My Gigolo (11 page)

“You’re a busy woman. Planning on getting any weekend relaxation during the, you know, weekend?”

She grinned and twisted back and forth in her office chair, twisting a curl of hair around her fingers. “Not if you’re around.”

His voice warmed. “I can oblige. Are you working late Friday?”

“Probably. I’ll leave a key under the rug on the back stoop, though. Make yourself at home, okay?”

“Trusting me with the sacred house key.” Though she knew he was joking, he sounded genuinely pleased. “I’ll have to lay down my very best skeelz for that kind of honor.”

Blushing, she plucked at the hem of her blouse. “I’ll hold you to that, too.”

“See you soon?”

“Yeah.”

“Bye, Gabe.”

She hung up and stared down at the phone, strangely conflicted. Part of her realized she made allowances for Jack that she wouldn’t for any other guy. She didn’t even know him, but she hadn’t hesitated to open her house—and herself—up to him. He was a male prostitute who was just using her for something of a getaway from his real life, but she got more than just great sex out of the arrangement. He was fun to talk to and be around.

But the other part of her wondered if she weren’t being incautious. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d end up head over heels for someone she had no chance of landing. Not that she wanted to land him, of course. She didn’t want to land anybody, and a heavenly body in her bed didn’t change that.

Frowning, she finally put her cell away and went to the door. “Cher?”

The poor woman looked as sheepish as Gabe had ever seen her, fiddling with the handles on a plastic take-out bag. “Sorry to just barge in like that. I should’ve knocked first, but I saw Donnigan leave and just didn’t think.”

“It’s all right. I was just talking.” She swung the door open wide, gesturing for her friend to come inside. “What’d you get? I was planning on that salad I brought, but whatever you have there smells much better.”

Cheryl bustled in, grinning. “Chinese. I even remembered the pot stickers. Who was on the phone?”

“Oh, God, I love pot stickers. Where are they?”

“On the bottom, of course. The first thing you want’s always the last thing you get.” She doled out little boxes and the chopsticks she’d thoughtfully remembered. “So, who was on the phone?”

“No one. Is there any duck sauce?”

Cheryl was no one’s fool. “In the bag. Who was it? You had a funny look on your face when I barged in.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “I got the impression that I was interrupting.”

She shrugged. “You were.”

“Come on, Gabe. It was a guy, wasn’t it?”

“Why does everyone automatically assume that?”

“Because you’d have answered the damn question if it were someone of the female persuasion. Can I get a crab rangoon?”

She dug one out of the bag and passed it over. “I did answer the damn question. It was no one.”

“Uh-huh.” Pointing her fork, Cheryl sat back in the spare chair. “I think you’ve been seeing someone and just don’t want to tell me.”

“What?”

“I’m not blind, Gabe. There was the booty call before your birthday that you refused to talk about.” She ticked off points on her fingers with the fork. “The mysteriously smiley, swoony mood from a couple weeks back that you again refused to talk about. And now a mysterious phone call that you
again
refuse to talk about.” She speared a snow pea and waved it. “I begin to see a pattern.”

“Pssh.” God, she hoped she wasn’t as obvious as all that. “The only pattern is that you’re paying entirely too much attention to my mood swings.”

“Ah, so you admit to having moods?”

“You are impossible.”

“Pass me another crab rangoon, Moody.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while, and Gabe began to hope that the conversation would move to other waters. She even managed to cram down a few pot stickers and a rice-clumped piece of cashew chicken.

“What’s his name?”

Rolling her eyes, she put down her chopsticks and gave up all hope of finishing her lunch. “Whose name?”

Cheryl raised an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Look, this is nothing special. I have a…friend, I guess. He sometimes needs to get away from his life for a while, and I don’t mind having him around. Leave it at that.”

The eyebrow inched higher.

“What? That’s all there is to it. I haven’t told anyone about it because this is exactly the reaction I get.”

“Are you surprised? Geez, Gabe, you haven’t dated anyone of your own volition since I’ve known you, and you haven’t even accepted a blind date for a good year. Can you not understand why your friends want to know what you’re up to with some mystery guy?”

