Chapter 9 - Gabriel | Florence
NINE
GAbrIEL | FLORENCE
Zalea and I stare each other down, both of us less than happy. The last thing I thought I’d find when I got here was some pop-star looking Italian guy walking her to her hotel. The fucker even asked to see her again, and kissed her hand, right in front of me.
A man with a real death wish.
“Who was that guy?” I ask, trying to sound curious and not jealous. “And why did he call you Lea?”
“None of your business,” she snaps, hurrying past me into the hotel lobby.
I follow her inside, past the reception desk, and straight into the elevator.
“I’m going to need you to stop stalking me, Gabriel,” she hisses once the doors close. “It’s so illegal, and I really don’t want to see you right now.”
“I’m not stalking you.” Okay maybe I am. “And too bad, because I need to see you right now.”
The elevator stops on the fourth floor and we both step out.
“I’m not letting you into my room,” she says, crossing her arms defiantly.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes and gently grab her wrist, pulling her down the hallway with me. “We’ll go to my room then.”
We pass Zalea’s room and stop at the door next to it. I scan the key card and I pull her in after me.
“I guess your room being right next to mine was a complete coincidence, huh?” She asks, eyes narrowed as she tugs her wrist out of my grip and folds her arms across her chest again.
I shrug. “Some would call it fate.”
“Hmm,” she lifts a brow, “others would call it psychotic.”
I’m not in the mood for Zalea’s brattiness tonight, not after seeing her with another guy while avoiding me. I pull off my suit jacket and roll up the cuffs of my shirt while I watch her, and as expected, her eyes roam my body hungrily, and I fight with everything I have to keep my erection tame.
“Why are you avoiding me, Red?”
“Don’t call me that.”
I quirk a brow. “Since when do you not like that nickname?”
“Since I decided it was time to move on from you,” she says confidently.
It feels like she’s just sucker punched me straight in the gut, but I do my best not to show it.
“Move on from me?” I ask incredulously, putting my hands on my hips.
“From us,” she corrects, and that hurts even more.
I scoff, fighting a pained smile as I rub my bottom lip with my thumb, searching for the right words.
But what words can truly remind Zalea about us?
About me?
Words can’t do that, but I know what can.
I start to walk toward her and she eyes me up and down, before taking steps backwards until she’s pressed against my room door.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Red, or why you think you can just decide to forget about me, but let’s make one thing crystal clear,” I say in a low voice as I stop inches away from her. “There is no forgetting us. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. Not ever. Got it?”
She glares at me, rage tightening her jaw, but beneath it lurks a hunger so strong that even Zalea can’t ignore it.
It takes less than ten seconds before she’s on me, her mouth slamming against mine.
Her lips fell hot, and the kiss turns desperate, her faintly sweet scent wrapping around me and flooding my senses, instantly unravelling me.
I push her back against the door, using it as support while I lift her up, her legs hooking around my waist. She buries her fingers into my hair as her tongue dances a familiar dance with mine.
I carry her blindly to where I think the bed is, smiling against her lips when my shoe clips the footboard, and lay her back onto the mattress, lingering for a moment as I take in how impossibly beautiful she looks sprawled beneath me.
“We’re only doing this once,” she says, breathless, climbing onto her knees in front of me as her fingers start working at the buttons of my shirt.
“Whatever you say, baby.”
She’s wrong, but I’m not about to ruin the moment. We can sort that out later, after I remind her of exactly what she’s been avoiding.
Patience was never Zalea’s strength. She proves it when her frustration takes over and she tears my shirt open, buttons scattering across the room.
“For someone who wants nothing to do with me,” I murmur, in a low voice, “you seem pretty determined to get me naked.”
I curl my hand around the hair at the nape of her neck and tug gently, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Don’t act like that’s not why you brought me in here,” she growls back.
I tilt my head, because it isn’t, and I don’t like that she thinks it is. I let her go and step back, the cool air sliding over my skin where her hands had just been.
“We should stop,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I brought you in here so we could talk. Privately.”
She frowns, confusion and hurt flashing across her face. I’ve never turned her down before. But I want her to understand that this isn’t just sex for me, and that I do actually care about her.
“So talk, Gabriel,” she snaps. “Then I want you to call your pilot and have him take you back to Saltwater Springs or wherever it is that you flew here from.”
“Why did you run away?” I ask, ignoring the jab
“Which time?”
I hold her gaze, but her words echo in my head. This isn’t the first time she’s run, but it’s the first time I’ve felt like I might not get her back.
“You would have been on the surf tour right now if you’d placed top three in that competition, Zalea.”
She rolls her eyes and climbs off the bed, crossing the room to the window. Her arms folded tight across her chest.
“I don’t want to surf anymore,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“What?” I step closer, stopping beside her as she stares out at nothing, holding herself together with sheer force.
“I’m quitting surfing,” she says firmly.
Those three words make me sick to my stomach as I stare at her. I’ve never known Zalea to quit anything.
“You’re quitting?” I say slowly. “Before you’ve experienced your first world tour?”
She nods, biting her lip as it begins to tremble. I want to pull her into my arms, tell her everything will be okay because I can tell this is so much bigger than surfing, but I know that’s not what Zalea needs right now.
“I think I deserve the whole story, Z,” I say softly.
She turns her head, meeting my gaze with watery eyes, and a tear slips free, trailing down her cheek. She sniffs, swiping it away before nodding again and drawing in a steadying breath. Then she crosses back to the bed and sits on the edge, shoulders tense.
“I was diagnosed with PCOS before coming here,” she says after what feels like forever.
My heart starts to thrum erratically as I think the absolute worst case, because what the fuck is PCOS?
“My doctor said there’s a chance I could have a hard time conceiving children naturally,” she continues, and the mention of babies freezes me to the spot, my body breaking out in a cold sweat instantly.
Her eyes meet mine again and I know she’s thinking about the same thing I am.
About the first time she conceived a child.