“That was Dorian I was talking to earlier,” I say as I stab some scrambled eggs with the tines of a thin metal fork. “In case you didn’t put that together.”
“Yeah. I gathered.”
“He had the audacity to try to make me feel guilty. Can you believe that?”
Gabriel snorts. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway. I don’t want to waste another minute on that asshole when I’ve already given him years of my life.”
Gabriel lifts his glass of orange juice, a silent hear-hear of sorts.
“Anyway.” I drag in a long breath. “You going to tell me what you were doing at the hotel this weekend? Were you there for work?”
I thought it was odd last night that he didn’t want to answer the question. I’d only asked because I was curious, and it seemed like an innocent enough query. I didn’t expect him to roll over and call it a night, to emotionally bristle as if I’d touched a sore spot.
He places his fork down before dabbing at his mouth with his paper napkin. A wash of concern covers his face and he stares down at his empty plate.
“It’s complicated,” he says.
I wait for him to elaborate, but all I get is a long pause.
“And?” I ask.
“And I’d rather not talk about it.”
Tossing my fork down, I lean back in my chair. “That’s not fair.”
He peers across the table. “And how is it not fair? Exactly?”
I mean, he has a point.
I’m not entitled to that information. I suppose it’s not exactly unfair that he doesn’t want to share his personal business with me.
Exhaling, I glance out the window. As soon as I get back to the hotel and pack my things and talk to my parents and sister, I’ve got to figure out where I’m going to live and what my next move is going to be. We were supposed to honeymoon in Italy so I have the next two weeks off from work already, so that should give me plenty of time to get moving on my new normal.
“Yesterday was …” he begins to say before pausing, “yesterday was an anniversary. My wedding anniversary with my ex, actually. And we were married there, in the very same rose garden.”
I’m speechless.
Didn’t see that coming.
Not at all.
I silence any commentary, hoping he’ll elaborate.
“I’ve spent the last seven years feeling bitter. Reliving our wedding day. Reliving the moment I found out exactly who I’d married. I’ve been angry. And miserable. And that’s no way to live,” he says. “So I came back to the place where it all began … where I first met her. Where I proposed to her. Where I married her. And where I subsequently made the biggest mistake of my life. I came back to let myself be angry one last time, because I want to move on. I have to move on,” he says. His eyes hold mine. “And then I met you.”
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“From the moment I saw you, Olivia, from the moment you sidled up to me at the bar and started chatting my ear off about things that were much too personal for two strangers to discuss … I stopped thinking of her,” he says. “I stopped feeling that anger, that bitterness. For the first time in years, I was able to focus on something else. Someone else. And that someone was you.”
“Wow.”
Gabriel bunches up his napkin and tosses it on the table. “It sounds silly when I say it all out loud like that, but there’s your answer.” He stands. “If you’re finished, we should probably get on the road soon.”
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” I say, reaching for his hand so he doesn’t stray too far. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
We have a moment, eyes locked, my hand wrapped around his. A burst of warmth blooms in my chest. I don’t know why, but the thought of never seeing Gabriel again after this sends a tightness to my chest.
“What are you doing after this?” I ask. “After you take me back?”
His brows meet. “Back to work, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
Rising from the table, I stand before him, studying his chiseled features, breathing in his clean scent, wondering what he’d do if I kissed him right now …
“I like you, Gabriel,” I confess. “I don’t know you, but I want to know you.”
“I like you too.” The way he focuses on me sends my heart into arrhythmia.
“I’m off the next two weeks,” I say, remembering the address on the business card he gave me Friday night. “You’re in Bedford, right?”
He nods.
“I’m in Manhattan,” I say. “At least … for now. I’ll be moving. Soon. But I’d like to see you again.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I add, “Do you … do you feel the same?”