She’d gotten what she needed instead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You sure you want to make the move, bro?” Sebastian asked as he slid the last moving box into the back of the ancient Volvo wagon.
“Hell no.” Gage wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Despite the brisk weather, both men had worked up a sweat. “But it beats being cooped up in four-hundred square feet of brown shag at the Shabby Arms.”
He thought of the crumbling apartment complex — the last in a string of many — shown to him by the young leasing agent who looked as though he should be cramming for midterms rather than driving house hunters around in his Toyota beater. The rental property’s best feature was that it overlooked two withering palm trees and a kidney-shaped pool filled with algae-colored water rather than the interstate.
The leasing agent had also showed Gage far nicer, newer apartment homes outside of the city limits, and they’d all fit neatly into his price range. But the far-flung exburbs had been a quarter of a tank of gas, one county and two toll fees away. The worst of the lot was Shady Oak Hills, which the young agent had pimped a little bit too enthusiastically. Gage had stepped out of the beater, taken one look at the rows of chaste, identical ivory-colored dwellings, their lawns occupied by Chablis-sipping couples having shouted conversations with their neighbors, and he had felt light-headed with boredom.
He’d take his chances with Sabrina instead.
Sebastian gave him a look of concern. “You could always move in with us,” he said. “I’m sure Molly wouldn’t mind. We could clear out the guest room. Put some stuff in storage.”
“No thanks, man,” Gage told him, genuinely appreciative of the offer. “You just got married. You and the bride need your own space. Besides, not sure how much R & R I’d get with all of that coil spring action going on in the next room.”
Gage couldn’t be sure, but he was fairly sure Sebastian blushed. Sebastian and Molly made falling in love look too damned easy. Gage would have bet the farm, the livestock and the well that his friend would have one of those terminally happy marriages generally reserved for characters in mawkishly romantic movies. The newly wedded Coles actually made marriage look like it was something worth looking forward to.
“There are only a few boxes in the house. I’ll swing back for them after we make this run,” Gage said. He studied the back of the wagon, where twenty years of personal belongings had been reduced to ten moving boxes and a ragtag set of Samsonite luggage. The few pieces of furniture he couldn’t part ways with were stowed in the U-Haul trailer hitched to the GTO.
Time to live light.
“Looks like this does it, then.” Sebastian slammed the hatch door.
“Beer?” Gage asked him.
Sebastian gave a solemn nod. “Cold alcoholic beverages are definitely in order.”
“I saved the last two just for the occasion. I’ll get ’em. Take a load off, bro,” Gage told him.
Sebastian sat down on the porch and stretched out the kinks in his bad leg. Whenever it began to ache, his barely detectable limp became noticeable. Gage knew that his friend wouldn’t have said a word if he hadn’t put on the stops. Sebastian was just that much of a trooper.
The two men met during their freshman year at university. When Gage’s R.A. told him that he’d be rooming with a whiz kid who’d been courted by every Ivy League school as well as Oxford, his first instinct was to request a transfer. The last thing Gage wanted was to bunk with a grind that dislodged his nose only from a book to complain about the smell of old pizza boxes he’d kicked under the bed. Gage went to his room to find a lanky, lemur-eyed sixteen-year-old pinning Black Flag posters to their dorm room wall and rocking out to the Beatles’ White Album. His new titanium prosthesis gleamed under crisp khaki shorts that looked like something a mother would pack for summer camp.
Noticing that Gage’s eyes were trained on the prosthesis, Sebastian Cole didn’t even bother to first introduce himself formally. Instead, he told Gage that he’d recently lost his leg after he had purloined and wrecked his cousin’s Harley-Davidson. Did Gage have a problem with that?
He sure as hell didn’t.
At that very moment, he knew that the geeky kid was a total badass.
Sebastian was indeed a genius, but he never rubbed it in. Gage always wondered why his friend hadn’t chosen to go to Harvard or Yale or another university with serious alma mater clout. Then Gage met Shuck and Cybil Cole and immediately and tacitly understood that enrolling in a university located in the Midwest had been Sebastian’s second act of teenage rebellion.
