Chapter 8 #2
“I have a suit for you,” I bark out, suddenly desperate to give it to him now and not have to go back to his house. The sparks. The tension. The attraction. It’s all still there, and if we go back to his house and he smiles at me like that with those naughty eyes, I know what will happen.
“Brilliant,” he replies and begins moving down the hall toward the back of the house. “Bring it by when you’re done here.”
“You can just take it now,” I say to his retreating frame. “It’s just in my car…Where are you going?”
“I’m on a run.” He hooks his thumb toward the sliding glass door. “Hobo and I have a hiking trail between our properties.”
“It’s nicer than jogging out on the roads where the nosey buggers all try to take pictures,” Hobo adds. “Although, they don’t give a shit about me. It’s Mr. Award Winner that they care about these days.”
“Award winner?” I ask, swerving curious eyes at Gareth.
He pauses in the hallway and grips his neck with a sheepish grimace. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you soon, Sloan.”
Anxiety squeezes my insides. He looks way too good for me to be alone with. “Maybe I can just leave the suit here and you can pick it up later?”
“I guarantee I’ll beat you home and have time for a shower.” He winks and takes off like a shot out the back door.
My gaze stares wistfully at his back muscles, sliding and shifting beneath his skin as he hustles down the deck staircase and runs toward the rolling hills.
Why did he have to mention a shower? What am I supposed to do with that information? Was that an invitation or something? Oh my God, I’m so out of practice.
And so screwed.
A throat clearing beside me has my head snapping back to Hobo and Brandi. “So, do you have any other questions?”
It’s about thirty minutes later when I pull onto Gareth’s property. I may have parked on the gravel road and done some deep breathing exercises I learned in yoga. Not that it helped. Regardless, my palms needed time to dry off before I could grip the wheel safely.
It’s been a while since I’ve been back to Gareth’s home, and I can’t help but gawk longingly at it as I drive down the gravel lane. I’ve always marvelled over how modern it is. Most homes around here are old period estates like Hobo’s or Callum’s.
Gareth’s estate is a beautiful piece of art.
Clearly some architect’s passion project nestled perfectly in the lush, green countryside.
A perfect snow globe in the oasis of nature.
The inside is as stunning as the outside.
It’s richly styled with lots of comfortable furniture.
Fun, funky accent pieces. And just enough unique tchotchkes to make it feel like it’s not simply ripped out of a catalogue.
I asked Gareth once if he built it himself and remember feeling a smidge disappointed when he said he didn’t. But he said as soon as he laid eyes on the property, he had to have it. He said it was important for his home to be completely different from where he grew up.
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but I didn’t get the impression he wanted to share.
I’m always acutely aware of when to push for more information and when to stop asking.
My mom used to joke that I was an empath because I can sense a person’s mood and adapt myself until they feel comfortable.
It’s not a skill I’ve ever honed. It’s just what comes naturally.
I enjoy keeping the peace. Peace is good.
Peace is calm. Everyone loves peace. Myself included.
It also means that I tend to avoid conflict, which is why it seemed easier to avoid Gareth for so long. But with how our last couple of interactions have been, I’m hopeful we can resume the peaceful existence we once had.
Gareth is standing on the front step of his house, waiting for me as I park.
He’s dressed in a dark green sweater, his strong hands jammed into the pockets of his faded jeans.
His scuffed leather Oxfords tie in perfectly.
I bought everything on his body right now, and something about that makes my chest purr with pride.
That and I love Gareth’s style.
Yes, I realise I’m the one who selects all his clothes.
But I have meetings with all of my clients to figure out their style before I purchase a single item for them.
Gareth gravitates toward classic, masculine, and understated luxury.
You wouldn’t know he’s wearing thousand dollar shoes unless you knew high-end clothing.
There’s a beauty to that because he can go for a walk in a park or sit down in his agent’s office and always fit right in.
Callum only wore a few of the things I purchased for him. He always mixed and matched my things with his own selections. It annoyed me because he liked to think his style was superior to mine. The first night we met, he smirked down his nose at my Target dress.
When we moved to Manchester, he started asking me why I couldn’t dress like so-and-so’s wife. If it wasn’t for Sophia, I wouldn’t have lasted a month with him.
