Something About You (Just Me & You) (29 page)

“What d’you want me to say, Sabrina? Before I met you, I was
a virgin,” he deadpanned genuinely before shooting her a look of wicked
amusement. “How do you think I learned to do all of those things that make you
scream ‘Oh, god!’ — on the back of an
X-Men
comic? It’s not like
females have a universal user’s manual.”

“Damn it, Gage!”

“Hey, stop throwing the decor.” He dodged a second pillow.
“Tell me what this is really about.”

“Okay, I will.” Because apparently it wasn’t obvious. She
cleared her throat. “It’s about exclusivity. If we’re going to sleep together—”

“—Sleep together?” he interrupted with an amused grin.
“Honey, we may have just logged more mattress hours than Elvis, but we’ve done
everything
but
sleep together.”

“
If
we’re going to be
physically intimate
,”
she started again, “I have to be the only one. I don’t share. I don’t intend to
start.”

He appeared to toss the idea around briefly. “That’s fair
enough. I prefer sex within an exclusive, physically intimate
relationship
.”
Now his smile was teasing and faint. “I’ve never messed around on a girlfriend
before and don’t intend to start. I’m a decent guy to hang a hat with, and the
chemistry between us could burn this place down. If you want me, I’m game.”

Was he actually suggesting what she thought he was? A
relationship meant that tedious time commitments came part and parcel. Like
meeting his station colleagues for happy hour and splitting time with each
other’s families during holidays.

“Game?” she echoed incredulously. “I’m game for a good
movie. I’m game for sushi. However, I am
not
‘game’ when it comes to relationships.”

“Look, plug in the word of your choice. They all mean the
same thing. You. Me.
Couple.
”

“And then what?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “We go out on dates. Get to know
each other and each other’s families and friends. See if fate drew us a winning
hand.”

“Just like that.” Sabrina stared at him, appalled.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not that simple. You don’t have sex with
someone and then decide to date them. It’s backwards. That’s not to say that
sex is off the table,” she added hastily.

His smile faded. He swung long legs around the sofa and
rested elbows on knees. The subdued golden light from the small Tiffany desk
lamp curled over the strong muscles in his shoulders and arms in a play of
shadow and light. Poised there so contemplative and still, he looked like a
museum sculpture after closing hours.

“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You want me to
service you sexually in return for exactly nothing. Am I talking to Sabrina or
her hormones right now?”

She wished he’d left estrogen out of it. When he phrased it
so bluntly, she couldn’t deny it. That was what she wanted. That.
Exactly.

Or was it? She thought of the way Gage had led her around
the dance floor at the ball, his big hand warm against her spine. Then later
that night, the feeling of that hand stroking her shoulders when she’d buried
her face in his shoulder and cried.

“Look, I ended a marriage not too long ago,” she reasoned.
“Getting involved with someone new is the height of poor form. Legislative
session’s underway. I don’t have much spare time to invest in a relationship.”

“Any more excuses you’d like to add to the list?”

As if she needed them? There was, of course, the truth or as
close as she could brush up to it. She remembered all the afternoons she and
Molly had spent at Ella’s, digging into large slabs of pecan pie a la mode and
pondering Molly’s latest crush.
I like him
so
bad, Brini.

Like
didn’t begin to describe how she felt about
Gage.
So bad
was the tight feeling in her chest that threatened to bloom
into something bigger. Something that turned “like” into an unobjectionable
verb followed by “chocolate,” “espresso,” and “Jackson.” Whatever
so bad
was, it was dangerous.

Sabrina forced herself to push the feeling aside.

“We’ve known each other for two months, Gage,” she told him,
hoping that he wouldn’t interpret her earnestness as condescension. “I don’t
know your favorite color or where you went to college. I don’t even know your
middle name. And you don’t know me. Not really.”

He tilted his head and looked at her in consternation. “I
get it. You need more pillow talk. You’re also clever when it comes to evading
questions. So I must repeat: Do you want a relationship with me or not?”

