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Chapter Four
- Suzanne -
Almost noon. I reallyhad wasted the entire morning, but it wasn’t really a waste, was it? I didn’t believe for one moment that I’d ever hear from Gabriel again. I’m not down on myself, but I am a realist. Gabriel is David Gandy, cover model, fan-yourself-to-cool-off hotness; rich, dark blue satin eyes, bronzed skin, and that goatee...
I knew I was reasonably attractive, but the Gabriels of the world weren’t looking for women like me. My nails, eyelashes, hair, and boobs were all mine. I barely wore makeup. I felt uncomfortable in heels higher than one inch. I didn’t have much to offer a man who made every woman’s head turn when he walked by.
Yet... we had talked for hours. It’s hard to fake that kind of attentiveness, although there were moments when I wasn’t sure Gabriel was actually listening to me. There were times when his eyes were drawn to my mouth, but I suspected it was not because he was enraptured by my words. He stared at me, then licked his lips before turning his attention back to my eyes, his coffee, or the tabletop. I tried not to read too much into his actions, into the way his eyes lingered on my face, or the way he seemed completely relaxed in my company, the company of a complete stranger. He was either that confident or that unaware.
But unaware wasn’t a word I would choose to describe him. When he wasn’t looking at me, he scanned the surrounding room. Whenever someone stood up, whenever anyone walked by us to get to the trash can, when the staff walked around the room to clear tables or check on refills, Gabriel’s eyes followed them, but not with crazy paranoia. He appeared to be completely at ease, yet he was the most observant person I’d ever met. Except for when he couldn’t remember what I did for a living. That was one of those occasions when he was focused on something besides our conversation.
Who knew? Maybe he would call me.
Or maybe I was just an interesting Friday morning diversion. I never got around to asking what brought him into The Coffee Spot that morning. In fact, I never got around to asking him much of anything. He kept the conversation centered around me. I was uncomfortable with that at first, but he wasn’t easy to deter. Whenever I tried to change the topic towards him, before I knew it, we were back to talking about me, or something completely different. He managed the conversation so smoothly, I hadn’t noticed at the time. In hindsight, he was a masterful manipulator in that respect, but that was preferable to being a masterful narcissist. I was used to making other people the center of attention, not the other way around.
Back in the coziness of my overpriced studio apartment, the morning seemed so far away. I had to work longer than I’d planned to reach my goal for the day. If I never heard from Gabriel again, I’d be angry that I let a handsome face throw me off track. On the other hand, if he called, I wouldn’t hesitate to answer. He really was too yummy to pass up.
I worked until my fingers cramped. Until the sun set. Until my rumbling tummy told me it had been nearly eight hours since I’d eaten. By the time I finished, I was too hungry to cook. I scavenged through my cabinets looking for something quick and easy and settled on canned ravioli, which had become one of my basic food groups. I pulled the top off, listened to theshlurpof the pasta as it plopped into the pan and set the heat to medium.
I did well. Once I was in my groove, it had been hours since I’d thought about Gabriel, but that changed as I started stirring the ravioli and my phone rang.
“What are you doing?” Gabriel asked without a preamble.
“Making dinner.”
“Ah, she cooks. What are you having?”
I laughed. “Ravioli.”
“Good choice. Cheese or beef?”
“Canned.”
“Yuck.”
I laughed again. He sounded like I’d broken his heart. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“I don’t think you’d ever do that,” he interrupted silkily.
“I don’t cook much,” I admitted. I had some family favorite recipes I had perfected over the years, but I saved them for family gatherings which had become rather rare over the last few years.
“Good.”
“That’s good? Why is that good?”
“If you can’t cook, I get to take you to dinner.”
“So, just to clarify, it’s not that Ican’tcook, I just don’t.”
“I’m still taking you to dinner. Is tomorrow, eight o’clock okay with you?”
“Uhm, yeah. Sure. That works for me.”
“Alright, then.”
Silence fell across the line. I felt like a teenager again, when Eric Johnson and I used to sit on the phone for hours and listen to each other breathe because neither one of us wanted to hang up.
“Alright, then,” he said again, his voice deeper and quieter than before.