“You came.” Gareth’s deep voice vibrates in a place between my thighs as I nearly trip while climbing the stairs toward him.
“You pretty much forced me,” I reply, tossing his suit over my shoulder and trying to stop the blush that rushes through me as our eyes connect.
“Hardly,” he replies with an unamused look. “You look well, Sloan.”
“Um, thanks.” I tug at my sleeve, wondering why this feels like a freaking date all the sudden. “Here’s your suit.”
I hold it out to him. His eyes narrow conspiratorially for a brief moment before he smiles. “Why don’t you come in?”
I look up at the sky and pray for strength. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Gareth.”
He chuckles half-heartedly. “Why? Do you think something’s going to happen? You can’t trust yourself around me? Is that it?”
The challenging twinkle in his eyes has me squinting my gaze at him. “I can trust myself just fine.” It’s my libido I’m not so sure about.
“Come on, Sloan. I’ve missed you,” he goads, reaching out and taking the garment bag from my hand. “Get your arse in here and let’s catch up.”
Exhaling heavily, I follow him through the foyer. My eyes immediately land on the large staircase that leads up to his room. Flashes of that night pummel me like a ton of bricks.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, snapping my attention to him standing beside me. “Water? Coffee? I don’t have any alcohol here.”
Frowning, I reply, “I’m working anyway.” Even though a stiff drink might help make this interaction a smidge more bearable.
“Right.” He grips the back of his neck and looks over his shoulder. Gesturing to the long, dark wood dining table located under a modern Edison bulb fixture, he says, “Let’s sit.”
He pulls out a tufted seat at the head of the table for me to slide into. Then he takes the spot adjacent to me.
“So, how are things?” I ask, desperate to fill the heavy silence. “How are you liking your clothes this season? Any texture issues? I know you hated that one Burberry cashmere sweater I thought might work for you—”
“Sloan”—Gareth’s voice stops me mid-thought—“I didn’t invite you in to talk about clothes.”
My eyes drop to the table. “I knew this was a mistake,” I murmur.
“You knew what was a mistake?” His voice is so smooth, I have to take a deep breath to keep myself sane.
“Me coming out here,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Gareth shifts to the edge of his seat, his masculine scent hitting me like a wrecking ball as images of him naked fight their way to the front of my mind. “Sloan, you can’t just act like that night between us didn’t happen.”
“I most certainly can!” I argue, sitting back in my seat and feeling a nervous flush wash over me.
I’ve been trying so hard not to ruminate over the memories of that night.
With some success, I might add. “What happened between us was so long ago, Gareth. Honestly, why are you still thinking about it?” Surely he’s had at least a dozen other women since then.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about it.
” His eyes are dead serious. They strike right through me, saying words I never could have imagined him saying.
“I’m not a bullshitter, Sloan. I don’t play games.
I don’t chase women. But if I go a year and still can’t stop thinking about a person, I’m bloody well going to do something about it. ”
“Like force your friends into a consult,” I retort, wondering if poor Hobo and Brandi even wanted a consult with me.
“I didn’t force anybody,” he replies. “Hobo asked me for advice about Brandi, and I know you have connections in the industry. You seemed like the natural place to start.”
Silence casts over us, so I begin picking at the cuticle on my nail to avoid Gareth’s gaze. That furrowed browline of his is going to be the death of me. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you saying you never think about that night we had together?” His voice is like warm honey dripping into my mouth.
My shoulders lift. “Of course I think about it,” I snap.
He exhales through his nose. “And are they positive thoughts?”
I look up and he’s concealing a smile that makes the creases around his eyes look divine. “No…Sometimes…Maybe.”
He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “Well, I’ve never felt anything like that in my entire life.”
I touch my lips to ensure the words didn’t come from my own mouth because he’s voicing my thoughts exactly. But it doesn’t change the fact that what we did was wrong. He is a client!
The humour in his expression dies when he asks the next question. “Look, have you been trying to ghost me? Are you trying to cut me out of your life so I leave you alone?”
“No,” I reply, anxiety pricking all five of my senses. “Gareth, I want to keep working with you.”
“You just don’t want to fuck me again.”