Chapter 9
AERYN
Iwake to sunshine streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Gage’s side of the bed is cold, and the bedroom door is closed. I wonder how long he’s been awake.
Even more, I wonder how much I’d pay for a toothbrush, a steaming hot shower, and a pair of thick, fleece sweatpants.
I laugh when I stumble into the bathroom, because Gage has read my mind. A toothbrush sits beside the sink, still wrapped in its cardboard-backed plastic. It takes me more than a minute to pry the thing free, but it’s worth the effort.
A shower’s next, and Gage’s doesn’t disappoint.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the plumbing a billionaire can demand, but the six adjustable nozzles leave me impressed.
There’s a creamy bar of milk-white soap, and I lather up three times.
He only has one of those feckin’ shampoo-and-conditioner blends that men seem to love, but I cut him a bit of slack. My hair comes away clean and sleek.
Back in the bedroom, I don’t even consider putting on my dress.
Instead, I head into a closet that’s the size of some small European countries.
It takes me a few minutes to sort through drawers, but I come away with a pair of sweatpants in Aces teal that I can cinch tight at the waist. Another field trip yields a purple sweatshirt that fits me like a tunic.
I roll up the sleeves four turns and do the same with the pants.
I have to raid the dresser to find a pair of thick, white socks.
Throughout it all, I’m aware of a dozen aches and pains in my body. My arms feel like I’ve done a thousand push-ups. My sides complain when I twist to either side and my thighs are tired, as if I’ve run every step in Wrigley Field.
But my arse feels fine. A little sore, if I push on it with my fingers, a little warm to the touch, but fine. That arnica cream always did work miracles…
Running my fingers through my damp hair, I make my way down the hall toward the front of this luxury home. Before I can step into the living room, though, I hear Gage’s voice, sharp with frustration.
“Jesus, Trap. Stop laughing. Trap! Christ!”
He must be talking to Trap Prince, the man who treated us to the Rockettes show and dinner on Thursday night.
Gage lowers his voice. “I’m just saying, I know you have a place here in the city.
” He sounds like he’s explaining simple addition to a child.
“And I know you bring Alix to that place. And I suspect you’ve bought her a present or two while you’re up here.
So if you can point me toward wherever you’ve gone to find one of those goddamn presents—”
Trap must take mercy on him, because Gage chokes off his explanation.
“Gallagher Samson,” he says after a moment, with a tone that says he’s repeating information from Trap. “Fifth Avenue. Do you know how late they’re open today?”
Even from my perch in the hallway, I can hear Trap’s explosion. He isn’t a cocksucking secretary. And he doesn’t have a motherfucking clue if Gallagher Samson is open. And if Gage wasn’t such a cheap-ass jizzstain, he would have done his shopping earlier than the day before Christmas.
“Thanks, Trap,” Gage says when the tirade runs down. “I appreciate the help. Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too. Give my best to Alix.”
He’s putting away his phone when I venture around the corner.
“Hey,” I say. This is the moment I’m supposed to feel shy. After all, I tied a feckin’ red bow around my neck and offered my body to this man. I let him tie me up and spank me raw. I called him Sir as he made me come in a spotlight in the center of a stage, surrounded by strangers.
But he’s Gage. The first man who ever fucked me. The first man I ever loved.
The man I have a sneaking suspicion I might love still, because of everything that’s kept us apart for the last ten years, because of everything that ever brought us together.
“Hey,” he says.
I cross the room and kiss him. He tastes like peppermint and coffee. His hair stands up in short, sharp tufts, and I laugh when I finally step away. “I really must have been out of it. I didn’t hear you shower.”
“I used one of the guest baths,” he says. “I wanted to let you sleep.”
“I needed it,” I say.
“You deserved it.” And that’s what makes me blush, those three words in that rough tone—acknowledging everything we did together without apology or shame. He follows up with a grin. “Hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing toward the dining room table, which is larger than the kitchen counters in some restaurants I’ve worked in. “Start with some orange juice. I’ll be out in a minute.” And he disappears into the honed-maple kitchen.
Something smells amazing. There’s coffee and the mouth-watering scent of hot bread baked with chocolate and the smell of melted butter and something that has to be mushrooms—chanterelles, I’m pretty sure.
I’ve spent the past week eating three meals a day in the finest restaurants available in New York City, but my stomach feels like it’s been empty for years.
I sip at my orange juice and call into the kitchen, “Can I help?”
