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To Gabriel
I’m allergic to cats
I type and hit send. I don’t know why I wrote that, it’s not true.
From Gabriel
Latte is a hypoallergenic breed ;)
Every message that pops into my inbox is an assault on my heavily barricaded heart, but the defenses are crumbling. Latte is an impossibly cute name for a cat. And the winky face, even via text, makes my belly flutter.
What am I doing? I’m flirting with danger when I, 100 per cent, shouldn’t.
Without even wishing MGM goodnight, I turn the phone off and quickly drop it on my nightstand as if burned.
I might have to change my number.
16
GABRIEL
Twenty minutes and no answer. Wow, I’m really losing my touch. I’m trying to sleep, but I’m not getting very far. The fingers of my right hand strum against the mattress nervously, wondering what it’d feel like if it were Blake’s skin under my fingertips.
I’m being absurd. I’ve never had a problem with women and getting their attention. Before Blake, I mean, the queen of brush-offs.
When she ignores the last text, I try to work myself into a state of rightful indignation, but I can’t. Instead, I’m surprised by the ache I feel when I think of her falling asleep without saying goodnight to me.
Plan A—to rely on my easy charm—isn’t working; time to move on to plan B.
I know what I have to do, but it doesn’t make it suck any less.
I put off setting things in motion until the next morning at the office. At my desk, I push the intercom button, then change my mind and lift my finger without saying a thing, second-guessing my decision a million times over.
I do it again now. Only this time, Mila precedes me. “If you push that button one more time without actually speaking, I’m going to quit my job. All the static is making my ears ring. What is it?”
I kick the last glimmer of pride to the side and say, “Can you get me Thomas on the line?”
I love my brother, but I’m usually not the one who gets in touch.
Mila chuckles through the intercom. “Thomas, huh? This should be good.”
“Thank you, Mila,” I say, closing the communication.
Two minutes later, my private landline blinks red. I pick up. “Thomas, hi.”
“Gabriello, my favorite brother—”
“I’m your only brother.”
“You’re still my favorite. What can I do for you?”
I steady myself before I say the words. “I need a favor.”
“Come again?” Thomas’s mocking tone comes from the other side. “I don’t think I heard you right, you… what?” I can almost imagine him pulling his ear.
“Need a favor,” I repeat, grinding my teeth.
“Uh-huh. What kind of favor?”