Sabrina still couldn’t process the question, much less
answer it. His proposition registered midline on the linear progression of
courtship starting with Where to Go for Dinner and ending with Agree to Spend
Life Together. Only this time, she knew from experience where they’d end up.
Awesome sex had made Gage a little punch-drunk, she decided. Clearer heads
always prevailed. In this case, it would have to be hers.

Then she noticed the stunning width of his massive shoulders
and the intricate vine-shaped tattoos that wound around strong triceps. And how
his eyelashes were dense and straight, shot with streaks of auburn. Lust
tickled her belly. His face turned sullen at her audible swallow.

“Well, at least
this
part is simple,” he concluded
quietly. He stood up and reached for his jeans.

“All I’m saying is that making the decision to label
ourselves a couple is premature.” She loathed the ring of desperation in her voice. 

“And ‘sleeping together’ wasn’t?”

He did have a point.

“Maybe it was,” she conceded. “I don’t know. Up until a few
days ago, we didn’t even get along. We don’t know how much we have in common —
or if we even do.”

“So what do you propose we do, Sabrina?” He pulled up his
jeans. “Go out with other people for dinner and a movie, kiss at the door and
come home and screw each other senseless while we figure it out? That might
work for most people, but it’s way too complicated for this simple flatlander.
If you and I aren’t a ‘we,’ I’m not beholden to you exclusively. Or, in fact,
at all.”

“By all means, don’t ‘behold’ on my account.” She’d meant to
sound unconcerned, but the words came out dripping icicles and poison.
Irrationally, the thought of Gage’s body wrapped around any other woman stirred
a flood of red into her field of vision.

“I don’t intend to,” he said simply, pulling the zipper up.

“Where are you going?”

“To the station.” His face remained blank. “I have a job to
do too, remember?”

“I never said—”

“—No, Sabrina, you never
said
. You don’t need to say
anything.” He jerked his belt tight. “You don’t take what I do for a living
seriously. Hell, why should you? I actually have fun at it. And it’s also clear
by the way you rushed me away from your running buddy, Ward, that I don’t make
the correct impression — at least not one that’s politically correct. Your
family? I don’t know. You don’t exactly seem keen on me meeting them.”

“You know that’s not entirely true.”

“Really.” He raised his brows. “Which part?”

Their gazes locked. It could have been one of those
cinematic Valentino moments when man sweeps woman into his arms, she thought.
Only the look in his eyes was all brutality, no persuasion.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel—” She searched for the
right words. “—as though what you do doesn’t matter. That’s not what I think.”

But was that the truth? Every derisive comment she’d made
about his career and her frantic attempts to silence him at the gala smacked of
condescension. Gage may have been persistent, but he was not obtuse. 

A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth as he buttoned
his shirt in silence. It was one of Sabrina’s favorites, a lapis blue pilled-up
flannel that coaxed out the auburn in his hair. Damn it, why was he pulling the
strong, silent and pissed-off act on her now? Why did everything about Gage
Fitzgerald have to be so black and white?

So …
complicated
?

“Can’t we talk more tonight?” she asked.

“I don’t see the purpose of drawing this out even more.” His
tone was curt. She expected an accompanying look of anger, frustration or
exasperation. But the distant look on his face wasn’t one to which she was
accustomed, and it was throwing her off her game.

“Gage.” She turned his name into a soft plea.

Instead of responding, he retrieved his black leather duster
from the floor, checked the pockets for his car keys, and threw it over one
broad shoulder.
So this is how it ends
, she thought bleakly. Molly was
right. She’d played with fire. Only both she and Gage had ended up burned. 

He paused and turned when he reached the front door.

“Red. Iowa State — not to be confused with the
University of Iowa. Gage is my middle name. My first name is Michael.” He
winked without smiling. “A word of advice: playing the field isn’t a spectator
sport.”

Sabrina watched the door close behind him, wondering what he
could have possibly meant by that.

Idiot. Fool.

Gage mentally berated himself as he tossed his socks,
underwear and T-shirts into the open bag.

