Haze (22 page)

One Year Later

Gabriel

"We need to hurry if we're going to make it to Zeek's birthday party on time." She stretches out on the bed. "You bought him a gift, didn't you, Gabriel?"

"Three gifts. I couldn't choose one. Why am I the only one getting dressed?" I pull a black sweater over my head before I finish zipping my jeans. "You're not going to the party nude, are you, Mrs. Foster?"

She looks at me under heavy lidded eyes. She'd been napping before I walked into the bedroom and woke her with a kiss. I wanted more. I always want more but I'd made love to her this morning when I first woke. It was slow, tender and perfect.

"I have a dress picked out." She points to the closet. "It's the blue one from Arilia that you gave me for my birthday."

It's the dress I'd seen her wearing in the photograph on her phone shortly after we'd met. I had gone to the boutique the next day and had taken it, guessing her size. I'd kept it here, in our apartment for months until I gave it to her on her twenty-second birthday. She was touched. She's worn it often since, even now that it's not fitting as it once did.

"Are you going to tell your mother today?" She slides her legs to the side of the bed. "I think we should wait. Today is for Caleb and Rowan. Their little boy is having his first birthday."

"We'll wait," I agree as I kneel on the floor in front of her. "We can tell her in a few days, or next week."

"Tomorrow," she counters with a kiss to my forehead. "Can we tell her tomorrow?"

"She's going to be as excited as the day you were accepted to Julliard and the day of our wedding."

That day had been the best of my life. It was a simple wedding, at Isla's request, here in our penthouse. It was my family, some of my friends, and her friends, Cassia and Nigel. She'd worn a dress my mother helped design and as she said her vows to me, I cried. The words were so tender and giving.

"She'll be happy about it, yes?" Her finger traces over my left eyebrow. "I want her to be as happy as we are."

I place both my hands on the bed, next to her naked thighs. I lean forward resting my lips over her small, swollen belly. "My mother will love that we are naming our daughter, Ella Gianna Foster."

She lowers her hands to my hair, stroking it gently as I kiss her stomach. "We will have her in only four months. I'll be a mom in four months."
"I'll be a dad," I whisper into her skin. "I'll have everything any man can ever want and I'll never, ever let it go."

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Featuring Asher Foster

"Are they low enough?"

"Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I need them higher."

He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He had done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a toned chest and stomach covered by the expected tattoos.

I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.

I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.

It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.

Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.

I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."
My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She pulls it over just a touch. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people, all part of the entourage that arrived with the Asher.

I take another glance. It's almost perfect save for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.

I step around the tripod and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.

I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."

He looks down. "I thought you wanted me almost naked."

He's taller than I am, but only by an inch or two. It helps that I'm wearing boots with heels today. I wouldn't have chosen this short of a skirt if I'd have known that he'd be here. I try my best to always look professional but when it's over 100 degrees outside, you have to make concessions. I'm thankful I at least took the time this morning to wash and sweep my curly brown hair up so it looks controllable.

I've already established myself as the go-to photographer for celebrities in New York City. Granted, it only constitutes part of my business, but it's the most lucrative part. I'm making enough off this shoot today to pay my rent for both the studio and my apartment for the next two months.

"It was my understanding that the photograph needed to be tasteful."

"You don't think this is tasteful." There's a low growl to his voice. "Tell me what's not tasteful about it."

The room may be milling with people, but his focus is entirely on me. I've felt that since he walked in. I imagine he's used to women taking him up on everything he offers to them. There's no denying it's tempting. I only need to look down at the top of his cock visible through the opening of his jeans to know that the man is very comfortable with his body.

"I'd prefer if you buttoned your jeans up."

"Why?" His eyes darken. "Tell me what you don't like about the way I look."

There's no way in hell this man needs his ego stroked. If that's what fuels his fire he need only turn around to where every single woman in the room, including Remy, is standing with their lips at the ready.

I've always been mildly curious about why so many women are drawn towards musicians. I don't have to wonder anymore. His confidence is undeniable but it hasn’t crossed the line to cocky yet. He's just the right balance of rawness mixed with blatant aggression.

"I think I look good." He playfully nods towards his groin. "You think I look good too, don't you, Falon?"

