RILEY
"Here, Riley, finish up the last and we'll get a new bottle." One of the editors, a guy named Kyle, smiles, jolting me out of my shock at seeing Gabriel here.
Kyle pours the last of the bottle into my glass, and I murmur a thanks. I sip at the wine, hoping no one noticed that I stared at Gabriel as he walked past our table. As if I wasn't nervous enough, being here in this nice restaurant with my bosses. Now I feel the weight of Gabriel's presence, and it's making me jittery.
I take a small sip of my wine, mindful of not getting tipsy.
"Riley, how are you liking living in Florida? You're from Boston, right?" Kyle, who is sitting next to me, angles his body so he's facing me in the booth.
I do the same, glad to focus on something other than Gabriel. "Was it the accent that made you guess I was from Boston?"
"Guilty." Kyle laughs. He's the youngest of all the corporate newspaper managers at the table. Geeky, with dark brown hair, blue eyes and a reasonably muscular build. He's probably around Gabriel's age, early thirties, which puts him around ten years older than me.
For a guy who works at a news organization, he's hot. Compared to Gabriel? Meh.
"I like Florida okay. It's a lot different than Boston. But I'm getting used to it. The place can be..." my voice trails off. This place can be corrupt, weird, scary. "...a little too warm, even in the winter. I almost miss the snow."
"I don't think I've ever heard of anyone who misses the snow. Tell me, Riley, do you have any interest in coming to work at our paper in New York?"
My heart skips a beat. Is this really happening?
"Well, of course." I say the words before I consider them.
"Do you know what I do at corporate?" he asks.
I take a larger sip of my wine so I can stall. When I'd arrived at the restaurant tonight I'd sat in the parking lot in my car, looking at all of the bios of the executives so I could make small talk. "Of course I do. You're in charge of business news."
It's not a topic I'm remotely interested in, but who knows where Kyle will be in management in a year or two. The words that my journalism professors taught me echo through my head: be nice to everyone on the way up, because you never know who you'll meet later.
"That's correct. We're going to be launching a new product, a targeted business newsletter that will go directly to readers..."
Kyle drones on about personal finance stories, how this newsletter will be aimed at Gen Z, how he's going to be looking to hire new staff in the third quarter of this year. I nod, pretending I'm interested. Even though I'm not. I've gotten a taste of crime writing, and that's what I want to do.
"Do you think you'd like living in New York?" Kyle asks.
I open and close my mouth a few times. "I went to school there, so I'm pretty familiar with it."
"Of course, of course. I saw that in your personnel file."
I raise an eyebrow. "You looked in my file?"
"Guilty again. I wanted to see who we were having dinner with, who the star reporters at the Tribune were."
"Funny, I don't consider myself a star." I blurt that out. Crap. I shouldn't have said that, and maybe the wine is getting to me.
"Oh, I beg to differ. I read your story about that city council guy who went missing and then died. That was excellent."
A surge of pride hits me. "Thanks. I enjoy writing about organized crime."
What am I even saying? I'll never be able to write about organized crime, or crime, again. Because I am fucking — and enjoying fucking — the city's biggest mafioso. Who is sitting somewhere in this very restaurant, probably with other mafiosos.
I shoot a tight-lipped smile to Kyle. Of course, he has no idea of my inner turmoil, and nods seriously.
"Perhaps if you started in business in New York, you could eventually move to a higher-profile beat at the paper." He smirks then picks up his wine.
I'm getting a decidedly arrogant vibe from Kyle, or perhaps that's just how one acts when they get into management.
"It's something to think about," I say.
"Don't think too long, we've got many excellent candidates from across the company."
I blink, wondering if he's trying to force me into applying.
"But of course, I'd understand if you wanted to stay in your new job a little while longer. Mike told me you were being promoted to features, and warned me not to poach you. Probably it's for the best if I don't take you away right now." He winks and grins.
I laugh nervously, wondering if this is normal conversation for an executive and a lowly reporter employee. To avoid more confusion, I change the subject — that's what Mom always taught me to do if I was in a difficult conversation.
"How long are you in town for? Have you gotten to the beach?"
His smirk fades, replaced with a genuine softness in his eyes. Oh, why can't I be attracted to a nice, regular guy like this?
"Just got in today. Haven't seen anything that wasn't on the route from the airport to the paper to the hotel a few blocks away. Probably the same tomorrow. And I've got a dinner tomorrow with one of your co-workers. Maybe I should extend my stay a couple of days, I've never been here. Are the beaches really worth it?"
I nod, and launch into a discussion of the sugar sand, the warm water, the miles of deserted beaches. I'm like a walking Chamber of Commerce ad for the area, and I realize I'm babbling because I'm nervous. About this dinner. About seeing Gabriel here.