The first being the Harley.
Gage stepped back outside just in time to see Ronnie stroll across her driveway on the way to her mailbox, her gleaming blond hair streaming behind her. He sat down on the porch next to Sebastian and handed him one of the beers. Spotting the two men, her mouth curled into a coy smile. Then she waved. Gage acknowledged the salutation by raising his bottle. Sebastian studied the exchange, transfixed.
“So, ah…” He looked from Gage to the Ronnie then back again. “You been there, done that?” Sebastian tipped his head in the blonde’s direction.
“Nope.” Gage twisted the cap off his beer and neatly tossed it into an outdoor trash receptacle. “New rules. Women like her are strictly off-limits.”
“You made rules?” Sebastian looked sufficiently impressed. The badass kid may have successfully defended a complex dissertation, References to Opiate Addiction in Early Twentieth-Century Literature, but the annals of Sebastian’s brief and uncomplicated love life could be summarized in a book the size of a grade-school primer. Sometimes Gage still felt like he was talking to a younger brother.
Then again, the kid did get the jump on him when it came to marriage. Maybe Sebastian knew something that he didn’t.
“Yeah, I did,” Gage told him. “No decadent sex-capades with next-door neighbors, coworkers or women looking for someone to pay the bills.”
“Really.” Sebastian tilted his head and gave Gage a curious look.
“Absolutely.” Gage took a swig of beer. “I’m through reaching for low-hanging fruit.”
Well, almost. He still had that coffee date with the spa girl, Tara Reese, but once that was over, the rules would officially be in place.
“Huh. Well, I suppose moving in with Sabrina isn’t such a bad idea, then.” Sebastian’s mouth briefly stretched into an impish grin. “‘Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears’?”
“Please. Stop with the quotes,” Gage begged him. “Look, moving into Sabrina’s place isn’t the ideal solution. But right now nothing is, given my financial situation. I’m sure we can tolerate each other without coming to fisticuffs.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Sebastian advised him. “Sabrina can be a little exacting. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
How was it possible not to? Sabrina’s insistence on going through a “compatibility determination process,” as she called it, revealed her to be even more buttoned-up than Gage had initially thought, especially when she whipped out that absurd checklist. He had expected to show up at the house on moving day to find printed rules taped to the door of his bedroom.
She hadn’t left him written instructions. But the state of his new abode spoke volumes about its occupant. The flawlessly decorated, clean common area exuded the strained hospitality of a showcase home and conspicuously lacked photographs of friends, pets, and family members, and other dust-collecting knickknacks and personal mementos women tended to collect. The only thing to suggest that a human being inhabited the place was the mountain of mail on the coffee table.
Gage knew that the only reason Sabrina had agreed to their living arrangement was because she’d tried all other avenues, and they were all closed. She needed a warm, breathing body to pony up his share of the rent, and she needed it quite badly. Even before the smell of her perfume hit him full blast, he had caught the whiff of her desperation when she
sashayed into the Capitol cafeteria wearing that frou-frou outfit she likely plucked from far back in her wardrobe.
“Look, bro. I know I razz you about Sabrina.” Sebastian tossed his empty bottle into the dumpster. “But because I feel like Molly and I got you into this situation, do you mind if I give you a little heads up?”
“I dunno. Will it involve metaphors?” Gage chucked his bottle into the bin too.
“Molly and Sabrina are like sisters, you know,” Sebastian told him, looking pensive. “They talk. About everything.”
“They’re women,” Gage pointed out. “They’re supposed to do that.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Sebastian shifted uncomfortably. “Sabrina probably knows more about our sex life than I do.” He gave a helpless shrug. “So Molly and Sabrina yap it up, and then Molly comes and talks to me. My beloved wife gets some strange ideas at times. She seems to thinks that you and Sabrina are star-crossed.”
“Why?”