I look around the room before I rest my hand against his shoulder and lean in just a touch. "As impressive as your dick is, I don't want it in my pictures."

Coming 2016

Featuring Tyler Monroe

"I once had one in my mouth twice that size," I boast as I adjust the collar of my chef's jacket. "I had it all the way in before it exploded. I swallowed most of it."

"You what?" Drea, the newly hired sous chef stares across the counter at me, a knife at the ready in her hand. "There's no way you did that, Cadence. I don't believe you."

"Whether you believe me or not isn't relevant." I turn back towards my prep station. "I know what I'm capable of and I know that if I was given the chance, I'd happily prove that I could take Tyler Monroe's in one swallow. I'd do it right now if I have the chance."

"You'd think I'd have a say in that, no?"

I stop with my hand in mid-air. No one else is supposed to be in the kitchen right now. The only people in the entire restaurant are the two front-of-the house staff who are busy confirming reservations. They're both also women. That means that there's no way in hell either of them just asked that question considering the voice attached to it is all kinds of deep and sexy.  I know that voice. I've never heard it in person but I've heard it whenever he's been on television, which seems to be all the time recently.

"Who are you?" Drea asks because she's not only new, she's naïve. She must also be one of the few people working in the restaurant industry in New York who has never seen a picture of him.

"I'm Tyler." I hear footsteps behind me. "I'm Tyler Monroe and you are?"

"Drea Hernandez," she offers. "You're not actually Tyler Monroe, are you?"

"I'm actually him." He chuckles.

I hear shuffling behind me and then in a way too excited tone, Drea screeches out the words no one working in this kitchen should ask. "Can I get your autograph? I have all of your cookbooks at home, but can you sign my jacket?"

I pick that moment to turn around because I know inevitably I'm going to have to face him. He's one of the reasons I applied for this position after I graduated from culinary school. His career is astounding and his accomplishments are nothing short of impressive. He's only twenty-nine-years-old and he's already the owner and chef at one of the most prestigious restaurants in Manhattan.

"I sign your paycheck." He ignores the offer of the pen that Drea is dangling in front of him. "I assume that whatever you're working on needs your attention."

She purses her lips together in a grimace before she tucks the pen back into her pocket. "I thought you were on a book tour."

"I thought you had work to do," he counters. "I'm here for dinner service tonight. I want everything in order."

I stare at his profile. He's striking. His dark hair is long enough to touch the collar of his jacket. His face is covered in stubble. It's no wonder that women come to the restaurant in the hope that he'll be here. I've lost count of how many of my classmates from culinary school have asked if they can stop by to meet him.

"You and I should talk." He suddenly turns to the side so he's facing me directly. "Come with me."

My breath catches at his words. "I have a lot of work to do."

His tongue darts over his bottom lip before he runs it over the top. It's a thoughtless gesture that shouldn't impact me the way that it does. "That can wait."

I lower the knife in my hand onto the cutting board. I smooth my hands over the front of my chef's jacket before I take a deep breath and silently follow him down a corridor toward a makeshift office that I've seen the restaurant manager use to fire those who don't pull their weight.

"If this is about what you overheard, I can explain that," I say the moment we're through the doorway.

He slides the leather jacket he's wearing from his shoulders revealing his muscular, tattooed arms. I look to the open doorway hoping someone, anyone, will save me from this moment.

"I don't need an explanation." He tilts his head to the side as his eyes rake me from head to toe. His gaze stalls on my name, which is sewn on the front of my jacket in red thread. "I'm going to assume you were talking about one of my signature dishes when you said you could fit the entire thing in your mouth."

I bite my bottom lip when he takes a step closer his eyes riveted to my face.

"That's what you were talking about isn't it, Cadence?"

My lips part slightly as I pull in a deep breath.  "No. I was talking about… I was actually talking about your…"

Coming 2016

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Deborah Bladon has never read a romance hero she didn't like. Her love for romance novels began when she was old enough to board the bus, library card in hand to check out the newest Harlequin paperbacks. She's a Canadian by heart, and by passport, but you can often spot her in New York City sipping a latte and looking for inspiration for her next story. Manhattan is definitely her second home.

She cherishes her family and believes that each day is a gift for writing, for reading, and for loving.