Page 117 of Tangled Up In You

He looked at her with surprise. “What do you mean? With your parents’ money?”

“No. With mine.” She was trying to be patient with him and understanding of the fact that he was going through a rough time, but it was getting more difficult to keep in mind.

Glancing at the listings again, he saw the price range she was considering. “You’re telling me you can buy a house that costs in the millions?”

“Yes. Baby, I’ve been modeling for a long while now and making good money. I can do this. I want to do it for us.”

“Fucking hell,” he said softly.

He sifted through the papers, coming to properties in Venice Beach, the eclectic beach town on the Westside of Los Angeles. There was a photo of a three-story, quasi-Mediterranean style house on Grand Canal, accompanied by a sales pitch boasting of an offbeat, artistic neighborhood. Canals fashioned after Italy’s famous waterways had been dug at the turn of the twentieth century to drain the area’s natural marshes, turning it into a tourist destination. After all these years, the beach still attracted gawkers for its eccentric Ocean Front Walk vendors, lively pickup basketball games, and Muscle Beach area for weightlifters in search of an audience, but the canals had been relegated to the wealthy few who could afford the real estate.

“How about this one?” he said, holding up the flyer for the Venice Beach house. “Sounds like this area would better suit us than Malibu.”

“Looks good,” Sophie agreed. “Okay. So, how about we take a trip? We can get away from here and look at some houses out there?”

“Yeah, let’s do it. Let’s go today.”

She smiled, relieved. Maybe the worst was over. “I’ll get us a flight right now.”

“That can wait a bit,” he said. He leaned toward her and kissed her.

“Baby, no,” she said, pulling away from him. “You need a shower.”

He laughed. “That bad, aye?” he asked, and she nodded with a small smile. “Ah, come on—you promised for better or worse, didn’t you?”

She let out a playful scream and jumped up when he reached for her again. He chased her all the way upstairs and trapped her in the bathroom.

“How about a dip in the tub first?” she asked with a laugh.

“Don’t you want to have dirty sex with me?”

It had been eight days since they’d had any kind of sex, so she decided it wasn’t the best time to put conditions on him. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply, urgently.

69

GAVIN

Being in Los Angeles proved to be an inspired idea as Gavin was able to elude intense media attention for the most part while they went house hunting. He immediately fell in love with the Venice Beach area, especially after they took a stroll along the beach and he saw the street performers there. He was captivated, both with the diversity and the complete lack of recognition he got. Being able to engage in conversations with the guy who juggled knives, or the local graffiti artist, without having to talk about Rogue or his current debacle was utterly refreshing.

Though they were shown half a dozen houses by a local real estate agent, they agreed that the one Gavin first approved of back in Dublin was the one for them. Terracotta and stone on the outside, it had been gutted inside and remodeled with smooth lines and everything white except for dark wood floors and tasteful wrought iron work throughout the house. A top-of-the line kitchen with glass-front white cabinetry, white Caesarstone counters, and steel appliances opened to a formal dining room. The large step-down living room’s French doors led to a patio overlooking the canal. It was elegant and clean and immediately felt like the fresh start they instinctively sought. They giddily put in an offer for the house and were assured it would be accepted and escrow would be short.

Their reprieve from media scrutiny ended when they returned to Shutters on the Beach hotel in nearby Santa Monica. There was a line of cars backed up to get into the short hotel driveway, and the valet had just relieved them of their keys with reverential apologies that they would have to walk the distance to the front entrance when they were confronted by a well-known paparazzo.

“Hey, Gavin,” the heavyset man said, his camera flashing relentlessly. “Did you hear? They found your mother!”

Gavin did his best to keep his face a blank mask. He knew there was no truth to the jerk’s taunt. His mother, wherever she was, had done an excellent job of staying hidden. If she had been located, he was sure he would hear about it from James before anyone else. James, who usually had such a tight grip on the band’s media concerns, was working double-time to stay on top of this after failing to stop the Vanity Fair article. He had expressed profound regret over it, taking on all the blame, though Gavin didn’t hold anything against him. The whole situation had been of his own making, just as Ian said.

Gavin put his arm around Sophie’s shoulders to steer her around the man’s stubborn presence. Technically, they were still on Pico Boulevard, and that meant it was public property. The photographer, though obnoxious, was entitled to be there.

“Come on,” the paparazzo groaned, “give me something. I’m doing a public service here. Think about all the other kids whose mothers abandoned them. Don’t you have something to say for their sake?”

It wasn’t the absurdity or the cruelty of this argument that bothered Gavin, it was the self-satisfied laugh added at the end that enraged him. And that rage immediately took form as he released Sophie from his protective half-embrace and lunged at the photographer. With one firm shove he sent the guy to his ass and earned a quick threat of a lawsuit in retaliation.

Gavin wanted to pounce on him, to unleash his fury on him, but Sophie pulled him forcefully toward the sanctuary of the hotel.

Once in their room, Sophie turned to him. “Gavin, what’s going on? Where is this violence coming from? You’re scaring me,” she told him.

In reply, he took her into his arms and held her tightly, kissing her cheek gently.

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