Chapter 5
Marshall
I hear footsteps on the stairs and do a double-take when look up from where I’m leaning against the bannister.
Gabriel is wearing a cream silk shirt that catches the light, the soft fabric tucked loosely into black trousers that fit him perfectly.
Layered necklaces rest against his collarbone, thin gold chains that draw my eyes to the open collar of his shirt.
His hair is pulled back in that half-tied style he does, the rest falling just past his jaw.
I stare for a beat too long before I catch myself.
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “What?”
“Uh, nothing.” I clear my throat and straighten up. “You look great.”
“You too.”
His eyes sweep over me, taking in the black linen button-up I chose, sleeves rolled to my forearms, and the charcoal pants I paired with dark worn loafers.
The only accessory I kept is my watch, the one I never take off.
It feels excessive next to the casual look I’m going for, but I like the weight of it on my wrist.
Gabriel’s gaze lingers on my forearms for a second before he looks away. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We head out through the back of the villa toward the pier.
The air has cooled now that the sun’s gone, but it’s still warm, the kind of warmth that settles into your skin and stays there.
Our footsteps are quiet on the stone path, and neither of us speaks.
It’s comfortable and easy, and I’m glad we’re doing this, even if I’m not entirely sure what this is.
The motorboat is tied to the pier, bobbing in the water. Gabriel climbs in first and I follow. He starts the engine while I untie the rope and push us off. The motor sputters to life, and he steers us away from the dock with the kind of ease that makes me think he’s done this a thousand times.
I settle into the seat across from him and watch as he navigates us out onto the lake.
The lights from the shore reflect on the water, gold and white and shimmering.
Gabriel’s face is lit by the glow of the boat’s console, his profile sharp against the darkness.
He looks thoughtful but calm, as if this is exactly where he needs to be.
I don’t say anything, and neither does he. The companionable silence stretches between us, and I lean back and let the boat carry us across the water, the sound of the motor filling the quiet.
Como comes into view after about twenty minutes, the city lights glowing against the dark hills.
Gabriel slows the boat as we approach the docks and maneuvers us into an open slip.
I tie us off and climb out, offering him a hand even though he doesn’t need it.
He takes it anyway, his palm warm against mine, and steps onto the dock.
We walk through the streets toward the city center, past narrow alleys and old buildings with shutters painted bright colors.
The restaurants and bars are full, people spilling out onto patios, laughter and conversation floating through the air.
It’s lively without being overwhelming, charming in the way small European cities always are.
Gabriel leads me to a family restaurant tucked into a side street, the kind of place that doesn’t have a sign out front because it doesn’t need one, because the locals know about it.
We sit outside at a small table, and a woman who looks like she could be someone’s grandmother brings us menus and water without asking.
The food comes fast. Gnocchi with brown butter and sage, pillowy and perfectly salted. Bread that’s still warm from the oven. A carafe of house wine that’s better than it has any right to be.
Gabriel eats like he’s been starving, and I realize he probably hasn’t eaten much today besides the soup and the salad I made him. I watch him scoop gnocchi onto his fork and the way his throat works when he swallows. He makes a small, satisfied noise after the first bite.
“Good?” I ask.
“Really good.” He glances up at me. “Thanks for dragging me out.”
“You’re welcome.”
He smiles, and I feel the knot in my chest loosen a little.
When we finish, Gabriel pays the bill before I can argue and stands. “Ready for the bar?”
“Lead the way.”
The gay bar is a ten-minute walk from the restaurant, tucked into a street that’s quieter than the main drag. The entrance is understated, just a door with a small rainbow flag sticker in the corner. Gabriel pushes it open and we step inside.
The bar is darker than the street outside, lit only by strings of warm lights and the amber glow of the liquor bottles.
It’s not packed but it’s busy. Groups clustered at tables and along the bar, bodies moving on a small dance floor in the back.
The music has a low, steady pulse, the kind that fills the room without swallowing it.
We make our way to the bar and find two empty stools. Gabriel catches the bartender’s attention and orders two Aperol Spritzes. The bartender nods and gets to work, pulling bottles and slicing oranges with quick, efficient movements.
I look around while we wait. The crowd skews younger, mostly guys in their twenties and thirties, though there are a few older men scattered throughout. Everyone’s dressed well, put-together in that European way that makes my casual look sloppy by comparison.
And they’re looking at us. Or more specifically, they’re looking at Gabriel.
I notice the way eyes track him when he moves, the way conversations pause when he laughs.
A guy at a table near the dance floor is outright staring, his drink forgotten in his hand.
Another guy at the end of the bar is watching him with the kind of focus that makes me want to put myself between them.
Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s just used to it.
The bartender sets our drinks in front of us, bright orange and garnished with a slice of orange. I take a sip. It’s sweet and bitter at the same time, easier to drink than I expected.
