Chapter 14
14
Amelia
Tim:
Happy Saturday.
Me:
Why must you be so cheery all the time?
Tim:
You checked Instagram today?
Me:
No. You know I hate that place.
Tim:
Okay.
Me:
OMG don’t leave me hanging. What is it?
Tim:
Someone went day drinking with someone this week and didn’t spill the goss.
Me:
What?
Colin:
It’s all over Instagram. Your date with Gage at The Langham.
Tim:
Can we get confirmation that this is no longer fake dating?
Me:
That wasn’t a date.
Me:
That was me having a bad day. I told you about it. That was the day I lost the contract.
Tim:
And Gage just happened to pop by?
Colin:
You told us you lost the contract. You didn’t tell us Gage and day drinking were involved.
Me:
It was NOT a date.
Tim:
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Colin:
Agreed.
Me:
I’m done with you two for today.
Tim:
And this is why I’m so cheery today. As you were.
Against all good judgment, I do something I’ve managed not to do for three days. I open Instagram. And after reading some posts, I wish I hadn’t.
Someone snapped a photo of me and Gage at the bar on Tuesday and posted it last night. Why they waited three days to post it is anyone’s guess, but my brain takes all of one second to twist the timing of it into being part of some bigger plot. Because that’s what this entire week feels like: one big plot against me.
The three days since that photo was taken have felt like a demolition of everything I’ve built in my career. After the Velocity Reign contract was pulled, other projects started slipping through my fingers. Suddenly, I’m receiving emails with words like “we need more time before moving forward”, and “we need to pause the current direction.” No one’s saying it, but it feels like I’m being quietly blacklisted.
I’m five minutes into my Instagram scrolling when a text comes through from my publicist.
Marin:
Babes. What’s the go with Gage Black?
My agent brought Marin in the morning the story broke. She’s young, terrifyingly upbeat, calls me babes , ends half her sentences with sparkle emojis, and seems alarmingly unfazed watching my life implode.
And great question, Marin. I’d like to know the answer to it also.
Gage cooked me dinner on Wednesday night. Not fish. Not lamb. But steak with sautéed broccolini and roasted potatoes. It was, frankly, the best thing I’ve eaten all week. And I may or may not have cursed the Universe while eating it because apparently the man is not only hot and emotionally aware, but he can cook too.
The girls loved the four of us having dinner again and happily chatted about all the things that happened that day at school. After we ate, they played in Luna’s bedroom while Gage and I cleaned up. He kept it light between us and didn’t broach the subject of dating again. Instead, he asked me about my work and how I became a composer. We also went over some things for the science fair.
Since then, we’ve texted a few times. Mostly about the science fair, solving problems as they popped up. Nothing deep. Nothing that even came close to touching on the heat that’s been simmering between us. The heat that I can’t stop thinking about.
The fact he’s now living rent free in my head is deeply inconvenient for my emotional stability and productivity levels. Every time my phone buzzes, I want it to be him. And when it’s not, I reread his last text like it holds the answers to life, the universe, and whatever this is between us.
He pushed things between us three days ago and hasn’t made a single move since. Which means I’m now obsessing over a man who’s either giving me space or has quietly changed his mind. And I can’t decide which option I prefer.
I tap out a text to Marin.
Me:
There’s nothing happening between us.
Marin:
That’s not what that photo looked like. I need an angle.
I swear she talks in another language.
Me:
An angle?
Marin:
Yeah, give me something to go on.
Me:
There’s nothing to go on.
Marin:
Okay, let me bring you up to speed, babes. Comment sections on Tiktok have turned into war zones. One half thinks you’re the villain who stole music and seduced a billionaire to clean up the mess. The other half thinks you’re a misunderstood artist who soft-launched a zaddy to distract from the scandal. I need to know which one to run with.
A zaddy? Does she not know I’m a single mom who spends her days packing school lunches, googling how to get slime out of a rug, trying to remember if I already RSVP’d to the school field trip, and barely has time to shave both legs at the same time? I know some slang. I’m not completely out of touch. But my brain only has space for about five pieces of Influencer Speak, and “zaddy” isn’t one of them.
Me:
Gage is my daughter’s best friend’s father. We’re friends. That’s all.
Marin:
Okay, so friends to lovers. I can work with that.
Me:
What??? No!!
Marin:
Thanks, babes. Gotta run xx
I switch to texting my brothers in our group chat.
Me:
What’s a zaddy?
Tim:
I see you’ve been on Insta.
Me:
Tim!
Tim:
Zaddy = hot older dude with $$$, style, and “I could ruin your life and buy you dinner after” energy. So, basically: Gage.
Me:
Gage isn’t old.
Tim:
Okay, so zaddy status isn’t just about age. It’s about energy.
Colin:
I think this is what they call a situationship.
Me:
What the heck is a situationship? And why can’t we all just talk in proper English?
Tim:
Oh, babe.
Tim:
A situationship = somewhere between “we’re just friends” and “I’d burn down a small village if someone else touched you.”
Tim:
Undefined relationship that’s confusing. Low-commitment, high emotional damage. Also known as: modern romance.