He’d been certain about Sabrina. Certain that she wanted
someone to take care of her and to take care of in return. Certain that she
wouldn’t have taken things between them to such an intensely intimate level if
she didn’t entertain the same thoughts that he did.

Obviously, he had been way too certain about everything.

How had she managed to exert such a stronghold over him? It
hadn’t been just the sex, although that was a big part of it. Damn woman had
finally won him over with her dark wary eyes and tenuous smile —
that
was how. Not to mention her inner sweetness, compassion, warmth, and all of her
complexities that he wanted to spend the next several years figuring out.

Then there was that nebulous
something
that he
couldn’t nail down. Other people called it “chemistry,” but the
something
was far more durable than physical attraction. 

He was sure she had felt it too whenever she clung to him
with her legs wrapped around his waist, gazing at him dreamily and breathing
his name like a sigh. He’d never read a woman wrong before in his life. Then he
saw the look of alarm in her eyes when he suggested that they couple up, buckle
down and give a relationship the old college try.

There’s a first time for everything
, he reminded
himself as he grabbed his Dopp kit from the bathroom and crammed it into the
scant remaining space that wasn’t hogged up by sweaters and winter boots with
thick rubber treads.

He wasn’t one of fiancés Number One through Five, and he
wasn’t the schmuck she’d married. So what had he been to Maid March anyway? An
outlet for her unresolved issues? An alternative to running on her silly
hamster wheel? Or just a way to idle away the time until she met another carbon
copy stuffed shirt with an eighty-hour workweek who’d never even bother to try
and understand what made her tick?  

No question about it. He’d deluded himself. He’d always be
“Fitz” in Sabrina’s eyes.

And Fitz would never be granted entry into her world.

Was there a place for him in any woman’s life where he’d
feel as at home as he had with Sabrina? Gage wondered.

You’ll have what Grandma and Grandpa had together one
day. Never doubt it.

He remembered those words, because they were
hers
. In
one short year, the young woman with the bouncing auburn curls seemed to have
acquired a wisdom and maturity beyond her twenty-three years, even though he
realized now that she’d been young.
So very young.
He had been twelve,
almost thirteen, the same age as Sabrina had been when she discovered that
Daddy had let her down.

Only Gage had seen death up close for the second time in his
young life. The young woman who sat beside him on the couch had walked with him
each step of the way. Both of them were still in the clothes they’d worn to his
grandfather’s wake. The white dress shirt she had bought Gage was a cheap
polyester blend that was scratchy and hot, but it was brand new, and that was
all that mattered. He couldn’t stop thinking of his last visit to that hospital
room, with its suffocating smell of alcohol, disinfectant and stewed chicken.

Grandpa told me that he wanted to be with Grandma on his
birthday
, Gage had finally choked out to the woman beside him. Somehow the
poignant beauty of his grandfather’s wish coming true and the poetic idea of
his grandparents’ souls rushing together and intermingling in the heaven they
devoutly believed in were of little comfort.

You’re not too old to cry, Mikey. You’ll never be too
old.
She had used his nickname, as she always did when she was comforting
him, but she spoke with a new sureness he hadn’t heard before. The sound of
that voice with its motherly tone had broken him down, and he had sobbed in her
arms, unashamed.

He had cried again since then, but only when it really
mattered.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to shed a tear over a
goddamn broken heart — if that’s indeed what it was.

Gage yanked the suitcase zipper closed and tested the bag’s
weight. He was sure he was forgetting several personal items, but they could be
purchased as soon as he got where he was going. He wanted to be out of the
house long before Sabrina got home from work. If she walked in just as he was
walking out, that would demand a conversation. He’d intended to come clean with
her about the reason he had to downsize when the time was right, but only after
they got to know each other and he knew she wouldn’t judge him harshly.

Now is anything but right
, he thought grimly.

Gage tore a sheet out of the back of his day planner and
stared at the blank space, pen poised in hand. Events from the past two years
of his life flooded into his memory. He couldn’t count the number of moments
when he came to the abrupt realization that he had no control over anything but
his own actions. He knew that every one of those realizations made him both
stronger and less guarded.

