15. Gabriel
Gabriel
I wake up at eight in the morning.
For most, that would be an early start, but for me, it’s late.
Eight is basically noon, as far as I’m concerned.
Normally, I’d be up already, getting breakfast for Peyton and preparing for work.
It’s Saturday, so I’m not going to the office today, but my body clock is geared to wake up at five o’clock.
I feel rested. Refreshed. Another good night’s sleep.
Maybe I’m turning a corner. Or maybe it’s just the effects of having someone else in the bed with me.
No. That can’t be it.
When Peyton was younger, she used to sleep in my bed pretty often.
Whenever she was sick or scared, she would crawl into bed beside me.
That certainly never helped me sleep better.
In fact, it usually meant a night of hovering, wide awake, watching her little chest rise and fall and reassuring myself that she was okay.
I glance over at Alexis, who is still asleep. Her face is peaceful, her copper hair splayed out over her cheek. As I watch her, she makes a soft noise and shifts in her sleep. She sighs, snuggling into her pillow.
I stay completely still, captivated by the expression on her face. The corner of her mouth twitches up into a half-smile, and she sighs again. Then whimpers something that’s almost a word.
I lean in slightly, straining to catch what she might be saying. It’s barely a whisper, but it carries a sense of longing that resonates deep within me.
I think it might have been my name.
What’s she dreaming about? Was it me?
Was she having a dirty dream about me?
I shut down my imagination before it can run wild. Whatever Alexis is dreaming about, that’s her business, not mine. She didn’t say my name. She was mumbling something in her sleep, probably gibberish. Last night just has me all out of sorts.
I huff a breath and slide out of bed, moving over to the dresser. I’m careful not to disturb Alexis as I roll the top drawer open and pull out a cotton t-shirt. While I’m dressing, I glance over and catch sight of her romance novel, sitting on the bedside table.
Curiosity pulls me over to the side table. I step lightly, determined not to wake her. Carefully, I pick up the book, turning it over to peruse the back cover.
It’s a thick, hardcover novel with embossed lettering on the book jacket that reads The Fire Between Us. Below that, smaller, is the author’s name: Chelsea Norris. I make a mental note of that, then flip it over to skim the blurb.
In the heart of a bustling city, where ambition and desire intertwine, two souls find themselves drawn together by an undeniable chemistry.
Amber is a rising journalist searching for her breakthrough story when she crosses paths with Jacob, a rough-around-the-edges private detective embroiled in a tough case.
In Amber, Jacob finds a welcome distraction from the weight of his dark world.
In Jacob, Amber discovers intrigue and a heady, thrilling sense of danger.
But when the shadows of Jacob’s case threaten to close in around them, Amber is forced to choose between the heat and excitement of the city’s rough edges… or protecting her heart.
In “The Fire Between Us,” discover a steamy tale of passion, danger, and the lengths one will go to for love, where the flames of desire can either forge an unbreakable bond or consume everything in their path.
Below the synopsis, there are a few pull quotes. I glance up at Alexis, who’s still sleeping soundly. Keeping quiet, I pull out my phone and type in the book’s title, then set the novel back down on the table.
I click on the first link that pops up when I search the title.
I can’t help myself. Whatever was in this book, it had Alexis flustered, worked up.
I saw a little of it when I grabbed the book, but only a paragraph or so.
I want to see the rest of that sex scene. To know what it was that turned her on.
I order a copy of the book to my office, silently praying that my receptionist won’t open the package without my say-so.
Or, god forbid, the mail room interns. I can already imagine the headline if it ever leaked.
Thorne Enterprises CCO Orders Spicy Bodice Ripper to Corporate Headquarters.
I try to imagine what I’d say if that got out.
Maybe I can frame it as “market research.” Technically, that wouldn’t be a lie. I am the Chief Content Officer. Part of my job is staying in touch with all forms of media—books, film, streaming. Stories that move people, stories that ignite something.
And clearly, this one ignited something in Alexis.
But even as I tell myself that, I know it’s bullshit. I know I’m not doing this for work. Not really. This is personal.
I want to understand her. Alexis. She reads books like this in bed, pink-cheeked and glowing, completely caught up in the fantasy. Not just of sex, but of being wanted. Desired. Taken care of.
She said she was a virgin. That she always assumed her husband would be her first.