Me:
I hate everything.
Colin:
Define “everything.”
Me:
This. You two. The internet. Modern dating. Words like zaddy.
Tim:
She’s spiraling. Place your bets now. I give it two hours before she bakes a dozen cakes and starts labeling her pantry.
I place my phone down and decide Tim doesn’t know me at all. I then proceed to take a shower, shave both legs, exfoliate, moisturize, and put on actual clothes. I am calm. I am collected. I am absolutely not spiraling over whatever Marin has decided is our “angle”, or the things being said on social media.
I even light a candle and read a chapter of a novel. That’s how not spiraling I am.
And then, an hour and fifty-one minutes later, I receive a text from James about how he just knew I was giving it to Gage, and my spiral is on. I’m in the kitchen, lining up ingredients like I’m prepping for The Great British Bake Off and muttering things like “It’s just one cake, Tim can calm down.”
Five hours later, I’m still in my kitchen. I’ve baked my little heart out. I’ve rearranged my pantry. Cleaned my fridge. And successfully avoided both social media and my ex-husband all afternoon.
My kitchen is a mess, though.
I’m thinking about cleaning it up when my doorman calls to let me know Gage is here. I glance down at myself, at the oversized oatmeal knit sweater that hangs off one shoulder, black leggings dusted with flour, and fuzzy socks that used to be all white but now have cocoa sprinkled over them. My hair’s in a messy bun that’s doing more mess than bun, and I’m pretty sure there’s flour in there too. Not exactly the picture of “come on in”, but here we are.
“Thanks. Send him up, Dan,” I say, then spin to assess the war zone that is my kitchen. If I had magical powers, now would be the time to summon them. One snap of my fingers, and poof—clean hair, spotless kitchen, and maybe clothes that don’t look like I lost a baking battle. But no, no magic. Just me, knee-deep in domestic disarray, and Gage on his way up.
I’m back in the kitchen when the elevator dings and I swear that sound just became as sexually charged as a text notification is for me these days.
He strides into my kitchen wearing black dress pants and a fitted, crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to end me.
“Seriously,” I toss out, unable to stop myself, “do you own any clothes that don’t scream ‘sexy hostile takeover?’”
A slow, sexy smile fills his face as he comes to a stop on the other side of the island to me. “What are we talking here? Gray sweatpants that hang low? Running shorts? I’ve got some of those in my closet.”
“I walked into that one,” I mutter, now imagining Gage in sweatpants.
That sexy smile remains locked in place while he takes a long moment to look me over. Then, his gaze sweeps across the kitchen, and he comes back to me with a raised brow. “Is the school having a bake sale I forgot about?”
“No. I decided I’d bake ten cakes just for the fun of it. You’re welcome to take them all home so I don’t have to eat any of them.”
“Right,” he says, and I see him trying to make sense of me. “Is this because of social media? That photo of us that’s circulating?”
“Maybe.” I really don’t want to have to tell him the angle that Marin’s decided to run with.
“That’s cleared things up for me.”
I bite my lip. “Yes.”
“Amelia.” His voice drops into that tone he uses when he’s trying to boss me into something. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I may be a highly intelligent woman, but Gage is a walking override button for all things logical, rational, or remotely self-preserving. And sometimes, I’m horrified by what escapes my mouth. Today is one of those times. Because when I open it to answer his question, what actually comes out is, “Do you know what a zaddy is?”
Good. God .
I shake my head like that’ll delete the last three seconds. “No. Ignore that. Tell me why you’re here and then I’ll tell you why I’m baking.”
“I do not know what a zaddy is,” he says, entirely too entertained and not letting me off the hook. That smile of his makes a full comeback, shifting into a smirk as he adds, “Care to tell me?”
“No. You’ll have to do your own research, just like I had to.”
He pulls out his phone, taps for a second, reads, and then lifts that smirk right back up to me like it was made for this very moment. “I now know what a zaddy is. I’m still clueless on the whole-ass situation, though. Google says it’s a problematic situation, but that doesn’t seem accurate.”
This man.
For real.
“Right,” I say, calling on every ounce of bossiness I have. “That smirk needs to go. And you need to tell me why you’re here. Then you need to pack up all these cakes and take them home. And I don’t care if you don’t want them, or have no room for them, they’re leaving here in your arms.”
“I should have come ten minutes earlier so you could issue more orders.”
I don’t know what it is about Gage, but he’s got this maddening, irresistible pull that I can’t deny. He knows exactly the effect he has on me, and even when I’m trying to hold my ground, he makes it so I can’t.
I shake my head while a smile breaks through. “You’re impossible.”
His smirk gives way to a questioning look. “Are you going to tell me the reason I have so many cakes to take home?”
I sigh. “I have a publicist. She’s annoyingly young and I don’t understand half the things she says. Today, I may have given her the wrong idea about us.”
He waits for me to elaborate.
“She texted looking for an angle for us. I had no idea what she meant. Apparently, the internet is coming to their own conclusions about us, and she was looking for which way to push them.”
