Page 70 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Twenty-Two

Emily

The plastic grocery bag in my hand feels heavy on the elevator ride to the top floor of Gabriel Cooper’s building, but the dinner ingredients might as well be feathers compared to the weight of the worries and nerves that fill my head and belly.

What are my motivations here? Gabriel’s right: there’s not a lot more we can do with the Ferry situation right now. Am I doing this just because Gabriel needs dinner and I don’t want to go home yet? Because he’s lonely and so am I?

That excuse doesn’t hold water. What does it really matter to me if he eats junk food? And I could go hang out with Rita if I wanted to, or go to a movie, or do any of a hundred other things if I really need to be around people.

But instead, I’m coming here. I’m putting myself into a questionable situation, and one that could go wrong in oh-so-many different ways.

Sure, there’s a man that I’ve come to care about at least a little bit, and yes, I’ll grant that I’m attracted to him slightly. Okay, more than slightly: whenever I glance over and catch him looking at me, a fluttery little thrill rushes through my body, and sometimes when I blink I can see him above me, feel the weight of his body pressing me down, and trace the muscles of his shoulders with my fingertips before pulling his face close for a kiss.

Fine. Way more than just slightly.

But Margaret’s obscene request has been nagging at the back of my mind all day, making me question myself every time I look at Gabriel, every time I think about him.

I shake off the doubts and nerves as the elevator door opens and turn left down the hallway to find #1066.

Gabriel answers the door only seconds after I knock. Had he been standing there waiting for me?

“Welcome to my… parlor? Nightmare?” he says, lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile. “Welcome to my something, at least.”

“Said the spider to the fly. Or, said Alice Cooper, depending on which version you decide to go with in the end,” I laugh. “Nice place, though,” I add, looking at the room around me, eager to get a peek into the private side of him.

The living room is large, perfectly appointed and spotless. It’s almost a time capsule of the late-2000’s. The only concession to the fact that it’s no longer 2009 is the very large wall-mounted flat-screen television.

“It’s… was this one of the models? For the building, I mean?”

“Yep,” Gabriel answers. “Got it in one. Last unit in the building empty. They rented it to me furnished, as-is. Let me get that for you?” He holds out a hand for the groceries.

It’s not completely pristine, though: as I follow him to the kitchen, I can see there’s wear on one end of one of the two leather-upholstered sofas. Only one spot, and it faces the large ocean view picture window, not the television. No frequent guests, then. No Netflix and chill. He really is alone but for his work.

Gabriel places the bag on the counter, and his eyebrows perk up at the sound of glass inside.

“What are we having for dinner?” he asks. “Whatever it is, it sounds good already.”

“I’m sure it’s not as good as the chardonnay you picked out the other night,” I answer, pulling two already-chilled bottles of white wine—inexpensive, but the best I could justify spending money on right now—out of the bag. “But it should be drinkable, at least. Hopefully,” I add, crinkling my nose up in faux skepticism as I open the refrigerator door.

The crinkle turns real as I survey the barren wasteland that lies inside Gabriel’s refrigerator. It is devoid of anything even resembling food, but for a half-empty jar of kosher dill pickles and a bottle of brown mustard that’s just as lonely as its owner. Oh, and an untouched six-pack of beer and an almost full gallon of milk that’s two weeks past the expiration date.

“Now I see why you weren’t planning to cook tonight,” I say, arching one brow at Gabriel, who just shrugs.

“It’s not like I really have time,” Gabriel says. “I used to do more, but ever since moving up to the Narcotics Unit, there just really hasn’t been time. I’ve even been slipping on going to the gym, and that’s just… no. That’s not me,” he sighs. “That’s not me at all.”

“Well, I don’t know that I can fix you in one evening,” I say, closing the refrigerator again and going back to my grocery bag, pulling out a package of fresh spinach fettucine. “It’s probably too big of a job to handle all at once.”

Gabriel chuckles a bit, reaching into a cabinet under the counter and retrieving a pot.

“A skillet as well, if you have one,” I say. “And what’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says, setting the pot and requested pan on a stove that looks like it’s never been used. “Nothing at all.”

I squint suspiciously at him, mentally rewinding and reviewing what I’d just said as I dump chunks of already-seasoned chicken breast into the skillet.

“Oh,god. Seriously?” I say, realizing thatfixhas a whole different set of meanings as well, and withtoo big to handleon top of it. I have to laugh, though, even while shaking my head. “You’re a terrible human being.”

“Sometimes,” Gabriel agrees. “I have my moments. Now, what have we here?” he asks, peering into the bag and pulling out the two remaining items. “Oh, pesto! And Caesar salad. I think I need to have you over more often.”

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