Which means she assumed it would be me.
The thought hits harder than it should. Something warm coils low in my stomach.
There’s a part of me that wants to be that man for her.
To give her every touch, every whisper, every bit of slow, deliberate pleasure those pages describe.
But another part of me recoils at the idea.
At the responsibility of being her first. At the weight of everything I’m still carrying.
When I told her that I couldn’t, that I wanted to maintain some distance, it was for her sake more than it was for mine. I promised myself I would do right by her, and that means keeping those boundaries.
Still, I want to know what made her eyes glaze over like that. I want to know what fantasy she was living in when I walked out of that shower.
Turning off my phone, I shrug on a pair of jeans, opting for a more casual look today. As I close the drawer, Alexis wakes.
At first, she gazes at me with half-lidded eyes, foggy with sleep. She blinks a few times, her eyelids still drooping, relaxed.
Then, abruptly, she stiffens. She sits upright and clears her throat.
“Good morning,” I say politely. I don’t mention the sounds she was making. I don’t want to embarrass her. It’s pretty clear she’s already self-conscious about it, aware of her intense dream.
“Good morning,” she replies.
For a few seconds, silence hangs between us, laden with tension. I can feel last night in the offing. Inevitably, we’re going to have to talk about it.
But not right now. Alexis shakes herself a bit, pulling the sheets up to her chest as if hiding her body from view, even though she’s wearing a loose-fitting t-shirt.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” she asks.
“Well, it’s the weekend,” I reply. “I was considering taking Peyton to the beach. I promised her last week that we’d go soon.”
“Oh. That sounds nice,” she says.
“You’re more than welcome to come, if you’d like.”
Her eyes brighten at the invitation. “Sure. I could do with a beach day.”
As she gets out of bed and readies herself, I head down the hall to wake Peyton.
I push the door open, peeking inside. Peyton is still asleep, bundled up in her purple comforter. I give her a small shake, and she stirs, looking up at me groggily.
“Hey, Bug,” I whisper. “Time to wake up. How do you feel about a beach day today?”
“Beach day!” Immediately, she springs up, now wide awake. “I’m gonna build the biggest sandcastle ever!” Her lisp turns the sibilants into “th” sounds.
“I can’t wait to see it.” I smile fondly. “Why don’t you pick out some clothes for today, okay? A swimsuit and something to wear over it.”
“Okay!” She throws the comforter back and jumps out of bed. I retreat to the hallway as she starts to open up her dresser drawers. While Alexis and Peyton are both getting ready, I’m planning on whipping up some pancakes.
In the kitchen, I grab a mixing bowl and the ingredients—flour, eggs, milk, vanilla extract. As I’m dolloping the batter into a frying pan, letting it sizzle, Alexis walks into the kitchen, running a comb through her wavy hair.
I do a double-take at the sight of her. She’s wearing a white shawl, and underneath it is a swimsuit. Her legs are bare, and the shawl doesn’t do much to cover her midriff either.
“Something smells good,” she says, her voice light, as if she’s unaware of the effect she’s having on me. After last night, that feels impossible. “What are you making?”
I clear my throat. “Pancakes.” I gesture with the spatula at the golden-brown medallions in the pan. “Do you take syrup on yours?”
“Oh, definitely.” She settles at the counter, leaning on the granite surface. “They look delicious.”
Peyton comes bounding down the stairs, her hair a wild mess of curls and her face alight with excitement. “Beach time! Beach time!”
“Pancakes first,” I say, flipping the first batch onto a waiting plate. “You need some fuel in you before you get to work on those sandcastles.”
Peyton takes a seat at the counter next to Alexis. It doesn’t escape my notice that they both seem much more comfortable around each other this morning.
I pass out pancakes to both of them, then serve myself two of them.
It’s quiet in the kitchen as we all scarf down breakfast. Sunlight streams through the large windows, illuminating strands of Alexis’s copper hair, dappling her skin, and I realize with a start that she’s not wearing her usual layer of foundation. Her freckles are plainly visible.
When we’re done with pancakes, the three of us troop outside to pile into my four-door Maserati. The car was a gift from my father years ago, when Melanie was pregnant with Peyton and it was clear my family was growing.
You’ll need a car with a back seat, I remember my father telling me. You and your wife can ride in flashy coupes all you like now, but when you have a small child, you need four doors.