“What’s the angle she chose?” He doesn’t even look bothered by this.
“I told her you’re the father of my daughter’s best friend. She took that to mean friends to lovers.” I wince. “I am so sorry to drag you into my mess, Gage.”
If I thought he looked unbothered a second ago, whatever you call the level below unbothered... that’s where he is now. With a side of heat.
“Right,” he says, moving around the island to where I’m standing. “So you and I are a thing according to your publicist.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement that he looks very pleased to be making.
“Uh, yes.” I watch him come closer, zero idea of his intentions right now, while also feeling all kinds of bothered myself. I am far, far above Gage on that scale.
“And you thought I’d be upset about that angle?”
“Yes.”
He stops just shy of the line between close and too close. “You have a lot to learn about me, Amelia.”
My heart beats so loudly I’m sure he must be able to hear it. “You’re okay if people think that about us?”
His eyes blaze with intensity, and I feel it everywhere . “I don’t give a fuck what people think about me. And if I had to choose a woman for my name to be linked with, it would be you.”
My fingers curl against the island as my body sways toward him. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and it spreads fast. Every nerve tuned to him now.
I want this man.
Goddamn , do I want him.
I have never felt this kind of pull.
It’s raw need.
Desperate and undeniable.
My breath hitches when his gaze drops to my mouth, and I think I might beg him to kiss me if he doesn’t.
“Fuck,” he growls, reaching for me, his hand sliding into my hair.
My hands go to his hips when he moves into me, and then his mouth is claiming mine like he’s waited too damn long for this moment. His other hand finds my waist, strong and sure, pulling me against him. Exactly where I want to be.
He’s all hard muscle and restrained dominance. I feel every inch of him and want it all more than I’ve wanted anything.
My hands move to his abs, his chest, his neck, and I press myself against him harder, chasing the pressure. Needing everything he can give.
When my fingers dig into his neck, he groans and deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping over mine. His restraint slips and then he’s demanding, taking what he wants.
There is absolutely nothing tentative about this kiss. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger and the rough edge of want that’s been daring us to cross this line.
Gage slides his hand to my face, fingers pressing into my neck and jaw, firm and unrelenting. The way he holds me there, like he needs to, is more intimate than half the sex I’ve ever had.
It clears every thought from my mind and lets my body take over.
My hands are on his shirt.
My fingers are tearing at buttons.
My desire consuming me.
I’ve got his shirt open and halfway off when he drags his mouth from mine and grips my face with both hands. His eyes bore into me, wild with lust. “Tell me to stop.”
My brain tries to catch up. “Why?” I’m breathless. Confused as to why he’s saying that.
“Because I don’t think this is what you want. Not yet.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He lets go of my face. “Amelia.” His voice is raw, like he’s only just managing to hold himself back from what he wants. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“You’re not.” I reach for his belt with the kind of sexual confidence I don’t really have. “I want you to fuck me.”
“ Fuck .” He utters just one word, but the way he drops it between us undoes me.
I see his desire for me.
I hear it.
And I feel it.
God, do I feel it.
I could easily get addicted to this man if he keeps looking at me the way he is.
He lets me undo his belt buckle.
I keep my eyes on his every second that takes.
Then, I flick the button on his pants and am about to lower his zip when his hand comes to mine, stopping me.
“We do this,” he says, “and everything changes.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“You just want me to fuck you.” His eyes are absolutely refusing to let mine go. “And then you want to go back to just being parents who help each other out with childcare?”
“That works for me.”
“It doesn’t work for me.”
The way he says that with such certainty causes me to slow myself down and pull my brain back into this conversation. “You don’t want sex?”
“Oh, I want it. I also want what goes with it.”
I stare at him, my heart beating loudly. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Gage. You need to think about this. We’ve got the girls to consider.”
“Trust me when I tell you I’ve thought about it. I’ve spent two weeks doing nothing but thinking about it. And as much as I’ve tried to get you out of my head, to put Luna first, I can’t. For the first time in a long fucking time, I want something for myself.”
“You want a relationship?”
“I want to spend time with you. Get to know you. See where that takes us.”
My mind spins, trying to unravel my feelings about this. Trying to think my way through something that has nothing to do with thinking. “Is that why you came here today?”
“No. I came here to make sure you were okay after that photo of us turned into an onslaught of strangers saying shit about you on social media. Kissing you was not in my plan.”
I turn silent. Unsure of everything now. Unable to decide anything.
“I’ll go,” Gage says. “Give you some space to think about what you want.”
“Okay.” My thoughts are in such a mess that I have trouble stringing more words together, so I simply wait for what he does next.
His eyes search mine and I think he’s fighting with himself. He looks conflicted. Reluctant to leave. In the end, he says, “I’ll take care of the photo,” before turning and walking out of the kitchen. The sound of the elevator lets me know when he’s gone, leaving me alone to make sense of everything that just happened.
I have no idea what he meant about taking care of the photo, but I don’t think too much about that. I’m too busy wondering what “space” means to a man like Gage?
This is the third time he’s retreated. Something tells me that next time, he won’t step back. He’ll push.