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“Say hi to Una for me.”
“Will do. Take care, Eilish.”
****
It’s been a couple of weeks since Gavan proposed to me. Or at least, since Gavan put a certain proposition on the table and let it sit there. And it’s not that I’ve necessarily been avoiding the subject since then. I’ve just been…reluctant to bring it up.
Oddly,hehasn’t mentioned it again, either. Even though I fully understand what’s at stake for him and why he needs to get married in order to stop his aunt from seizing his empire.
I guess I’m just still confused why it’s me he’s asking.
I mean, why not some random girl? A girl whose family Gavandid notalmost go to war with on more than one occasion in the past?
Or a girl he’s not “with” in the first place because of blackmail?
All this, of course, leads me down the rabbit-hole of whether I’m “with” Gavan at all or not. Yes, it does feel like we’ve moved way past the whole blackmail thing at this point. But even so, what are we to each other?
Does frequently sleeping with someone with whom you are exclusive, with whom you also spend a fair amount of time, make you “with” them?
I blink away the confusing thoughts, stretching out in the huge, ridiculously comfortable bed in Gavan’s bedroom—hisactualbedroom. Like, the one he sleeps in. Not the one where he plays, where he took my virginity that first time.
Not to say that we haven’t spent time in that one since as well.
The blackout shades on the walls of one-way glass windows are already up, bathing the room in morning light. I didn’t actually sleep here last night, though.
We’ve never once actually spent the night with each other. It’s become sort of an unspoken thing.
But this morning—I blush as I remember it—I pinged awake at five to a text from Gavan with a picture of ahugebulge in his linen sheets and the message “Come take care of this. There’s a car waiting downstairs for you.”
That was two hours ago. I’ve been in his bed ever since.
I reach over to the bedside table for my phone and the double espresso he made me earlier. It’s taken everything I have not to make a crack about the tables turning—how after weeks and weeks ofmemakinghimcoffee, usually in my underwear, today it wasGavanwho strode out of the room, stark naked, only to return with an espresso he’d mademe.
Next to me, Gavan’s sitting up in bed, scrolling his phone as his hand lazily traces up and down my bare thigh.
It’s disturbing how used to all of this I could get.
Havegotten.
Blushing, I go to my email. Instantly, my dreamy, grinning morning comes to a screeching halt.
“Shit!” I blurt, my heart sinking.
“What is it?” Gavan growls next to me, his hand instantly tightening possessively on my thigh.
I groan as I re-read the email. It’s Elsa’s birthday in a couple of days. I know Hades has something extravagant planned for the two of them for next week, but tonight Neve, Callie, Nora and I were going to take Elsa to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a private showing of the Impressionists wing, followed by a private dinner at the museum itself..
Except, the email I just got from a very apologetic museum director informs me that one of the museum’s alarm sensors triggered early this morning, which means the entire place is on lockdown for the next day and a half pending a full security review.
My face falls as I relay all of this to Gavan.
“Ugh, I’m so annoyed! ShelovesImpressionist art.” My brows knit as I try to think about how I could possibly save the evening. I mean, Elsa’s pretty low maintenance. We could do literallyanything, and she’d love simply being out with us.
But still—shit. I really wanted to blow her away with this.
“She likes the Impressionists?”
I nod glumly, paging through my phone looking for the number for the main office of the Guggenheim. It’s modern art, but maybe if I can get hold of the—
