by Meghan March
“. . . so that’s all I’m saying on the subject. We’ll leave it alone if you want.”
“Yes, we’re leaving it alone for now. If or when I have something to report about my relationship with Gabriel Legend that would be relevant to you, I will let you know.”
“Whoa. You’ve never shown balls like that before. Where is Scarlett, and what have you done with her?” Christine asks, and if it weren’t for the hint of pride in her tone, it would have pissed me off.
“Next topic?”
“Have you made any progress with Meryl Fosse? I know she’s on your list of goal clients, but I haven’t heard you mention her in a while.”
Damn, they’re pulling no punches this morning.
“I saw her a few weeks ago, but no, I’ve made zero progress on getting her to come into Curated. After I’m back to work like normal, I’ll work on setting up a meeting with her.”
“She’s hosting a charity gala in two weeks. They’re raising funds for an addition to the youth center they’ve already outgrown. It’s going to be a who’s who event. You need to be there,” Ryan tells me.
“I don’t even know if I got an invite. I’ll check with Amy. If I did, I’ll definitely go. If I haven’t, I’ll stop at the charity offices and finagle one.” I pick a piece of lint off the belly pillow I have pressed against my stomach as I sit up in bed.
“Good plan.”
There’s another moment of silence, and I know they want to mention Gabriel again, so I go there first.
“I get that you’re worried about me. I do, and I appreciate it. But, please, just let me handle some things on my own. If or when I need your advice or opinions on something personal, I’ll ask for them.”
“She just told us where to go,” Christine mumbles dryly to her brother.
“We respect you and know that you’re a capable, intelligent adult,” Ryan says. “But you’re also like a sister to us, and I’m just telling you what I’d tell Christine.”
“Aw,” Christine says with blatant sarcasm. “Now I know why Scarlett is telling us to fuck off, because I’d do the same to you if you tried to interfere in my personal life. Thanks, big brother, that was very educational.”
“I love you both and thank you for the goodies you sent. I really appreciate the thought.” Their get-well basket is still on the cart Liz rolled up when Gabriel was here.
“I’m just sorry we weren’t there in person,” Ryan replies.
“Well, my dad couldn’t make it to the hospital in person or even via phone call, so you’re doing better than him.”
As soon as I say the words, my phone buzzes with a text, and I pull it away from my ear to check the screen.
I have a moment of panic when I see Chadwick’s name on the display. Why did I unblock him? Oh, that’s right, if something happened to my dad when they were together, I wanted to make sure he could reach me. I obviously should have waited a few more months, though.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett. You know how we feel about Lawrence. You deserve better,” Ryan says, trying to console me over my daddy issues, but I’m too sidetracked by the box on my screen and the message taunting me to click on it.
“Thank you, guys. Talk later.”
They say their good-byes, but I’m barely listening as I disconnect the call and toss my phone beside me on the bed.
“What would he possibly have to say to me that I would want to hear?” I ask the empty room, but unlike moments ago, there’s only my question and no voices of reason to answer.
I don’t have to read it. I’m allowed to ignore it. I don’t have to entertain whatever he has to say.
I remind myself of all these things, but I can’t help myself. When I tap the stupid text message, the window opens.
Immediately, I wish I hadn’t.
It’s a photo of Chadwick and my dad. Together. Laughing with fishing poles in their hands.
What. The. Fuck.
* * *
Chadwick: Sorry your dad couldn’t make it to the hospital. We were having too much fun fishing in the Hamptons.
* * *
My dad didn’t come to the hospital while I was having emergency surgery because he was fishing with my asshole ex-boyfriend? Tears burn the back of my eyes, and I can’t hold them in. They spill down my cheeks in hot streams.
How can fishing with your daughter’s ex-boyfriend be more important than your daughter?
Gut-wrenching grief for the relationship I never had with my father tears through me, doubling me over.
And that’s how Gabriel finds me.
Thirty-Six
Legend
“Fuck, are you okay? Do you need to go back to the hospital?”
I charge into the room and drop to my knees next to the bed, terrified that something’s horribly wrong with Scarlett. I have my phone in my hand, and I tap the 9 key before she looks up. It’s the worst expression I’ve seen on her face, other than the one I put there when I told her to leave my club and never come back.
Needless to say, I never want to see it again.
“I’m calling 911. We’ll get you an ambulance.”
She shakes her head.
“Stop trying to power through the pain. If you’re hurting—”
“It’s not that,” she says, interrupting me with a sniffle. “I’m fine. It’s not from the surgery.”
Everything in me stills. “What did I do?” It’s the only other thing I can think of that would make her so fucking unhappy. Me.
Again, she shakes her head, but tears keep streaming down her face.
I reach out, trying to catch them on my thumbs, and I’d put them back in her eyes if I could, but they won’t stop falling. I rise to slide onto the bed next to her and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
“Who do I need to kill? You give me a name, and it’ll be done.”
Scarlett chokes out a laugh.
“I’m serious. Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it.”
