RILEY
My eyes flutter open, and I'm relieved to discover I'm in my bed. My muscles feel stiff, like I've been working out, and I brace myself for either a wave of nausea or a massive headache.
Neither happens.
I turn my head from side to side, anticipating a brutal throbbing in my skull.
Nothing.
"Wow," I mutter aloud.
I sit up and take a deep inhale. The air in my apartment smells different. Usually it's slightly scented from my candles or my fabric softener. Today it's ... bacon? I also detect notes of toasted bread.
Last time I checked, my fridge was empty.
A soft clanging noise hits my ears, the sound of utensils against dishes. Who is in my kitchen?
The previous night comes flooding back into my brain. The bar. All that booze. Dancing.
Gabriel.
I scoot back down, pulling the covers over my head as memories of barfing in Gabriel's chauffeured car replay in my mind.
And then, Catherine. The visual of him standing in her gallery, of her calling him her "early muse."
Kill me now.
Here's what I don't understand: why is Gabriel still here? I assume it's Gabriel in my kitchen, unless someone snuck into my apartment while I was passed out and is cooking bacon and toast.
My stomach rumbles because I haven't eaten in hours. I certainly didn't eat anything before my binge drinking session last night.
"Babe." Gabriel calls out.
I hear footsteps on the wood floor, and the bedroom door opening. Oh God, he's been in my little, dumpy apartment all this time. He's seen the dirty laundry in the corner of my bedroom and the Styrofoam container of moldy garlic bread in the fridge.
I let out a long groan of shame. Especially compared to his tightly managed and curated luxury, my apartment is the equivalent of two-buck chuck wine.
"Babe? How you feeling? Hungover?"
I flip the duvet down and eye him suspiciously. "Why are you still here?"
"Let's talk over breakfast. Come." He holds out his hand. "I made all the things you like. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh juice."
I take it, reluctantly. When I stand up, I notice I'm wearing pajamas.
"When did I put these on?" I ask suspiciously.
Gabriel draws me into his arms. He smells like my soap. "After we took a bath. I dried your hair and put them on you. Don't you remember the bath?"
"Vaguely." I don't return the hug. Instead I stand there with my arms at my sides. "You didn't have to stay. Being in this apartment must be like slumming. I'll bet you didn't even live like this when you were in college."
"Oh, Riley." Gabriel kisses my forehead. "I adore you."
I scowl, and want to retort with something snarky, but I'm so hungry I'm shaking. "Did you say something about food?"
He chuckles softly and leads me out of the bedroom and into my combined living room-kitchen area. It's difficult not to ignore my bare, blank walls, when his are covered in priceless art.
The soft sounds of a female singer and acoustic guitar are playing on my wireless speaker. The coffee table's been cleared of all the newspapers, books, and notebooks, replaced with two place settings, flowers, and a carafe of orange juice.
"Where'd you get all this?" I look to the kitchen and see plates heaped with bacon, eggs, fruit and croissants. The sink is filled with dirty pans. "I didn't have any of this food here."
"I sent my guy out for provisions. Figured we'd be here a while. He also brought me a change of clothes, considering everything that mine went through last night."
I wince, thinking of my performance in his car. I am a disgusting animal. Even if Catherine didn't exist, last night was enough to repel him for life.
I wander into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of bacon along the way. Better start not giving a fuck about this relationship, because it's vanishing before my eyes.
Peering into a pan filled with grease, I mutter a mmm while taking a bite of the bacon. It's delicious.
"What? Is it overcooked?"
"Did you make this yourself?"
"Yeah. I did. Told my guy what to buy at the grocery store, then cooked it here. Why?"
"I've never seen you cook breakfast. Only pasta."
"That's because it's easier to let my chef do it at my house. So we can spend more time together in bed. It's not because I don't know how. Or because I don't want to. Sit. Let me serve you."
Stuffing the rest of the bacon in my mouth, I go to the sofa and sit, pulling a throw over my legs. This must be his way of letting me down easy. Make me a delicious breakfast, then tell me that he's sorry, but Catherine's the love of his life.
He might be a murderous mafioso, but when it comes to women, he has class.
"My guy also went to that new French bakery and bought us some croissants. We have plain and chocolate. Which would you like?"
"Chocolate, please."
He places one on my plate and I immediately lift it to my mouth and take a bite.
"Is it good?"
I mmm-hmm through my mouthful. Maybe we can skip the whole breaking-up part and concentrate on the food. Then he'll gracefully leave.
Gabriel sits next to me on the sofa. "Excellent. I'm glad you like it. Coffee?"
"Thanks. Yeah."
First he pours my coffee, adding a perfect amount of cream and sugar. Then he piles my plate with eggs and bacon, and after, serves himself.
We eat in silence, the sensual acoustic music and the stormy, rainy day outside the windows creating a cozy atmosphere. It would be a perfect day for movies, cuddling and sex if it weren't for the Catherine issue.
I take two bites of scrambled eggs and set my fork down.
