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“What?”
“You groaned.”
“I did? Uh…” I massaged my chest. “A little bit of heartburn,” I explained with an apologetic half-smile.
“I thought you must not be feeling well. It’s not like you not to shave.” Blakely looked around, caught the eye of a server and waved him over. “Chett, could you run to the shop in the lobby and get Gage a pack of Tums?”
“Really that’s not—”
Blakely waved my protests away. “Thanks, Chett.”
The man nodded and hurried off.
“That’s what they’re here for,” she said. “Give him a big tip when he comes back. Heartburn is no fun.”
No, no it wasn’t.
Blakely smiled and turned her head as another server approached our table and asked if we were ready to order. “Yes, thank you,” Blakely said, and ordered the same thing she always ordered—the pear and pistachio salad, hold the green onion.
I had the menu memorized at this point too and didn’t require opening one to rattle off my order of a club sandwich.
Promise me you’ll name a menu item after me when you open your restaurant someday. I gave my head a shake as Chef LaCourt’s words came back to me, his Parisian heavy accent still as clear in my mind as though we’d spoken yesterday. Since I’d mentioned him to Rory, he’d been randomly popping into my mind and I wasn’t sure I liked it. I missed him…and it’d been a long time since I’d pondered on that. What would you think of how I turned out? The last time I’d seen him, I’d been a kid. I was a man now.
I sighed, running my fingers over my stubbly cheek. “Do you like me like this?” I asked Blakely.
She studied me briefly, her brow dipping. “Like what?”
I rubbed my chin. “With this scruff.”
She continued to frown at me for a moment as though I’d asked her a trick question. “I mean…you’re good-looking no matter what you do. But you’re usually more polished. I like the polished Gage.”
I like the polished Gage.
Yes, everyone seemed to like the polished Gage. I’d always liked the polished Gage.
But recently…
“So tell me what you’ve been thinking,” Blakely said after she’d taken a sip of water.
What have I been thinking? I’ve been trying not to think, honestly. Because thinking seems to lead me to all sorts of uncomfortable places. “Just…you know, about the move. There’s a lot to do.”
“Mmhmm. Anything else?” Blakely reached across the table and set her hand on mine, one elegant finger running lightly over my knuckle.
I used my other hand to lift my glass and take a long drink of water in order to stall. I knew what she was asking me. I knew her touch was meant to slowly introduce a physical comfort. And it wasn’t that I disliked it. In fact, it felt…nice. I was just so damn conflicted. “Listen, Blakely—”
She lifted her hand from mine and waved it around, stopping my words. “Gage, if you’re not sure, don’t answer yet. You said you’d give it until your party and let me know then. But listen, I already spoke with your father and he’s willing to hire me to manage all the social media for the London hotel build and opening. I’d focus on the style aspect, of course, and give the designers my input. My mother put me in charge of redoing our Hamptons home last year and it was featured in several local style magazines. In addition to fashion, I’d relish the opportunity to add interior design to my online portfolio. Plus, I could bring the eyes of my two million Instagram followers to The Buchanan in London, from ground-breaking to ribbon-cutting, featuring the luxurious but au courant style so beautifully done in your hotels.” Her eyes shined with excitement as I worked to arrange all the words she’d said into something that didn’t feel like a fist squeezing my lungs.
Two million Instagram followers.
I already spoke with your father.
I could see Blakely now, sweeping through the London hotel, completely in her element as she talked thread count and designer wallpaper as two million young people were introduced to The Buchanan. If my father was the new Conrad Hilton, Blakely would be his Paris. She’d been born for the role. Of course my father was on board. Now he probably thought our union was more perfect than ever.
“Anyway,” Blakely went on, “if your answer is a yes”—her smile widened—“we’ll drink to new beginnings. We owe it to ourselves, and maybe even to our parents, to really live with the idea for a couple more weeks. To give it our real heartfelt consideration, don’t you think?”
I took in Blakely’s pretty smile and the way she picked at her cuticles when she was nervous, like she was doing now. I could tell that the idea hadn’t only grown on her since we’d first spoken; she was incredibly enthusiastic about it. She was already envisioning her life—our life in vivid detail.
And so was my father.
