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“This is me,” Gideon says when the driver pulls over at the next corner. As he pays for the ride, I lean over, peering up at the white stone skyscraper. Impressive marble pillars on the first two levels give way to more subtle decorative elements as it stretches upward, but it’s a luxury building, no doubt about it.
Gideon has clearly done very well for himself. With him, I wouldn’t feel compelled to hide the fact that I have money, too. Or, that my family has money that is now under my control.
No matter how hard I’ve worked to get good grades or be the best conservationist in rural Maine, I can’t help feeling like I don’t deserve credit for the things I’ve accomplished. After all, it was so much easier for me than people whose parents didn’t have the resources mine did. It’s like I started the race two laps ahead of everyone else and that’s certainly nothing to be proud of.
The issue is already top of mind when we move into the lobby, past the friendly doorman at the front desk, and into the elevator, where Gideon presses the P for penthouse.
Penthouse. Gabaldon…
My brain connects the dots, remembering where I’ve heard the name before. Edward and Annabelle Gabaldon are friends of my father’s, an older couple who own a summer home not far from ours in The Hamptons. I think they’re in mining. Platinum or something.
Before I realize my lips are moving, I hear myself asking, “What did you say your parents’ names were again?”
He shoots me an amused look. “I didn’t. But if you’re trying to place them in the high society scene, don’t bother. We aren’t those Gabaldons. I grew up on Long Island. My dad did well for himself in his business, but not old money well. And he had a chip on his shoulder about snobby city people. He and my mother retired to Tampa a few years ago and couldn’t be happier.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” I say, my cheeks heating. My mother is probably rolling over in her grave. She taught me young that it was gauche to discuss money. As far as she was concerned, people who talked about money clearly didn’t have enough of it.
Gideon smiles as the elevator slows. “There’s no need to apologize. You aren’t the first person to ask. And truth be told, we probably are related to those Gabaldons in one way or another, but too far up the family tree to bridge the gap between the Upper East Side and Long Island.” The car stops and the doors slide smoothly open. Gideon extends an arm, motioning for me to precede him down the short hallway to the only apartment on the floor.
The ornate gold P on the door reminds me of my father’s place. Though Dad’s “P” is larger and more ornate. The font choice reflects the posh Georgian building I called home as a child.
My friends were always so jealous. Many of them had bigger homes and more opulent bedrooms, but the architecture and private rooftop garden set our place apart. My father also had a small indoor pool installed downstairs in what used to be the bowling alley when I was six. After that, no one turned down my sleepover invitations, even if I was one of the shier girls in class and always looked like I’d just run inside after rolling in the grass, no matter how hard my mother worked to make me look like a little lady.
It crosses my mind that my mother would probably approve of Gideon. Yes, he’s older, but he’s wealthy. He might not have the pedigree she would have preferred, but being a billionaire forgives a multitude of sins. And our family has the pedigree part covered. If Gideon were with me, previously closed doors would open for him.
But I already know he wouldn’t care. Gideon couldn’t care less about accessing the private clubs and secret societies of the uber rich. He just wants to do good work, make a positive difference in the world, and spend as much time hiking and rock climbing as possible.
And reconnect with his son, the inner voice reminds me as Gideon opens the door, leading the way into a gorgeous open-concept space filled with plants and softly burbling water features.
Adrian. It all keeps coming back to Adrian. No matter how comfortable I feel with Gideon, and how much I want to be with him, the reality of this complicated, delicate situation isn’t going away.
“Sparkling water?” Gideon asks in the kitchen, opening a pale wood panel that conceals the fridge from view. “Juice? Beer? Whiskey on the rocks?”
Leaning on the lovely white marble island with the delicate gray veins running throughout, I say, “Whiskey on the rocks. But only if you’ll have some with me.”
“Trying to get me drunk and lower my inhibitions?” He glances at me over his shoulder, the fridge still open, showcasing almost nothing inside except drinks, fruit, and a small container of half-and-half. Clearly, he wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t spend much time here.
I shrug, my pulse picking up again as I say, “Maybe. Is that bad?”
“Not at all,” he says, his expression sobering as he closes the door and reaches for a bourbon tumbler from an artistic display of glasses near the sink. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about. None of this is your fault or your responsibility. This is my mess.” He sighs as he slides open a drawer below the fridge, revealing the freezer. It’s even more empty than the fridge, barren aside from an ice maker full of perfectly formed cubes.
Gideon plops two in the glass before sliding the drawer closed and turning to face me. “Whiskey preference? I have a nice Hakushu single malt from my last hiking trip in Japan.”
I arch a wry brow. “You drink whiskey on your hikes?”
He smiles one of his wicked smiles, and my stomach flips. Damn, I’ve missed that grin. I’ve missed this man. Even with the specters of Adrian and our doomed relationship haunting the evening, I still feel so comfortable and welcome in his home.
“No, after,” he says. “Nothing like a giant steak and a glass of whiskey after a five-day hike over a mountain.”
I hum jealously. “Sounds amazing. I’ve never done more than a weekend trip. School was too intense to get away for longer than that and I didn’t want to let the butterflies and seabirds down in the summers.”
“What about when you were younger? Did your dad ever take you hiking?”
I snort out a laugh. “If only you knew how funny that was.”
“He’s not an outdoorsman?”
“That’s putting it mildly. He won’t even go golfing without bug spray and extra shoes to put on as soon as he steps off the green. Nature is too messy and unpredictable for my father. We did museums and fancy restaurants when I was a kid, not hikes or playgrounds.”