"You don't like them? I did put a touch of cream cheese in. And chives. I could make another batch plain."
I shake my head. "They're perfect. I'm not really in the mood."
"Because of your hangover?"
"No. Actually, I feel surprisingly fresh.
"Then why aren't you in the mood? Normally you love breakfast."
It's true. At his house, I eat breakfast like a woman who's just been released from prison. Still, I can't believe he's being this obtuse. "Ahh, well, you know. Because of what's coming. What you're about to tell me?"
He spears a cantaloupe and pops it in his mouth. He chews, and swallows, then says, "What's coming? What am I going to say? Fill me in."
"Uh, for starters. Catherine? That situation? The fact that you're going to leave me for her. I was just a placeholder, I guess. It was fun while it lasted. So thanks, I guess." I tear off a piece of croissant, but can't bring it to my mouth.
"Yeah. I fucked up and should've told you Catherine was back."
"You knew?" I turn to stare at him. Fucker.
"I did. And chose not to tell you because I thought you'd worry. Or be jealous."
I huff out a snort. "With good reason. She's telling total strangers that you were her muse when she was younger."
He rolls his eyes. "That might be true, although I'd never heard that until yesterday. But I've never had sex with her, never even fooled around. Never wanted to. We were friends. Only. Friends."
"Yeah, right." I eat the torn-off piece of croissant. It turns into sawdust in my mouth.
"Don't you think men and women can be friends?"
"You saw the men last night. Those are the kinds of guys I've had experience with. Would you want to be friends with them?"
He curls his lip. "Let's not discuss that part of the evening."
"Why? You jealous?"
"As a matter of fact, I was. I was ready to kill that fucker. He's lucky to be waking up above ground today, especially after the night I had prior to going to that bar."
My eyes rake down his face. "What do you mean by that?"
He cracks the knuckles of his right hand. "You don't wanna know."
Okay, then. Probably he roughed someone up. Or worse. "I take responsibility for my drinking last night. I shouldn't have gotten so messed up. Honestly, I shouldn't be so shocked you're with more than one woman at once, I guess."
"Riley, come on. That's unfair. You have no evidence of that. She's a friend."
"Friends aren't usually muses. Muses are generally people who inspire with their beauty or their magic..." I wave my hand in the air, "whatever. Their magic hoo-ha. Or their magic dick."
He wrinkles his face. "I don't think my dick's magic."
I snort. "Well, maybe for Catherine it is."
And for me, I want to add, but don't want to dwell on that sad fact.
"Catherine has never seen my dick. Not once. So I ask once more. Can't men and women be friends?"
I lift a shoulder. "Not when one of them clearly is obsessed with the other."
"Fair. Although in my defense, I didn't know that about her until recently." He pushes his eggs around his plate with the fork. "Here's the truth. I gave Catherine some money to start her gallery when she said she was opening a storefront. That's why I stopped in yesterday. I had no idea you'd be there, and I was just as shocked as you. I'm sorry it all went down like that."
"Why did she return here, anyway?"
He shrugs. "She's originally from Florida."
"But why now, and why so close to you? Hell, her gallery is only a few miles from her house?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. She's an adult and can make her own decisions. She's been out of my life for a decade. She's not someone I'm planning on spending a lot of time with. Nevertheless, I was planning on introducing you two in a more casual, normal way because I knew we'd be running into her."
"Oh. So you could string us both along?"
His fist smacks onto the wooden coffee table, making the plates and glasses jump. "Fuck, Riley, you're not listening to me. She's a friend. That's all. A friend who is allowing me to use her business to launder dirty money I receive from selling drugs. You got that? She's not someone I want to fuck. Not someone I love. You are. You. It's only you."
If I was stunned by the sound of his fist hitting the table, I'm even more astonished by his words. "What?"
He shakes his head and jabs at a piece of egg. "Come here. Eat this. You need something in your stomach."
"What did you just say?"
"I'll tell you if you eat something."
My pulse kicks up and I open my mouth. He gently feeds me the eggs. I should be ashamed that he admitted the drug-dealing side of his empire, but I'm not. I'm not even surprised. It's the other admission that has sent me reeling.
"Two more bites."
I nod, chew, and swallow. He continues to feed me, dabbing at my mouth every so often with the napkin.
"Now some bacon. One slice. That's a good girl."
He holds the bacon to my mouth and I nibble. As I do, my eyes meet his. I'm still trying to process what he said when he offers me a glass of orange juice.
"Drink some of this."
"Is it fresh?" I sniff it.
"You've been in Florida five minutes, and you're worried whether your juice is freshly squeezed?" He chuckles. "The oranges were probably on the trees yesterday."
I take a few gulps of the delicious drink that tastes like liquid sunshine. Then I set the glass down and pick up another piece of bacon, waving it in the air. "Okay. Now tell me what you said. In detail."
"There's only one important detail. You and I have been together for a couple of months, and I know it's really soon. Maybe too soon to say these words. But I love you. That's all. I love you."