Gabriel sips his and glances at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s good. I can see why people like these.”
We sit in silence for a bit, nursing our drinks, watching the bar fill up around us. The bartender comes back and sets another Aperol Spritz in front of Gabriel.
Gabriel frowns. “I didn’t order this.”
The bartender smiles and gestures toward the end of the bar. “It’s from the gentleman down there.”
We both look. There’s an older man sitting three stools down, silver hair styled perfectly, wearing a suit that fits him the way only bespoke tailoring does. He’s got the kind of confidence that comes with money and age, and when he sees us looking, he lifts his glass in a subtle nod.
Something unpleasant coils in my chest. I don’t like this guy. I don’t like the way he’s looking at Gabriel, like he’s already won something. I don’t like that he’s older, that he’s clearly wealthy, that he reminds me too much of Blaine Ashford.
I reach over and take the drink from in front of Gabriel.
“I’ll have it,” I say.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirking into a smirk. “Didn’t know you liked cocktails so much.”
“I prefer wine.” I take a sip, the sweetness hitting my tongue. “But hey, when in Rome.”
“We’re not in Rome.”
“You know what I mean.”
He’s still smirking, but he doesn’t argue. He turns back to his own drink, taking another sip, his eyes scanning the room.
“You going to go talk to him?” I ask, nodding toward the silver fox.
Gabriel glances at the guy, then back at me, and shrugs. “I’m good for now.”
Good. I don’t say it out loud, but the relief that washes over me is stronger than it should be.
By the time I finish Gabriel’s gift cocktail, the bartender is back. Another Aperol Spritz, another explanation.
“From the gentleman at the corner table,” the bartender says, gesturing toward a guy in his mid-twenties sitting with a group of friends. He’s got dark hair and an easy smile, and he’s watching Gabriel with open interest.
I take that drink too.
Gabriel laughs. “You’re going to be drunk before the night is over.”
“I’m your wingman. I can take the extra booze.” I sip the second stolen cocktail. “You need to keep it light. You’re here to find someone.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he doesn’t push it.
I’m halfway through the third cocktail when I start to feel it. The alcohol smoothing the edges of everything, making the lights softer and the heat of the bar less oppressive. I’m not drunk, not even close, but I’m buzzed enough that my thoughts are coming slower, looser, less filtered.
Another guy approaches us while I’m draining the last of the drink.
He’s mid-thirties, good-looking in a generic way, wearing a tight black t-shirt that shows off his gym routine.
He leans against the bar between me and Gabriel, his attention on Gabriel but his eyes flicking to me every few seconds.
“Hey,” he says in accented English. “You guys visiting?”
Gabriel nods. “Staying nearby for a few weeks.”
“Nice.” The guy’s smile widens. He’s got good teeth. “I’m Marco. You two are super hot, by the way.”
My shoulders tense.
Gabriel’s cheekbones flush pink, just a hint of color. “Thanks.”
Marco’s eyes move between us, assessing. “Are you guys together?”
There’s a pause, just a beat too long, and then Gabriel says, “We’re stepbrothers.”
I expect that to kill the guy’s interest, but it doesn’t.
Marco’s smile sharpens, and he gives us both another long look, his gaze lingering on me before moving back to Gabriel. “Even better. You know, I’ve got a place nearby, if you’re interested.”
My stomach twists.
Gabriel shifts on his stool, not looking at me. “Thanks, but we’re good.”
Marco doesn’t leave immediately. He leans in a little closer, his voice dropping. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here for a while.”
Then he’s gone, melting back into the crowd toward the table where his friends are sitting.
I watch him go, then set the empty glass down on the bar harder than I mean to. “Maybe we should hit another bar. Or a club. This place feels off.”
Gabriel looks at me, his eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I want him to find. The moment stretches, and I can feel my pulse in my throat.
“Sure,” he says finally. “Let’s go.”
We pay the tab and stand. The room tilts slightly when I get to my feet, the alcohol catching up with me, but I’m steady enough. Gabriel leads the way toward the exit, and I follow, keeping close as we navigate through the crowd.
Bodies press in on all sides, the heat and noise and movement making it hard to see where we’re going.
Someone bumps into Gabriel from the side, and he stumbles slightly.
I don’t think, just move, my hand going to his back, settling between his shoulder blades, the silk of his shirt soft and warm under my palm.
I tell myself it’s just to steer him, make sure we don’t get separated, guide him through the crowd.
Not to mark territory. Not to show every guy in this bar that Gabriel is here with me.
But my hand stays there, firm and steady, even after we clear the crowd and reach the door.
Gabriel doesn’t pull away.
We step out into the night, and the cool air cuts through the heat still sitting on my skin. I drop my hand, shoving it into my pocket, and we start walking.
I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. All I know is that I can still feel the heat of Gabriel’s back against my palm, and I want to put my hand there again.