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Watching Gabe dress for a formal charity event is the worst torture. Lying on his bed, still a bit sore from how hard he railed me thirty minutes ago, I drink in the sight of him buttoning his white dress shirt, missing him already. I got an hour of his time today and I’m starving for more.
I’d murder someone to accompany him tonight. It’s not even putting on a pretty dress and going out. It’s him. I just want to be next to him.
He’s relaxed and at ease, everything I’m not, as he swiftly ties his tie, slips into the black suit coat, and does a little turn for me.
“Very sexy. Come back to bed and play with me,” I say. We both know he won’t.
“I can’t,” he says, though he genuinely sounds like he wants to.
But he’d never.
I leave him with a blistering kiss, and suddenly the next four or five hours loom long and dark.
There’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge, so I take it up to the master bath, downing a glass while the tub fills. Then I soak, scrolling social media on my phone, trying to relax.
My arch-nemesis fromLove on the Linehas been busy. Poppy has tagged me in several social media posts over the last week, calling me trash for having sex in a public restroom. She’s relentless. I’ve been trying to ignore her, but fuck it. Let’s go, bitch.
I haul myself out of the tub to put a touch of lipstick on. I debate a smoky eye but opt to go natural.
I have to refill the tub a bit and tip more bubble bath in. The lights are too dim, so I turn them up a little, then climb back into the bath. There’s nothing about the white tile wall behind me to indicate I’m at Gabe’s house, but I still double-check, carefully framing myself so it’s obvious I’m luxuriating in a huge tub somewhere fancy. My white blonde hair is piled on top of my head and my cheeks are naturally pink from the heat of the water. My favorite filter smooths out my skin. I’m so ready for this fight.
The video I send out is short and quick, as I smugly call Poppy out by name and mention I know what she offered to do to Luca. In the kitchen of a swanky Italian restaurant, no less. “Talk about adding something to the Carbonara,” I say behind my sudsy hand.
As usual, I get an avalanche of hate. There are a few people on my side, mostly shit posters who enjoy trolling my haters.
Poppy responds with a photo. It’s Gabe and Kate Van Sandt—the actress who starred opposite him in his last film, the rom-com that releases soon—looking cozy at the charity event.
Ashley Who?Poppy says. I can imagine her smug smile as she flips her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder.
I drop my phone onto my towel and slide deeper into my bath.
He warned me his team was looking for his next fake girlfriend, but the idea that Kate Van Sandt, America’s Sweetheart, would be in the market for a fake boyfriend is ludicrous. Not only that, but her reputation is pristine, and I thought his people wanted to give him a little bad boy flair. Guess getting caught having sex in a public restroom took him too far over to the dark side.
I bite my lip and scoop up a handful of the rapidly disintegrating bubbles, letting them drop back into the water.
He should have told me it was Kate. On paper, they’re perfect for each other. As sickeningly sweet as the trailer for their romantic comedy suggests. In reality—I don’t know. I don’t think Kate’s the type Gabe wants. I’m confident their fake relationship will stay fake, but I don’t like it.
If he were any other man, I’d post a photo of myself that would make it damn clear that I’m the one in his house, waiting for him to come home. I’m the one he fucked hours ago and will fuck again tonight. I’d knock out Poppy and Kate in one blow.
“You’re lucky I love you, Gabriel Sinclair,” I whisper into the bubbles. It makes me feel better. A little more like some internet revenge is something I’m still capable of. Like I’m choosing to set down my sword because I love him instead of laying it down because I can’t pick it up anymore.
Chapter twenty-six
Ashley
“Ican’tmeetyouat a hotel,” Gabe says three days later in a gentle but firm tone. “We can’t be seen together.”
I sigh, peeking out from my curtains. I’m back at my house. Another day alone in his mansion and I’d have lost my mind, but now I have regrets. His press junket kicked off yesterday here in LA and he’s off to New York tomorrow to promote his new movie with his new fake girlfriend. Then London and Tokyo. I miss him.
From my window, I can see the two cars that don’t belong parked across the street.
I was spotted in Malibu. Thankfully, not in the act of leaving Gabe’s gated neighborhood. Someone snapped me at a Malibu gas station at eight a.m. because I’d forgotten, in my haste to get to Gabe last week, to fill the tank. Before I made it out of his driveway, the light had come on. I didn’t have a choice.
It was enough. Just a whiff that something might still be going on with me and Gabe when he’s become even more publicly linked with Kate Van Sandt, and now we’re being watched. Closely.
I let the curtains flutter closed. “You can’t come to my house, I can’t come to yours, we can’t go to a hotel…I want to see you before you leave.”
“I want to see you too.”