She looks up at me from beneath wet, clumping eyelashes and half snuffles, half laughs. “That might be the best offer I’ve gotten to get me to stop crying, but you don’t need to kill anyone. I’m just being a baby about the fact that my father couldn’t come to the hospital because he was fishing with Chadwick the fucking douchebag.”
Her tone turns hysterical at the end of the sentence, and now I really want to kill the bastard. Fuck, I’d take out both of them.
Instead, I curl my other arm around her front and carefully hug her. Comfort isn’t something I know how to give or receive, but I’m going on instinct here. “Your father doesn’t deserve to have a daughter as amazing as you, if he’s going to fish with that fucking cocksucker when you’re in the hospital.”
She lets out another snuffle-laugh and leans into me. “I don’t get it. I don’t get how your own daughter could be so unimportant in your life. It doesn’t make sense.”
I think of how my mother left me and walked into Charlie’s Liquor and never looked back. “There are a fuck ton of parents who don’t deserve the title. Trust me, my mom was a piece of work. I ended up in foster care because she didn’t give a shit about me either.”
I’ve never shared that bit of information with anyone but Bump, Jorie, and Q, but it’s so fucking easy to share it with Scarlett. The shame that always comes with it is still there, though.
Her head jerks up immediately, and her teary eyes are big and wide. “Oh my God, Gabriel. That breaks my heart. She didn’t deserve you either.”
She burrows into me like she belongs at my side, and I fucking love the feel of her there. Together, we lie on her bed, no doubt thinking about our respective shitty parents and feeling sorry for ourselves. But for the first time since my mother picked looting a liquor store over me, I feel less shame about her choice. Her demons were stronger than both of us.
I still want to strangle Scarlett’s father, though. Even if I’d been a crappy son, there’s no way in hell Scarlett is a bad daughter. She’s . . . a goddamned mi
racle. She could have grown up to be an entitled trust-fund kid with a drug problem, blowing through her family’s money before she was even twenty-five. But she’s the complete opposite.
She works her ass off, cares deeply about her staff, and is fiercely loyal to her friends.
Her dad is a giant fucking asshole.
That’s when I see the photo on her phone screen—two men holding up fish on a dock, both wearing sunglasses and tans that say they play more than they work.
I’ve already met her ex, but I memorize the image of her father. If I see either of them on the street, they’re going to feel my wrath for making my girl cry.
My girl.
My gaze cuts from the picture back to the woman curled up next to me.
Yeah. That’s what she is. Whether I deserve her or not, I’m not going to be another man in her life who shits all over her. It may take me years to make up for how things started, but I won’t stop until I do—or however long she lets me stay in her life.
Scarlett is a gift, and even though I don’t have a lot of experience with those, I’m going to treat her the way she should have been treated all along.
With respect and like a fucking queen.
Thirty-Seven
Scarlett
I wipe the tears from my eyes and take a few deep breaths as I soak up Gabriel’s strength. Despite our wildly different backgrounds, we share this harsh common ground of not being enough for our respective parents.
He brushes the strands of hair that have fallen out of my messy bun away from my face, and his blue eyes are full of compassion.
I rarely let people see me fall apart. It’s another thing my mother schooled me on relentlessly. “If you let them see you cry, they’ll know how to hurt you.”
I may as well have a master’s degree in burying my emotions and putting on a good front. But this time, it feels really good to feel what I feel and not try to cover it up for the sake of appearances.
“I brought you something,” Gabriel whispers against my temple.
A swirl of curiosity breaks through the grief. “You didn’t have to bring me anything,” I reply, tilting my head to see his face.
“I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Nothing fancy, so keep your expectations low.”
Minutes ago, I wouldn’t have believed it would be so easy to pull myself out of this crying jag, but Gabriel managed to do it anyway.
I catch a hint of excitement in his blue eyes before I lose his heat as he climbs off the bed. He disappears into the living room and returns with a paper bag in his hand.
“What is it?” I ask, my anticipation rising. I’m a gift giver by nature, so being on the receiving end is new for me.
His expression is serious when he replies. “You have to promise not to get too excited.”
Too late, I think, but I excitedly nod as I try to school my features into a sober mask. From the shake of his head, I can tell I’m not pulling it off.
“Please, the suspense is killing me.”
He mumbles something under his breath before holding out the sack. I grip the brown paper and peek inside.
From the top, I can see a book. But not a novel. A thinner book with dark edges. I reach inside to pull it out and blink at the cover.
Oh. My. God.
My head jerks up, and I meet his blue gaze. “You got me a coloring book?” I look back down at the cover. “Of ladybugs?”
His expression morphs into one that’s almost sheepish. “I thought you might get bored. I know you’ve got a phone to keep you busy, but I thought you might like to take a break from that and just . . . color. Shit. It sounds stupid now that I’m saying it. I’m sorry. I can take—”
My heart is in danger of bursting from joy as I hug the coloring book to my chest. “No. Not stupid. Perfect. I love it. Thank you.”
“You sure?” He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for the bag.
