15. Gabe #2
I still see her standing on that stage, beneath the spotlights, when I close my eyes. Fear, worry, and bravado all rolled into one green, satin-wrapped package.
“Why didn’t she tell you? About the changes to the trust.”
King is her best friend. They’re tight. Their texts are further proof.
“She said she’s been trying to decide what she wants to do and didn’t want us to feel like we had to step up for her.”
What? What the fuck kind of answer is that? The people closest to her should want to step up for her.
I hand his phone back, more confused than ever.
“What do you mean, she hasn’t decided?”
Kingston shrugs. “She doesn’t have to get married, Gabe.”
“But if she doesn’t, she doesn’t get her inheritance.”
He purses his lips, pins me with a no-shit-Sherlock look and then slowly nods his head. My brain screeches again, like locked-up tires on a semitrailer. Complete with smoke.
“She’s willing to give it up?” I ask. How much are we talking here?
“I don’t know, but would you want to give up five Bs?”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. The couple of sips of coffee in my stomach turn sour and slosh around.
Holy shit. That’s so much money. Just handed down from one person to the next.
Giving her the kind of leg up I could only dream of.
And I can’t fault her for that. This is the family she was born into.
“No wonder her mom’s on her case.”
“Lucinda’s been pushing her at Tyler for months.”
All because Henry fucking Chanler decreed that she needed a man by her side.
“The whole situation is barbaric.”
He nods. “You said it.”
I glance back at the squirrels. For the moment, they’re digging holes and ignoring each other. Such simple little creatures. Not worried about anything beyond their next meal and staying out of a hawk’s talons.
“There’s not a part of you that’s upset that she kept this to herself for almost two weeks?”
“It’s two weeks. Out of fifty-two. Are you telling me I know all your secrets? The things you’re not ready to admit yet?”
Fuck. When did Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky get so wise?
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“How’d you get so smart?”
“I hang out with smart people.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that says meaning you .
“I don’t feel very smart right now.” I snatch up the stick next to me and snap it in two.
“What are you feeling?”
“Like I messed up. Like I don’t know who to trust. Like I don’t trust myself. I fucking hate that my mind becomes this chaos monkey and I can’t see the bigger picture.”
“It’s because you care, man.”
The two twigs become four. Then I toss the lot to the side. He’s right. Because of course he is.
If I didn’t care about Katherine, I wouldn’t have been so fucked up at the idea that she’d been trying to ensnare me. And that’s not all he’s right about.
I take a deep breath and rub the ache beneath my breastbone.
Katherine has no reason to try to trap me into a marriage. Not even on the night of the auction. If all she wanted was her inheritance, she could easily marry anyone who’d say yes.
“I need to apologize.”
“No. You need to grovel.”
“That too.”
He drops his legs to the ground, spread apart, then positions his hands next to the insides of his thighs.
Without a breath of hesitation, he presses down onto his hands and pushes up until his legs are hovering in midair.
My jaw drops as his hips rotate up, up until he’s doing a handstand.
Then, as easy as you please, he brings his feet back to the ground and stands.
“Showoff.”
He dusts off his hands, then holds one out to help me up. I’m not sure I deserve it. Because he’s right. I do have my own secrets. Things I don’t want to confess.
I take his hand because I might not deserve it, but I want the chance to apologize. To clear the air.
Side by side, we jog back to the townhouse, feet eating up the distance. As hell bent as I was to get away, I feel an equal urgency to get back to her. To spill my guts and my secrets and apologize and yes, even grovel.
We’re a half a block away, the front facade in sight, when an SUV slams on the brakes in the middle of the road. I stumble to a stop, King at my side, as our bodyguards flank us.
A handful of people in dark clothes hop out of the SUV and race across the sidewalk toward the front door. Our front door.
There’s a flash of a gun firing, but hardly any sound, then a scream.
“Wha—” The words die on King’s lips as we see an unmistakable waterfall of golden-red hair.
My feet move, carrying me forward on nothing but adrenaline. But immediately, two burly arms wrap around me from behind, halting my movements.
“Let me go—” I grunt, fighting not just for my freedom, but for hers.
“We can’t do that, Mr. Rothburn,” one of my guys says, his breath hot on my neck. Beside me, Kingston’s body man is holding him back as well.
And down the road, in front of the gorgeous brownstone that was quickly becoming home, a man shoves Katherine into the back of the vehicle. The tires squeal as it peels away.