Page 7 of Art of Sin

4temptation

I don’t buyathletic clothes. Instead, I pester my favored PI, Lyle, for the next three days until I have a workable schedule for Gideon. He eats at the same café in the Palisades every morning, ordering a sandwich to take home for lunch. Without fail, he arrives between 8:45 and 9:00, freshly showered from his run.

He eats alone, conversing only with his server, and doesn’t use his phone during his meal. Nor does he read a magazine or newspaper. It’s a rarity that gives me pause until Lyle tells me he carries a small notepad and short charcoal pencil. All three days, Gideon has spent the time sketching, absentmindedly picking at his food. What he draws, Lyle doesn’t know, because Gideon guards it carefully from sight. Short of peering over the man’s shoulder, Lyle got as close as he could.

Friday morning at 8:39, four days after hunting Gideon down at the club, I arrive at Sam’s Seaside Café with Maggie in tow. I’m wearing what amounts to casual for me—not jeans and a blazer, thank you very much, Trent—but a sleeveless maxi-dress and sandals. I opted for minimal jewelry, barely any makeup, and even left my hair down. I want Gideon to see another, more human side of me, manufactured or not.

Maggie and I slide into a booth facing the row of two-seater tables. Three of them are empty, but whichever one Gideon sits at, I’ll have a direct line of sight. And so will he.

The thought makes me reach for my ice water, my throat suddenly dry.

“You okay?” asks Maggie, looking up from her menu.

I nod, eyeing the entrance like it might open on a tidal wave. “I’m still not sure how I’m going to play this. Or if he’ll even talk to me.”

“He will. I’ll barely have to act when I rush out of here. What’s he gonna do, leave you to call a taxi? No way.”

A young, fresh-faced server stops to offer us coffee. I accept, thanking her and dumping three creams into my cup. Maggie orders green tea. When the server leaves, I study her face, which is more pale than usual.

“I’m really sorry I dragged you down here,” I tell her. “You should be in bed.”

She smiles weakly. “I’m feeling a lot better, just weak, and I already missed four days of work. Wasted most of my vacation pay. So much for my trip to New York.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say firmly.

Her expression softens. “Really?”

I smirk. “It might be the last thing I do before we’re all fired, but you’re going to New York in May.”

Her dark eyes well with tears. “You’re a good person, Deirdre. How the hell did you become a publicist?”

I laugh to cover an unwanted spike of shame. I’m not a good person. Everything I do is calculated in risks versus rewards. If I seem good, it’s because sometimes what is necessary aligns to other people’s ideas of what is right.

Our server returns to take our orders. It’s now 8:54 and I’m starting to get nervous that Gideon won’t show. Lyle warned me that it was too early to confirm a weekly schedule, but I decided to gamble.

The café door jingles as it opens.

“Hot damn,” whispers Maggie behind her tea mug.

I shouldn’t look—I’m not ready to establish connection—but I can’t seem not to.

Gideon must have had a late start this morning because he’s still in running clothes—athletic pants, sneakers, and a black muscle-tank that clings to the hard dips and curves of his chest and abdomen. He’s flushed, sweat glistening on his collarbone and neck. Unsmiling, his expression remote, he gazes at the floor while he waits to be seated.

I’m not the only one staring. Most of the restaurant’s patrons have paused their meals or conversations, some cellular alarm alerting us of an apex predator in the vicinity. A lion in a den of ripe prey.

My confidence bottoms out. Dragging my eyes away from where Gideon is now being led to a table, I stare at my cooling coffee.

“Deirdre?” whispers Maggie.

I shake my head, looking at her. “New plan.”

She blinks wide eyes. “Don’t blame you. Should we wait for our food or bail?”

“Bail.”

I hail our server discreetly and ask her to wrap our food to go, slipping her my credit card in the process. As we wait, I don’t look at Gideon. Not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. The sight of him flooded me with uncomfortable memories of the drive home from the club.

“Were you watching?” he murmurs, head pivoting on the headrest toward me. “Did you see her face?”

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