He’s asleep on the couch? In his own apartment? Whoa. My mind tries to find explanations for why in the world he’d be there, but skids to a stop at an argument with the girl who answered the door. She looks the right height, has dark hair, is in his apartment. Yep. Definitely the girl who left with him after the bar fight.
Bar Girl leans down and shakes him. Gabe bolts upright, the tops of his bare shoulders flashing above the couch’s back. She whispers something to him in what sounds like Italian, but that’s just a guess on my part—according to his file, he speaks four languages fluently. His head whips toward me, eyes wide with shock.
“Morning,” I say and immediately feel stupid for the too-cheery greeting. “You weren’t answering your phone, so Emma sent me to get you.”
He bursts off the couch and says, “Five minutes” before disappearing down the hall at a near run.
Bar Girl and I stare at each other awkwardly.
“Would you like to sit down?” She motions to the couch that five seconds ago Gabriel was asleep on. “Or coffee? I should make some for him anyway.” She has a much heavier accent than he does, and it’s sexy in a painfully recognizable way.
“Um. Yeah. Sure.” At least that’s better than standing here in a semi-dark room for five minutes, playing with my phone so I look like I’m doing something.
Bar Girl moves efficiently around the kitchen, popping little plastic cups into the Keurig, pulling down two travel mugs. Since she knows her way around the room, I think it’s safe to assume she’s probably not a hookup. An interminable amount of time (or three minutes) later she offers me a cup with a smile.
She’s older than I initially thought, probably in her early twenties. I don’t know why this surprises me. Gabe might only be nineteen, but he’s rich, famous, and not painful to look at. I can’t blame her for dating down.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods and goes back to the kitchen, rinsing the utensils in the sink and putting them in the dishwasher. Which definitely sends the vibe that she’s here a lot. I’m about to strike up a conversation when Gabe flies down the hall, pulling an Adidas T-shirt over his head as he walks.
I gape at the body that could have posed for Michelangelo. Or was it Donatello? Everything from last year’s humanities class flies out of my head when I’m presented with a real Italian masterpiece. I look away but apparently not fast enough because Bar Girl sends me an amused simper. I take a swig of my coffee to break eye contact, but it scalds me worse than the shame heating my cheeks.
Bar Girl offers him the second cup of coffee. He says something quickly in Italian, presses a quick kiss to the side of her head, and he’s striding toward the door.
“Bye. Thanks for this.” I salute her with the travel mug and hurry after Gabe.
He’s holding the elevator for me at the end of the hall, coffee in hand, face impatient.
Chill, bruh. You can wait five seconds for me, especially since everyone else has waited an hour for you.
The elevator doors slide closed, and he turns to face me. I swear the temperature inside the box drops to subzero. His shoulders are stiff, his mouth is hard.
“No one knows she was in my apartment, yes? Not your aunt, not my agent, not any media or paparazzi or anyone else.”
Yikes. A little heavy on the intensity.
Then he runs his hand through his damp hair and looks at the floor. “I don’t need everyone I love dragged through the mud with me, you know?”
Wow. He dropped the L-Bomb. Aww. That’s sweet. It also means that Bar Girl is probably not a fling.
“Right. Of course. I can keep a secret.”
The tension leaves his face, and his mouth softens. “Thank you for coming to get me. I forgot to charge my phone.” He digs in his athletic bag and pulls out a battery pack. “It happens a lot.”
“Maybe you should invest in an actual alarm clock.” Really, Maddie? I cringe internally. He’s an international soccer star. He could hire people to wake him up.
He gives a self-conscious laugh. “Probably.”
“My brother has one that’s solar powered so even if the electricity goes out it—you know—keeps running. And you don’t ever have to worry about remembering to plug it in because … the sun.” Just. Stop. Talking. I’m certain he’s familiar with the sun and solar power, but my mouth keeps moving even though my brain has shut off.
“Huh.”
And then I want to die. “Yep.”
A black sedan idles outside the apartment complex. The driver acts like he’s some sort of tour guide, explaining the sights of Chicago as we pass, so Gabe and I don’t have to say anything to each other. He’s busy on his still-charging phone, which gives me a chance to field Katie’s nonstop stream of text messages.
Katie: So how’s it going?
Me: He was late for training. I had to pick him up. Not a great start.
Katie: Not here either. The phones don’t stop.
Katie: OMG. Mara. *teeth gritting emoji*
Me: What?
Katie: She hasn’t *said* anything to me, but she’s still stomping around. Hurry and come back to the office.
Katie: You ARE coming back to the office, right?
Katie: You better be coming back.
Katie: MADDIE!
As we near the stadium, Gabe turns toward me slightly and shows me his phone screen. There’s a picture of a solar-powered alarm clock way nicer than the one Max has. “Do you think this is a good one?”
His shoulder is almost touching mine and he’s asking my opinion on something. His nearness apparently overwhelms my senses because instead of saying something logical or even too much, all I manage is, “Mmm.”
He takes that as an affirmation and clicks the purchase button. “Thanks for the tip.”
My brain scrambles for words. “I like that it has battery backup. You know. In case—”
“The sun stops shining?” His smile goes crooked.
“Or you forget to put it in a window.”
“Which makes more sense than a nuclear winter.”
“Right.” I nod. “Or if the earth were to stop rotating.”
He tilts his head to the side as he considers this. “Or a zombie apocalypse.”
I’m a little bit charmed—and baffled—that he’s playing along. “How could a zombie apocalypse stop the sun from shining?”
“It wouldn’t. But you’d be hiding from the zombies, probably somewhere dark.”
“Just me hiding?”
“Of course.” He plucks the front of his team-branded workout shirt. “They couldn’t catch me.”
“So you’d run and leave me for zombie bait?”
He leans toward me, just a little bit, like he’s about to share a secret. “If you’re bait, then that means I’m setting up a zombie trap.”
Ooo. He’s quick. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the back and forth we had yesterday. “What if I—”
The sedan lurches a little, and I fling my arm out to stop myself from flying forward. Through the window over Gabe’s shoulder, the spaceship-topped stadium looms.
“Excuse me,” the driver interrupts. “Is this the entrance I’m looking for?”