He would have told Sabrina everything. He’d needed to tell
her.

He contemplated the blank sheet. There was no way to give
her the Cliff’s Notes version. Not on a single page.

Then he remembered the shocked look that had spread across
her face when he’d extended his heart to her, and the hot Irish temperament he
could attribute to certain Fitzgerald ancestors flared. He wadded up the piece
of paper and tossed it in the trash can.

He didn’t owe Sabrina March an explanation.

He didn’t owe her one damn thing.

Gage turned off all the lights in the house and made sure
that the front door was securely locked before he walked down the driveway,
suitcase in hand. He had far more urgent things to take care of. He needed to
be present for every minute of it. In the meantime, let Sabrina come home to an
empty house and a cold bed.

A little wondering would do her good.

**

“Useless cup,” Moira hissed as she dropped a dripping
biodegradable into her trash bin. “I can’t believe eco-friendly manufacturers
don’t construct better products.”

“You know what I can’t believe, Moira?” Sabrina said without
looking up from her desk. “I can’t believe that you haven’t discovered the
virtues of the washable glass coffee mug. I have.”

She reached in her drawer for a bottle of ibuprofen, shook
two of the tablets into her palm and downed them with a swig of tepid coffee.
It was only ten o’clock, and Moira was already complaining. Carlton was in an
uncharacteristically sulky mood too, pacing around the War Room and hissing
into his cell phone. At least Sabrina didn’t have to deal with Theo, who had
left a vague message on the service telling her he would be back in the office
later in the week. She told herself that the Hon. Rep. was probably spending
quality time with his wife and three daughters, despite strong evidence to the
contrary: the curly red hairs on Theo’s bomber jacket had recently been
replaced by long black ones, and earlier that morning, someone from the Four
Seasons had phoned the office to inform her that Theo had accidentally left his
credit card at the front desk.

Sabrina removed the decorations from the small Christmas
tree in the reception area. Her thoughts kept returning to Gage as she packed
the holiday décor in boxes and shoved them into the storage closet. She hadn’t
seen him since he walked out early Sunday morning. She had initially thought
maybe he’d gotten busy at work. But when she had tuned the radio to KCAP on her
morning drive, the station was re-airing one of his older shows. “Hey, Dude!
Why Did I Get Fired?” was one of his more popular on-air pranks. On behalf of
recently and inexplicably sacked listeners who called into the station, Gage
cold-called former bosses and HR department heads and pestered them into giving
him an explanation on his fans’ behalf.

For all Sabrina knew, he’d taken the week off before the New
Year. Her monthly visitor arrived right on time that morning just like
clockwork. That was a relief. Coupled with Gage’s absence, that was a sign. Or
possibly an intervention. There would be no more recklessness in her house, she
told herself firmly.

Or in her life.

By noon, the Think Tank had descended into entropy. Carlton
and Moira sat at their desks surfing the Internet for post-holiday fire sales.
Sabrina let them loaf.

“Damn it,” Carlton bawled. “I may as well eat off my desk!”
He gingerly picked up the biodegradable plate that struggled to hold a slab of
meat loaf and a scoop of macaroni and cheese. The bottom bulged ominously and
leaked grease. He disposed of it in the trash and stormed out of the office to
make a fast-food run.

The phone rang, and Sabrina answered it automatically.

“You
are
still coming to the café tonight, I trust,”
Nola reminded her. “We can have a private post-holiday dinner first. No more
last-minute cancellations?”

“Of course not, Mom.” Sabrina had felt terrible about
bailing on her mother at the last minute. But after Gage stormed out, the only
thing she had wanted to do was mope.

“Good, then. I’ll see you at six. It’ll be just us girls and
a bottle of Chablis.” Her mother sounded pleased. But because Nola was, well …
Nola
when it came to food, she couldn’t help herself from tacking on her
guilt gratuity. “You’ll have to make do with leftovers from today’s lunch menu.
The poached salmon I made for us yesterday wouldn’t keep.”