She tried hard not to squirm. “It’s…hard enough to explain to myself, okay? He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met, but it’s not like that. We’re not dating. We’re not a couple. We’re just…”

“Fuck buddies?”

Wincing, she shifted in her chair. “I guess, though I’ve never liked that particular term.”

“Sounds like what you got, though.”

“Maybe it is.” She shrugged. “But it’s not like I’ll be introducing him around or taking him to family gatherings. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear from him again.”

“Did you want to?”

She hedged. “I didn’t
not
want to.”

“So you did want to hear from him?”

Groaning, she repeatedly stabbed a chopstick into her rice. “You’re making too much of this. We have a good set-up going. Near perfect, actually. But that’s all it is.”

Cheryl shrugged, dropping her fork into an empty box. “Hey, so long as you’re happy and gettin’ a little on the side, I have no objections. Just don’t end up getting hurt. These things have a tendency to backfire on one side or the other.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Absolutely.” Now her friend was the uncomfortable one. Finally. “I tried it back in college. I fell in love. He didn’t. It was a mess, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

Piling her own trash, she found a smile. “You don’t have to worry about that from me, Cher. I don’t fall in love. Everyone knows that.”

Cheryl winked and stood, brushing at her skirt. “Stranger things have happened.”

The key lay right where she said it would, under the mat on the back steps. Jack let himself in, feeling a little sneaky even though he had permission to be here. Of course, he doubted she meant for him to stop by so early, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He hoped.

Looking around, he realized he liked this house, though he’d only been here twice. He remembered dancing like an idiot in the kitchen and talking about her past at the dining room table. Carrying her up the spiral stairs. Watching her bake and admiring her patience. Watching her read while rocking lazily in the porch swing. Sleeping next to her. Waking up in the middle of the night to draw her close and smell the vanilla goodness of her.

Yeah, he liked this house. It already felt like home. But that was dangerous thinking, so he forcibly shook off the sappy memories.

Stashing his bag upstairs, he left his box of condoms on the nightstand. She couldn’t miss them there. He had no doubt she’d catch the significance. He definitely didn’t want to leave early this time just to salvage his cover story.

He paused a moment, though, frowning down at the box that seemed to have haunted him lo, these many years. He hated condoms. Now that he wasn’t tricking himself out, he could probably go without. Gabe was on the Pill, after all.

But again, he shook off the dangerous thought. She wouldn’t go for it. She wouldn’t
believe
it.

He glanced at his watch and headed back downstairs. He needed to make sure she had everything he needed for his famous tuna casserole. So what if it was the only thing he knew how to make? Didn’t mean he wasn’t great at it.

He’d just set everything out on the counter and started a grocery list—heading it off with a bottle of white wine for panache—when his cell rang two rooms away. He dropped a bag of egg noodles, ran for the living room and snagged the phone from where he’d left it on the end table to charge. Who would be calling him? Gabe?

He didn’t recognize the number. That didn’t bode well. God, he hoped it wasn’t some would-be client who had just now gotten around to calling. He’d already had to deal with three such calls, and he definitely didn’t have time for one now.

Mentally girding up to politely reject, he flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

“Jack?”

His eyes widened. He knew that foggy Boston accent entirely too well. “Dad?” He sat down hard on the coffee table, knocking over the sandalwood candle on its trivet in the middle.

“I haven’t heard from you, son. Your mother came across your old number the other day.” His father cleared his throat. “I dug it out of the trash when she wasn’t looking. I’m…calling from the pay phone on the corner.”

He closed his eyes. “Good to know some things never change.”

“You know your mother.”

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes and reached down for the candle he’d displaced. “How are you? Is the pacemaker working right?”

“That idiot of a doctor says it is, but it still skips every now and then. Damn thing twitches every time the phone rings or the fridge kicks on, I swear.”

Somehow he found a hint of a smile. “Maybe you should get a second opinion.”

“Maybe so.” A long pause. “So, how are you?”