I’m tempted to snatch it back in case he tries to take it, but I watch as he lifts it and spills the remaining contents onto the duvet.
Markers. Colored Pencils. Crayons.
Excited laughter bubbles up in my chest. “You have no idea how deep my love of office supplies goes. This is amazing.”
“Yeah?”
I reach out to tangle my fingers with his. “Yeah. Thank you so much. I don’t remember the last time someone gave me a gift that was so thoughtful.” I kiss his massive knuckles.
He shrugs and drops his gaze to the duvet. “It’s not much. Plus, you’re the girl who has everything.”
I squeeze to get his attention and wait until his blue gaze lifts to meet mine. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Gabriel. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“You’re not crying anymore, so I believe you.”
The pang of loss that hits me isn’t as sharp this time, and I’m taking that as a win. “Definitely believe me, because it’s true.”
As we sit there, my call with Ryan and Christine pops into my head. Well, the part of it about the charity event for Meryl Fosse.
Before I can second-guess myself, I blurt out, “And I’m not the girl who has everything, because I don’t have a date to this charity event, and I would really like for you to go with me.”
Gabriel’s head jerks back. He stares at me like he’s still processing what I just said, so I barrel forward, spilling out the information.
“It’s in a couple of weeks. It’s hosted by this woman named Meryl Fosse. I’ve been trying to get her as a client for Curated because she needs what I can offer, but she thinks I’m fake and she only does real. It eats at me because I’m terrified there’s some truth to her opinion, so I need to prove her wrong.”
Those vivid sapphire eyes turn to flashing thunderclouds. “You can’t let her have that power over you. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone.”
In theory, he’s right, but Meryl’s words cut deep and revealed one of my biggest insecurities—does what I’m doing even matter?
“I know, but I still want to go. I want her to see that with you, I’m as real as it gets.”
“I don’t like her.” Gabriel practically growls the words, which make me chuckle.
“Thank you for being Team Scarlett, but . . . does that mean you don’t want to go?”
He’s silent for almost a minute. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t have the best reputation, and I sure as hell don’t want to tarnish yours.”
My heart hurts for the young boy whose mother didn’t care about him the way she should have. If he’d had a mother like mine, he wouldn’t wonder if a woman would be proud to stand next to him in public.
“When I said I wanted to make this real, I meant it. You and me. Out in the open. In front of God and all of Manhattan.”
Gabriel takes a long, slow breath and releases it. “Okay. We’ll do it, but if that bitch says one more fucked-up thing to you, I’m taking you the hell out of there.”
A smile stretches my cheeks so wide that they almost hurt. “Deal. Now, let’s color some awesome ladybugs.”
Thirty-Eight
Scarlett
By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, I’m tired of being cooped up in my apartment. Gabriel watches me with an eyebrow raised.
“You’re going to reorganize your nightstand again, aren’t you?”
I glance over to the left at the ruthlessly organized side table and back to him. “I’ve got cabin fever. Time for a jail break.”
“And where exactly are we going?”
I love how he says we like it’s a foregone conclusion that he’s coming with me.
Rain beats against the windows, so going outside doesn’t appeal. “How about downstairs? They should’ve finished switching over a few rooms, and I always do a walk-through.”
“Twenty bucks says you can’t do it without reorganizing something.” He says it with one of those almost-smiles that tugs at the corner of his mouth. I can’t get enough of them.
I shoot him a wink. “That�
��s literally my job, and I’m damn good at it.”
“I think that’s pretty obvious. And I wasn’t making fun of your . . . quirk. It’s cute as fuck. I can’t imagine what you’d make of my place. You’d never leave because you’d be so busy moving everything around. Then again, I don’t have much in the way of knickknacks.”
All he’s told me about his place is that it’s in Jersey and nothing special, but I desperately want to see it. I want to understand more about this man who has spent so much of his time with me while I’ve been recovering.
“I wouldn’t touch a thing . . . unless you asked me to.” I make the promise solemnly, but the half smile almost makes it to a full smile, and it’s hard not to cheer silently. In the last few days, I’ve gotten them out of him more and more often, and every single one is a genuine reward.
I want to kiss him while he’s smiling.
I slide out of my bed, and his gaze follows me every step to the closet.
After seeing him take care of business in the shower, I haven’t been able to get the mental image out of my brain. I want him. I swear, I’ve spent half of my recovery trying to figure out how to get enough alone time to relieve all the urges I suddenly have—and failed, because I’m never alone.
I’m ready to shred the doctor’s orders and climb him where he stands. But the nagging twinge in my belly when I pull off my robe tells me that while most of me might be willing, another day—or hell, another few hours—worth of waiting would be wise.
I’ve never wanted to ignore my better judgment more.
Aside from brushing his lips over my temple or pressing them to my forehead, he hasn’t even kissed me.
That ends today.
I throw on some cute lounge pants, a lace-edged cami, and a nearly sheer cashmere cardigan. It’s not the sexiest outfit in my closet by a long, long stretch, but it’s by far the most fashionable thing I’ve worn since my hospital stay.