“Nope.” Gage appears with a thermal carafe and a napkin-covered basket. He sets down the latter and pours me a cup of coffee before heading back into the kitchen.
Of course, I peek. The basket is filled with pain au chocolat, each flaky rectangle oozing twin pools of rich, dark filling.
Gage comes back with two plates. He puts one in front of me—an egg-white omelet, stuffed to perfection with frilly crisp-edged mushrooms. As I lean forward to take a deep sniff, I catch a whiff of nutty gruyere cheese.
“Nobody ever cooks for me,” I say.
“I expected as much.”
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“The omelets? I’ve been loading up on protein since before the Aces called me up.”
I remember him blending viscous shakes in the Beach Avenue kitchen. He and Logan pounded down three of those things a day. “And the bread?” I say, helping myself to one of the treats in the basket.
He grins. “You can get anything delivered in New York City. I thought I remembered you like a good pain au chocolat.”
“You remember everything,” I say, licking a dollop of chocolate off my thumb.
He stares at my mouth as I swallow. “I do.”
Something flips strong and hard inside me.
“Eat up,” he says. “We have places to go. People to see.”
I make short work of my breakfast but Gage still eats like he’s being chased by a freight train. I wonder if he actually chews his food before he swallows.
“Let’s go,” he says, when I lift the final flake of pastry off my plate with my index finger.
I stand beside the table. “You cooked. I’ll do the dishes.”
“The dishes can wait.”
“Let me at least run water over them.”
“I’ll do that,” he says, frowning at my feet. “Go look in my closet. There’s a pair of flip-flops in there somewhere.”
I look out the window at the glistening city. “It’s December in New York City. I’m not going anywhere in flip-flops.”
“You won’t be wearing them very long.”
There’s another one of those flips, despite the ballast of an excellent breakfast. I very much want to know what Gage is planning.
He refuses to say anything, though, just sends me back to his closet. There is a pair of flip-flops, buried in the back, but I’m pretty sure I’ll break my neck if I try to wear them.
Instead, I change back into my dress. I have my bra, but I’ll have to go commando. At least my Louboutins feels familiar on my bare feet.
Gage frowns when I return to the living room. “I preferred your other outfit.”
I shrug. “You take what you can get.”
“I do. Don’t I?”
He sounds so pleased with himself that I flash him a middle finger. For a moment, I think he’ll make me pay for my brattiness. Instead, he glances at his watch and says, “Let’s go.”
In the foyer, he holds my coat for me, and then he leads the way to the private elevator. I start to head toward the Rivian across the garage, but Gage redirects me toward a deep red Porsche, his palm at the small of my back.
Driving a sports car in New York makes even less sense than driving one in Chicago.
Gage, though, has the enthusiasm of a teenager behind the wheel.
He works his way over the bridge into Manhattan like he’s playing some sort of video game.
I pretend I didn’t overhear his conversation with Trap as we wind our way toward—presumably—Fifth Avenue.
The further we move uptown, the more elaborate the Christmas decorations. Some stores’ displays are stark and dramatic. Others light up with elaborate dioramas from Christmases past.
Gage finally pulls into a space labeled as a loading zone. The shop’s four windows are hung with simple white lights. Each one features an ornament-laden tree—crimson balls on one, blue angels on another, gold stars on a third, and silver snowflakes on the last. They’re simple. Elegant. Classy.
“You can’t park here,” I say.
“They’ll only ticket. Not tow.”
“Gage…”
“Aeryn.”
I give up and walk into Gallagher Samson.
The boutique lives up to the promise of those holiday windows. Clothes are displayed on simple racks, with plenty of space to browse the merchandise. A woman hurries over from the register to greet us.
She’s dressed like my eighth-grade English teacher at St. Boniface, in a boxy lavender suit.
Her pink silk top features an elaborate bow at her throat.
She wears support hose and practical shoes, and her shock of white hair is twisted into a bun.
A brooch shaped like a reindeer weighs down her lapel, gold with a single small ruby for its nose.
“May I help you?” she asks, her voice as warm as cinnamon tea.
“I phoned this morning,” Gage says. “I’m Gage Rider. I’m a friend of Trap Prince.”
“Of course, Mr. Rider,” the woman says, her pale blue eyes glinting as if he’s just told her a joke. “I’m Martha Gallagher.”
“Ms. Gallagher,” he says, like a line chef hoping to impress with his first rendition of hollandaise.