“Because Sabrina and Jackson — that’s her ex — were completely wrong for each other, and you’re the exact opposite of him.”
Jackson. So the most uninspiring man known to womankind had a name. And it was a blue-blooded prep star of a name, too. It brought to mind starched polo shirts, tasseled loafers and a lifetime membership with the university alumni organization.
“Did Molly use the actual word ‘star-crossed’?” Gage was amused.
Sebastian responded with a nod. “Molly operates under the assumption that absolute opposites attract absolutely.”
Gage laughed. “I don’t suppose Maid March has been apprised of her inevitable fate.”
“Molly hatches her plots in private, so it’s highly unlikely,” Sebastian said. He rubbed his jaw contemplatively. “Speaking strictly as an objective third party, Sabrina is a curiously compelling creature. And like it or not, you are still Gage. What I’m trying to say is … those new rules you made for yourself? Don’t forget about them, if you’re serious about living your life in peace.”
Gage could abide by the rules, but there was little chance of peace. Especially since Sabrina March had made it clear to him that she found everything about his profession offensive. Star-crossed. More like ill-fated; much like the earth-shatteringly expensive port they’d imbibed at Green Pastures, Sabrina was a woman he could take in small doses. Potent ones, he added, remembering the way she kissed.
“I suppose we should get moving,” Gage said, putting the memory aside. Just as he stood up, his cell phone rang. He retrieved it from his pocket and frowned at the familiar Des Moines area code that registered across the display.
“You probably need to take that,” Sebastian said, reading his friend’s expression.
“Yeah. You mind?”
Gage got up and walked around to the side of the house, where he could conduct his conversation in private. It had been almost two years, but he still felt a heavy feeling in his stomach whenever he got the calls.
In his particular case, no news was always good news.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The last thing Sabrina wanted to do on Friday afternoon was go home.
It was Gage’s moving-in day. The mere thought of watching him lug all his man stuff into her townhouse was too depressing to contemplate. So she first harassed Moira and Carlton into helping her rearrange the office equipment in the War Room. Then after they fled, she pestered Theo to go over the talking points to the sustainable-living bill she had painstakingly drafted, the abstract of which she’d seen him crumple in his briefcase earlier that week.
“Shoo! Out! Vanish!” He brushed her away, racing to the coatrack to get his jacket. “You’ve racked up three days of comp time, and session hasn’t even started. You know I love you, Sabrina, but you’re making me crazy.”
On the drive home, the thought of Nola’s chocolate-peanut-butter bars popped into Sabrina’s mind, making her mouth water. They were the perfect comfort food. She circled the block around Ella’s Edibles while she fought her craving.
Moody. Her brain was flooded with hormones, which didn’t make things easier. She finally gave in and pulled into the café’s parking lot. Nola opened the door wearing a bright, floral-print dress with a flouncy skirt. Sabrina noticed that she’d put on her “date night” lipstick, which was a deep shade of red.
“Sabrina, what are you doing here?” her mother asked, ushering her in. “You never come by on a Friday night.”
“I just wanted to see you, Mom,” Sabrina said.
“That’s lovely, but I’m afraid I can’t dawdle too long, dear,” Nola warned as she adjusted a silk poppy that poked out of her bun. “Rex and I are learning the merengue tonight.”
“You’re taking dance classes?” Sabrina asked.
“I am indeed, and I’m enjoying them thoroughly, so please try not to look so stunned,” her mother told her. “It makes me feel old. I trust you got things worked out with the house. Did Les give you the money to refinance?”
“Not exactly,” Sabrina muttered, eyeing the display case, where a lone dessert bar remained, its dark chocolate topping glistening. “Let’s just say that my financial crisis has been averted.”
At least it had been for the time being, but Nola didn’t need to know that there was at least one devil in the details, Sabrina decided. The very thought of living under the same roof with Gage Fitzgerald indefinitely made her realize that she had to come up with a longer-term plan.
