24. Kingston/Gabe
24
KINGSTON/GABE
Gabe’s question hangs in the air as I work my hand down the back of his calf. The coarse hair tickles my palm, but I keep up a steady manipulation of his muscle. Between the heat of my hand and the massager, he should be right as rain.
However, he’s full of shit.
He knows what I’m talking about. How we woke up on his sofa like two octopi—or is it octopuses?—wrapped around each other. Also, that he snores. Just a little. It was actually sort of endearing.
However, I’m not that surprised by his deflection. He has a reputation to protect, and I can respect that.
So when his phone rings, I back away, giving him privacy. I turn the massager off and stow it back in the drawer as Gabe pushes up into a sitting position and connects the call.
“Yeah?”
Disappointment clangs through me, and I both love and hate that I’m self-aware enough to recognize it. Losing his attention is an odd thing to be unhappy about. But the hollowness in my chest is undeniable, like an empty little sphere waiting for him to ask me to join him for breakfast.
Dramatic much?
Like I haven’t been eating breakfast by myself for a decade. And yet, suddenly, I don’t want to be alone.
Sighing, I circle the sectional and head for the shower.
The apartment feels extra empty without Katherine in it, and I make a mental note to check on the jungle of plants. If all else fails, I’ll call Simon for help.
I turn the water on and strip out of my clothing.
What is she doing right now?
Never mind, I know what she’s probably doing. And how ironic is it that I flew halfway around the world for her, and now she’s not that far away from my sailboat? With another man.
Stepping beneath the spray, I try to push those thoughts out of my mind. I’m happy for Katherine and know how she’s always wanted to spend some time in Paris, but it hits differently when the four of us aren’t together.
I don’t know what that means. What any of it means. And with this attraction between me and Gabe brewing, I feel like I’m on a spin cycle.
After I finish my shower, I wrap a towel around my hips. I need sixty-four ounces of water and a protein shake, in that order.
I’m not surprised to find Gabe gone when I walk back into the living room. He’s got a job to go to. A whole company worth of people relying on him.
What do I have?
Gabe
I pinch my nose, ready for the day to be over. I’m paying for taking the day off yesterday. Back-to-back meetings. Far too many people wanting my attention. Not needing it. No. I get the feeling that the uptick in activity is simply to get a look at me, to see if the CEO is besotted with the #twomilliondollargirl.
Stupid hashtags.
I can’t remember the last time I cared who someone was dating. Other than Alex. I always care what he’s up to. Not that he dates.
You know, other than flying Katherine halfway around the world to the most romantic city on the planet. That’s one hell of a date.
“Gabe?”
I zone back in and find my head of public relations staring back at me, brows lifted above her black-rimmed glasses. My afternoon can of Coke sits on my desk between us, untouched.
“Sorry. Long day.”
She sits back in her chair, tablet resting in her lap, still looking at me like a bug beneath a microscope. Is it that wild, that uncommon for two best friends to?—
Never mind. I already know the answer to that question.
“This really doesn’t bother you, does it?” she asks.
“The press?”
“What they’re writing about you.”
“Should I care what a bunch of narrow-minded people who’ve never met me think?”
“If it hurts the company, yes.”
The company.
I suck in a breath and hold it.
Somewhere in the last seventeen years, it stopped being my company and became the company. When did that happen?
I let the breath out.
I get it. Honestly, I do. We have employees, people, and assets to protect. And I take all of that seriously. Their livelihoods are important to me.
But it’s unfathomable for people to think I’m that different this week than I was last week.
Except, I am different.
My heart squeezes, almost gleeful at the discovery. Or rather, the admission.
For the first time since my micro-payment pipe dream went live almost two decades ago, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to make improvements and expand our reach. And it’s not just because I want a massage and a nap.
I’m utterly bored with all the bullshit crossing my desk. I’m frustrated that I have to talk to PR about another statement. I miss coding.
“I suppose it’s too late to remind people that my private life is private.”
Her jaw drops, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I guess that’s a no.”
She nods several times, a polished and professional bobblehead doll.
“You’re one of the wealthiest men in the world, Gabe. One of the youngest self-made billionaires ever. You have a high-profile best friend who you’re seen with all the time, and the two of you just bid two million dollars to date an heiress. I’d say your private life is the talk of the town.”
I turn my chair so I can stare out at the skyline.
What is King doing right now? Knowing him, he’s probably in the gym or making a protein-packed smoothie.
Whatever he’s up to, I’m willing to bet he’s not as frustrated as I am right now. He’s not having to answer to PR. And he probably doesn’t feel like a monkey trapped behind the glass at the zoo, being stared at by a classroom of kindergarteners.
But I get it. I represent the company, blah blah blah. That doesn’t mean I want my private life on the front page of every rag in town. And I sure as shit don’t want Katherine’s name or Alex’s name dragged through the mud.
My shirt collar feels extra tight.
“Is there anything I need to know? You don’t want to get caught in a circle of... untruths,” she says gently like I’m a toddler that needs coaxing.
Lies.
She means lies.
I know what she’s getting at, but that’s none of her business. Full stop. I put my foot down at sharing my sexuality with anyone I’m not dating.
My phone vibrates atop my desk.
Turning back, I glance at the screen, and my pulse skips as I read the text from my team.
Rogers: Cort checks out. Numbers are good.
All these years, I’ve worked and built to this moment. Playing the long game, moving the chess pieces across the board to build my scrappy idea into a household name. And now, a little over fifty-one percent of Chanler & Cort is available for the taking.
Sure, the price tag is roughly the GDP of Antigua, but it’s a solid deal.
If only Henry Chanler wasn’t dead.
My jaw clenches, and I run a hand down my face.
I wish Alex was here. I know he’s only a call away, but this feels monumental. And he’s been my sounding board for so long. We’ve talked about this plenty over the last year, but still.
“Is everything okay?”
I don’t know.
A month ago, I would have said yes. It’s better than okay.
But now I’m second-guessing myself. I’m not even sure why, which gives me brutal heartburn.
“Yeah,” I lie. Popping the tab on my soda, I take a big sip. “There’s nothing you need to know about my private life.”