About my entire freaking life.
When I'm finished, Kyle looks a little shell-shocked, or just plain bored. Go, me. I've also finished my wine, and I spot the waiter across the room with a bottle in his hand, possibly headed toward us.
"If you'll excuse me, I need to use the ladies' room," I say to Kyle, who is sitting next to me.
"Of course, of course. Don't run away, now." He winks and I let out a fake giggle.
My expression fades into a sour grimace as I walk away, looking for the bathroom. The place is huge, and thank God I didn't actually have to pee. I just wanted to get away from that table for a few minutes. Okay, maybe I also want to spot Gabriel from afar, just to catch a glimpse of what he's doing.
I walk to the black marble lobby, following a waiter and trying to catch his attention. But he bangs through a door that's obviously the kitchen, and I wander to the left. I spot a sign that says, "toilettes" — this place is heavy on the French vibe, if the menu's any indication — and go in that direction.
There's a heavy, red velvet curtain. It looked like the sign was pointing this way, and I pull it open, then immediately gasp. It's a private dining nook.
"Oh, shit," I whisper, then say audibly, "I'm so sorry."
There's a table of six men. At the head is Gabriele. I watch him bite back a smile. My heart thrashes around my chest at the sight of him.
The oldest man at the table, a dude who looks like a grandpa, stands. "Dear, are you looking for the bathrooms? They're out there, to the left."
"Thank you, sorry to have bothered you." I scurry out and head to the left.
As I leave, I hear a male voice say loudly, "Next time we come here, we need to tell them we don't want this area. That's the fifth person who's interrupted us tonight."
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I am the biggest idiot in the universe. Now Gabriel probably thinks I was looking for him, or checking up on him. I kind of was, though, which makes me feel even more ridiculous.
I find the bathroom door — it's about twenty feet away from the velvet curtains — and push my way inside. It has a large, gold-framed mirror over a sink that looks like a trough. The lighting is low, and there are two stalls, a good bit away from the sink area. From the sounds of things, there is someone in one of the stalls.
There's also a fainting couch opposite the sink, in a little nook. Overhead is a stained glass window, with what looks like a red rose and a skull. Gothic French vibes, I guess.
I sink onto the fainting couch, which is the same color and fabric of the velvet curtains obscuring that private area where Gabriel was.
Hunching over, I put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. My eyes immediately scrunch closed. I need to collect myself, put on some lipstick, and get back to my colleagues. I'm here for work and have a purpose. So why does everything seem so off-kilter all of a sudden, like the world's tilted on its axis?
I hear the stall door open and footsteps echo through the large room. This makes me sit upright, opening my eyes, because I don't want to come off as unstable or in need of conversation. The last thing I want is to explain to a stranger about why I'm so agitated.
A woman a little older than me emerges from the stall and goes to the sink. She's wearing a business suit, and we exchange smiles.
I pretend to check my phone as the woman washes her hands and takes out a tube of lipstick.
She's just finished swiping her bottom lip when the door opens.
For the second time tonight, I gasp.
It's Gabriel.
He immediately hones in on me and grins, then his gaze slides to the woman at the sink. She looks at him, her mouth in a perfect O — but without any lipstick on her top lip.
"What—" she starts to ask.
"Get out." He doesn't say this in a nasty way. It's matter of fact. He even holds the door open for her.
Flustered, she leaves without applying the rest of her lipstick. Gabriel closes the door behind her and locks it.
I double over in laughter. "You are terrible," I hiss. "You could've let that poor woman finish putting on her makeup."
He reaches down and clasps my wrist, pulling me to standing. "I will go to any lengths to steal a few minutes with you. And she can use the men's room. Or whatever. I don't care, as long as I'm here with you."
Pure adrenaline flows through me. Gabriel pulls me close, trailing his soft lips and cool breath along my neck. He smells like his cologne, dark and spicy, and I detect gin on his breath.
His tongue gently grazes the sensitive skin, sending little shivers through my body.
"Can we actually do this, cut off access to the bathroom?" I murmur, while small bumps raise off my flesh at the attention of his tongue.
"Yes, we can."
I lean into him, arching my chest. "You're a man who is certain about everything he does."
"Yes, I am. You know what I'm certain of?"
"What?" I whisper.
Holding me close, he trails warm kisses across my cheek and around my mouth, and I'm getting wetter by the second.
I suck in a breath, and he kisses the corner of my mouth, then slides his lips over my chin and down the line of my neck.
My muscles tense and my breath hitches in my chest. He groans against my skin while he grabs my ass and squeezes, and his sound barely registers because of my heartbeat that's pounding in my ears.
"I'm certain that I really, really want to fuck you right here."