Sabrina stepped outside of the annex elevator only to find
that the azure skies of that morning were now an oppressive ceiling of intense
gray. The weather listed cold. She stopped by the house so she could change
from her dress suit into comfortable wool pants and a fleece top. Gage’s car
still wasn’t in the drive. But as she walked through the house, she noticed a
slight shuffling and repositioning of objects. The stack of mail on the mantle
was gone. Although the big four-poster still wasn’t made, the comforter and
pillows had been arranged to give the bed some semblance of neatness. The door
to the walk-in closet was open and the light had been left on. A pile of
clothes was on the floor. She peered into the bathroom. Wherever Gage had gone,
he’d taken his Dopp kit with him.

The same sense that told Sabrina whenever one of Theo’s
bills got the
nay
vote in the Senate told her that something about the
situation did not bode well. She could phone up Sebastian, of course. She
immediately tabled the idea. How juvenile was that? She’d never played the
“Does he still like me?” game in middle school, and she wasn’t about to now.

She especially wasn’t going to play it with Gage’s best
friend.

A belated Christmas dinner at Ella’s would at least distract
her. In preparation for the meeting later that night, Nola had dressed up the
café tables with scarlet tablecloths, plaid runners and miniature poinsettia
plants. She set out two wine glasses and a bottle of chilled Bel Air et Clardy
and directed Sabrina to sit. Then she brought out two plates loaded down with
game hen stuffed with nuts and dried cherries, herbed noodles and glazed
carrots, and the two women ate. Caramelized pear tart capped off the meal
nicely.

After the dishes had been cleared away, Sabrina reached into
her messenger bag for a small box. Whoever had coined the phrase “impossible to
shop for” must have had the New Nola in mind. Whatever her mother wanted or
needed, she purchased for herself, making gift-giving an exercise in gratuitous
gestures.

“Thank you, Sabrina.” Nola’s face creased with pleasure as
she peeled away layers of tissue paper. “Fourth-row tickets for Turandot. You
did go all out.”

“I remembered you used to like Puccini’s operas,” Sabrina
told her.

“I still do, although I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this
one,” Nola confessed.

“It’s about a very shrewd princess. Her father’s trying to
marry her off, and a bunch of royal windbags journey to his kingdom propose. So
Turandot thinks up three difficult riddles to ask her suitors. The first one to
answer all of them correctly wins her hand. As for the others…”

“Goodness!” Nola looked alarmed. “What happens to them?”

Sabrina drew a line across her neck with her forefinger.
“The axe.”

“Clever Turandot.” Her mother nodded. “You should go see it
with me.”

“No, Mom,” Sabrina protested. “The tickets are for you and
Rex. Does he like opera?”

“Oh, not at all, but he always goes anyway. He enjoys
looking the costumes.” Noting Sabrina’s veiled response to such gross
unenlightenment, Nola added, “Well, dear, I never claimed to be dating a man
whose interests and pursuits are in completely in line with mine. Now let me
get your gift.”

Her mother dug around in her purse and produced her
checkbook. “I’ve always believed that most presents should be needed, not
wanted.”

“What are you doing, Mom?” Sabrina asked.

Nola paused to give her a nonplussed look, pen in hand.
“We’re exchanging gifts,” she said, as though it were obvious. Then she
continued scribbling and tore off the check. It was written for the same amount
as Les’ check, Sabrina noted suspiciously.

“Merry Christmas.” Nola slid it across the table. “Spend it
in the best of health.”

“Where did you get this money?”

“A mother never tells.”

“Oh, no,” Sabrina groaned. “You asked Dad for it, didn’t
you?”

Nola firmed her jaw. “Sabrina, if you never listen to
another thing I say, listen to me now. You may be too proud to ask Les for
help, but I’m not. You could have taken the easy way out. You could have sold
yourself to the highest bidder so you’d never need to worry about money. You
could have stayed married to Jackson, which probably wouldn’t have been any
different. To wit: I won’t let you flounder. Now take the damned check, or I
will never speak to you again.”