“I knew you’d put that noodle of yours to good use.” Then with a slightly imperious look, Nola added, “Just remember that you get your industriousness from my side of the family, dear.”
Her mother had finished boxing up the dessert bar just as a black, late-model Ferrari purred up to the curb outside. A distinguished-looking gentleman sat behind the wheel.
“Is that Rex?” Sabrina asked.
“You’ll notice that still has a full head of hair,” Nola said proudly, tossing a fringed shawl around her shoulders. “When you get to be my age, that’s a big selling point.”
By the time Sabrina got home, it was past eight. Gage’s GTO was nowhere in sight, but the garage door was open, revealing stacks of moving boxes. Inside the living room, an impressive array of tequila bottles festooned with tiny sombreros and flower leis lined the ledge above the fireplace. Sabrina noticed he’d retrieved the day’s mail and placed it on the coffee table, where it joined six more days’ worth of envelopes and fliers.
She came to a halt in front of the spare bedroom. One of the most imposing four-poster beds she’d ever seen filled the room, leaving a scant amount of space for a bureau, on which sat a modest-sized television. She’d expected a futon or a bare mattress set. The four-poster and its headboard, a wooden relief of twining leaves and branches, had a rustic, gentle-giant quality. Linens, pillows and a comforter in military-issue white made the bed look like a temple to solace and sleep.
Sabrina glanced up and down the hall before making a beeline to the bathroom. Toiletries were telling of one’s personality. When it came to personal care, Gage was obviously an austere minimalist. A bottle of inexpensive shampoo and a cake of castile soap were in the shower. A comb, stick of deodorant, safety razor, and tin of shaving cream were on the vanity area, along with an open Dopp kit brimming with small man things: nail clippers, a pot of Tiger Balm, a roll of Tums, and a double strip of Trojan Magnums. Her cheeks burned pink as she exited the bathroom hastily. Of course he’d have condoms. He was a grown man, and grown men had sex, didn’t they?
Smart, responsible sex. So good for Gage.
But … Trojan Magnums? Really? She suddenly recalled one rather distinct impression from their night of drunken groping at Green Pastures.
“You, my friend, have stories to tell,” she told the bed, impressed.
She couldn’t walk around in her pajamas now that a man lived in the house. She foraged around for an old pair of yoga togs and a faded sweatshirt. Gage blew through the doorway as she was sitting on the couch sipping herb
al tea and opening the week’s mail with a slim letter opener. He carried a bulky moving carton with the same ease that most people held a pizza box.
“Waiting for the caffeine to kick in, or are you in for the night?” he asked, glancing at the large pile of envelopes on the coffee table.
“I’ve designated Friday as mail-opening night,” she explained.
“Good for you. I say live it up. It’s not like you have anyplace to be tomorrow.” He gave the pile of mail a second look. “You let it collect for a week?”
“It’s mail, not mold.” She plucked a thick card from the ivory envelope and gave it a cursory glance: The Hon. Rep. Theo Ward and Mrs. Jillian Ward invite you to their seventh annual holiday gala …
“It’s junk,” Gage said candidly, putting the box down. He snagged some of the envelopes and thumbed through them. “What do we have here? Offers for credit cards, car insurance, and a Netflix membership addressed to ‘Current Resident.’ Oh, here’s something actually useful: A coupon pack. Except that barring condiments and the ice chips in the freezer, there’s nothing remotely edible in this house.”
“Just tell me what you need, and I’ll put it on the list.”
“Here’s an even better idea: you and I can meet at the neighborhood market tomorrow night and go shopping together. That way, we can split the cost of the stuff we need for the house even-steven.” Gage squinted at her carefully. “Do you really have a list?”
She gave him a wintery look. He had been oblivious to the sarcasm that graced her tone. “Of course not. When would I possibly have the time for that?”
“Oh, I dunno. Now?” Gage observed her as she went through a second stack of mail and put it back on the coffee table. “D’you really need cable bills that are two months old?” he asked, reaching down for the two envelopes on top of the pile.
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