He sat up straighter. “Actually, I’m doing better than in a long time, Dad.”

“Oh?”

“I quit.”

Silence. He made no attempt to fill it. His mother may not have a clue as to his “extracurricular activities”, but his dad sure did. It was part of the reason it had been almost two years since he’d talked to the old man.

Finally: “Did you, now?”

“I did. And I’m going back to school. I enrolled for the fall semester.”

“That’s good.” Infinite relief filled his dad’s voice. “That’s real good to hear. Do you need money? I guess the scholarship is gone by now.”

Despite the subtle reminder, he felt proud to have such good news after being a disappointment for so long. “I signed up for financial aid, and I might even get a small grant for coming back into school after a lapse. They’re pretty big on that here. And I have a little saved up.”

“I wouldn’t mind funding your education, you know. That offer never left the table. Especially now.”

“I might just take you up on it. It’d be nice not to have student loans hanging over my head. Let me find out what the government will pay, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Happy to help, son.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m…I’m proud of you. You know that?”

He closed his eyes, though this time he was smiling. “Thanks. You always said I couldn’t screw up forever.”

“I never said you screwed up. You just always thought with the wrong head.”

He laughed. “True enough.”

“Do you want me to tell your mom?”

The laughter died. “I don’t know, really. Would it make any difference?”

“Probably not, but I always hope, you know?”

He couldn’t help but ask. “How
is
the Sanford girl?”

A snort. “Married, much to your mother’s dismay.”

“Then I doubt I’ll ever be forgiven.”

A little silence fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“It was great to hear from you, Dad. And nice to give you good news for once.”

“Hey, I’ll take news like this any day. And I mean what I said. I’ll pay for whatever you can’t swing on your own. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t. Thanks again. And thanks for calling.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Good.”

He hung up and stared down at his phone in wonder. His dad. Who would have ever thought? Two years ago, Jack had been angry enough at his silent, stubborn mother to blurt out to his father that he’d done a hell of a lot better as a male prostitute than he’d have ever done marrying that little Sanford twit and becoming a VIP at her daddy’s stock brokerage. It was the first time he’d told his old man the truth about his current profession, and it had all but ended the one parental relationship he still claimed.

But now…

Wide-eyed, he looked around Gabe’s house again. Would his father approve of her? The question didn’t merit an answer, but he gave himself one anyway. Gabe was fun, intelligent, lively, independent, and adorable. His father would probably dance a jig, faulty pacemaker or no.

His grin fell a bit. Too bad she wasn’t actually his girlfriend to show off. What would his dad make of the current situation? Never “I told you so”, of course, but…

Shrugging, he put his cell back on the end table and straightened the candle on its trivet. He smiled at the small touch that was oh, so Gabe. She didn’t go for too much decoration, but she did have an eye for simplicity, and her few splurges here and there made the place feel like home.

Again with the dangerous thinking. This was
not
his home. Not yet, anyway.

He glanced at his watch again on his way back to the kitchen and groaned. He’d talked longer with his dad than he’d thought. If he wanted to run to the store
and
have dinner ready for the table when Gabe got home, he’d better get moving. Who knew that taking care of a woman outside the business required so much effort?

Grinning, he snagged his keys and tucked her house key into his jeans pocket. A former gigolo’s work was never done.

She walked in to the soothing thrum of old jazz and the wonderful smell of baking cheese. For a moment, she wondered who had invaded her house. Before she could worry, though, she spied a familiar shape in her kitchen.

“Jack?”

He turned from the refrigerator, a tea towel over his shoulder. “I heard you drive up. Gimme just a minute to get the casserole out of the oven. Kick off your shoes and get comfortable.”

She dropped her purse and keys on the end table by the door, toed off her sensibly low heels and headed for the kitchen. “You really made dinner, huh? Whatever it is smells great. It’s a good thing I put that key under the mat when I got home the night you called or you’d have still been standing outside.” Sheepish, she leaned her elbows on the long breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the dining room. “I kinda forgot you were coming.”