ourselves. Studios in San Francisco aren’t cheap, after all. And it costs a pretty penny to take those life-changing vacations you were yammering on about.” I take a sip of wine and stand from the table. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heels and head to the restroom. I don’t look in Eoghan’s direction, but I can feel his gaze on me as I walk across the restaurant. When I shut the bathroom door behind me, I walk over to the sink and look at myself in the mirror. Are nice guys just assholes in sheep’s clothing? Stephan always seemed so sweet and down to earth. Turns out he’s just a judgmental prick who works in an industry he disdains but has no problem collecting a paycheck from. Another pretentious dick who has more in common with the other hot assholes I’ve dated without even knowing it.
Jesus, am I some sort of universal magnet for these guys?
The door to the restroom opens and Eoghan walks in, that damn signature smirk of his playing on his lips. When the door closes behind him, he turns the lock, and the room seems to heat at least ten degrees.
“Having fun?” he asks. I’m sure he could tell that within the last two minutes of me and Stephan’s conversation, I was ready to reach over the table and throat punch him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask without answering his question.
“Having a drink. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and saw you with another man. The way I see it, he hijacked the date we were supposed to be on.”
I shake my head at his ridiculous claim. “Why on earth would you think…you know what? Never mind.” Only Eoghan would decide that this is somehow his date—that I’m somehow his.
“You’re lucky I’m not a jealous man,” he says, prowling toward me.
My eyes roll toward the ceiling. “And here I thought you’ve been trying to convince me you weren’t a liar.”
“I prefer to call it a little fib.”
“So you are jealous?”
He stops less than an inch from my back as I watch his reflection, watch his gaze drink in the low front of my dress and the way the satiny sapphire material hugs all of my curves.
“You look absolutely edible, Gemma. Fuck yes, I’m a jealous man if you wore that dress for someone else.”
“You think I should have worn it for you?”
I feel the brush of his black shirt against the exposed back of my dress as his right hand grips the edge of the vanity we’re standing in front of, and his left hand sweeps my hair behind my shoulder. He leans in close, runs his nose up the column of my neck and stops at my ear. “If only I could be so lucky,” he whispers and locks his blue gaze with mine. His eyes are so dark they nearly match the color of the deep-blue dress I’m wearing.
My breath hitches in my chest. Before I can think better of it, or talk myself out of it, I turn my head. Eoghan stares at my red lips for a beat before crashing his mouth to mine. The kiss is frantic and desperate. His teeth bite my bottom lip, and I open my mouth on a gasp or a breathy moan; I’m not quite sure what noise that was. He plunges his tongue inside, swirling it roughly with mine. The hand he’d had resting next to me now presses against my belly, pushing me into his front before spinning me to face him without breaking the kiss. When my fingers claw at the back of his shirt, Eoghan lets out a growl of need and frustration, like he’s cursing the thin material between us. I’m completely swept away in the feel of his body pressed to mine and the way his muscles are coiled so tightly beneath my fingers. His fingertips dig into me as though he wants to grab tightly to my naked flesh, not the soft material he’s liable to shred at any moment. It’s clear he’s still fighting with himself about taking the kiss further or reining himself in—the same feelings I’m struggling with at the moment.
Before either of us can make a decision, there’s a knock at the door. That’s enough to shock me out of the haze of lust I allowed myself to succumb to.
“What the hell am I doing?” I mumble as I pull away from him and release the grip I had on his shirt. Eoghan’s hands drop from me, and when he pulls back, my red lipstick is smeared across his mouth. Grabbing a couple paper towels, I hand him one and use the other to wipe my mouth—to wipe the taste of him from my lips.
His gaze finds mine, and there’s a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
“This was a shitty mistake,” I say, and he gives me a flat look. “I’m on a date with another man, for Chrissake.” I shake my head, disappointed that I got swept away so easily. Granted, the date is going horribly, and come to find out, Stephen is an asshole, but still. Making out with another man in a bathroom before the appetizers have even reached the table is low.
“Your date looks to be about as bland as wheat toast,” Eoghan says, tossing the paper towel in the trash. He hasn’t moved from his spot, his body still caging me against the vanity.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Someone’s going to find a key any minute.”
“I don’t give a shit. Let me take you out of here. We’ll go grab a steak and find a bar with live music. We’ll drink and dance and have some fucking fun. This place is stuffy as hell.”
“Then why did you come here for a drink?” There’s no way he didn’t somehow find out I was here.
He lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a brief moment before meeting my gaze again. “After Giada was shot, I put a guy on you.”
My mouth pops open and I stare at him for a few beats. “You what? ”
Eoghan opens his mouth to speak but stops himself as though he’s thinking better of whatever was about to come out of his mouth. He decides to stay quiet. Smart move.
“I cannot believe you put someone on me without telling me. I can’t fucking believe I was in danger, and you didn’t think to let me know. And now you’re what? Using your guy to spy on me? What kind of bullshit is that, Eoghan?”
“In my defense, we really didn’t have a reason to think the threat extended to you. I wanted to play it safe, though. If I’d thought for sure you were in danger, I would have had you at the house with Giada and Luca.”
“Oh, so you not only give me a secret bodyguard, but now you think it’s okay to dictate where I live? Let me be very clear, Eoghan Monaghan.” I lower my voice into that don’t even think of interrupting me tone. “I did not grow up in the same life as you or my best friend. None of this behavior is normal or acceptable to me. It’s pretty fucked up that you decided to keep me in the dark, Eoghan.”
Another knock sounds, and I shove Eoghan away from me; he finally backs the hell off. Spinning toward the door, I unlock it and wrench it open, my gaze finding three very pissed-off women on the other side. “And call off your guard dog,” I spit at the man standing silently in the bathroom before shoving past the women with scandalized looks on their faces when they see the six-foot-two man I just yelled at.
I make my way back to the table and Stephen looks up from the lobster roll he was just about to shove in his mouth.
“I’m going home. Enjoy the seafood that I told you I hated.” Grabbing my wineglass, I finish the remains—the only good thing about this date—and slam the glass back on the table. “And lose my number.”
I turn on my heels and head to the exit, not deigning it necessary to turn around and check if I’m being followed. The valet takes my ticket, and my car is parked in front of me within a minute. As I’m pulling away from the curb, I catch sight of Eoghan walking out of the restaurant, staring after me as I pull onto the street. The frustration is clear on his face—as are the fists tight at his side. Oh, he’s pissed? Well, la-de-fucking-dah. Let him stew in the shitstorm he created. I’ve got better things to do with my time than give Eoghan Monaghan one more damn thought.