A Wish, A Kiss, All Amiss Ch. 03

"Hi," she said, a sleepy smile hanging on her lips.

No, he could not do that to her, could not fuck her once and discard her. So he circled back to his original plan, which was really quite simple. All he needed to do was keep her close and wait for The Order to come and collect; in the meantime, he had better keep it in his pants.

*****

Meandering through the winding, cobbled streets of the city, Rosaline made her way to the second-hand bookshop, a full tote bag of books weighing on her shoulder. This should be the last bit that she wanted to discard, and this should be the easiest bit.

As she stood in the doorway of the book shop, a gush of wind pushed her into the long and narrow space; the change of ambient light made her blink a few times. Rosaline steeled herself as she got used to the dark interior, taking in the chaos of the shop. The shopkeeper nodded at her before returning his attention to his phone.

She had packed her old life into three concise trunks before; she could do it again. She did not need a tailored dinner jacket with satin lapels to keep her warm or its owner to buy her döner kebab at midnight.

That arrogant face flashed in her head. But he was not so arrogant last night, was he? He was funny, patient and kind of nice; he might even actually like her boobs, although she could never be sure of that. She shook her head. None of this should matter anymore, but the memory from last night seeped into her present, unbidden.

Gabriel had parked the car in front of the apartment after the food, and turned to look at her from the driver's seat, his hair had become ruffled from the midnight adventure. "I don't care about Nadine, Natalia or whatever," he said. She smiled and corrected him. "Don't care," he whispered. He leaned forward; she thought he was going to kiss her, and she would have let him and kissed him back. But he extended one hand to brush away the stray hair from her face, and his hand lingered to stroke her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm one last time. "Goodnight, Sleepyhead."

She did not need this sense of belonging, not now, not with him.

At the deep end of the grim space, a single skylight window spilled in the silver light of the overcast afternoon; a small stack of books sat on the dusty floor in quaint content, flanked by two lanky towers of flimsy, outdated magazines and periodicals.

That was her books' destination, Rosaline decided then. She wanted her books to have that tranquility.

Wading between the disorganized shelves, she eyeballed the chasm between the two pulp columns. She flattened herself to fit through, sucking in a breath so as not to disturb the fragile piles.

She emerged from the other side of the columns, and twisted herself around to reach into the bag for the books.

But she felt a tug on the strap of the tote bag; it slid from her shoulder and swung into one of the columns like a hateful pendulum, setting off an avalanche of collapsing magazines.

She prepared herself for the crumbling impact—the weight of the outdated, the scythe of the has-beens—as the burden of the past unleashed onto her.

But it never came; instead, she was caught in sinuous arms, hard chest and a tangy mint smell.

Oh, perfect!

Rolling her eyes, she struggled against him, her arms coming to push at his chest, but it only seemed to tighten his hold, which firmly wrapped around her, the heat enveloping her bare arms and shoulders.

She looked up to his dark eyes, which seemed to be busy looking for invisible pills to pluck on her dress. "Were you stalking me?"

"Of all the things that could come out from that mouth of yours," Gabriel said.

"This is my spot," she said.

"Are you marking your territory?"

"Let go." She twisted her hips, pushing herself away from him.

He made a tsk sound with his tongue, and ran one hand down her shoulder blade, rubbing a spot there with one soft thumb.

"Let me go." She tried again, her hands splaying wide on his chest to gain leverage.

He was a brick wall of corded muscles and strength. Her hands stilled and softened at the hard lines underneath the cotton t-shirt. Then she suddenly realized she was not supposed to touch him like this, not supposed to enjoy feeling him under her hands; she was not even supposed to see him again. She slid her arms down the length of his body, dropping her shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, soft and low.

"Yes, by your misplaced sense of chivalry."

"We've already established your mouth is fine."

She felt his arms loosen on her upper arms and dip lower, resting on the curve of her hips like a pair of well-fitted molds. She could step out of his embrace if she wanted to. But she did not want to.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"What is one to do in a bookshop besides getting crushed by piles of magazines?" He paused to think.

She rolled her eyes at his teasing smile.

"It was an accident."

It surely looked like one; she was—they were—knee-deep in the collapsed stacks. Leaves of paper had loosened themselves from the cheap binding, covering the floor around them.

"Of course, why wouldn't I want to go the literal end of the shop to"—he paused—"what were you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she said, snapping her gaze back to his.

But she could not see the bottom of his dark eyes. As an endless maze of temptation stared right back at her, her heart began to pound in her ear, thrumming excitement through her veins. It was difficult to breathe.

She watched his gaze drop, one tantalizing millimeter after another, tracing the outline of her nose bridge to the tip of it, then lowering, resting on her cupid's bow. Her lips parted as she darted a pink tongue to wet them. She felt his hands tightened on her hips and the heat that consumed her.

He bowed his head lower, his scent one breath away, a drugging blend of mint and lemon; one kiss and it would be hers to taste; one tilt of the chin and it would be hers to savor. She could feel his warm breaths shallowing; or were they her own breaths? She glanced up to his eyes, the heated molasses in them adding weight to her eyelids, then back to his soft lips. Just a small taste of him, one more taste before she left. She came up to her toes—

"Gabe"—the shopkeeper poked his head out from one of the shelves—"Jesus, what happened here?"

Startled, Gabriel stepped backwards, putting a small distance between her and himself, but forgot he was still holding her.

"Oh, I didn't know you were, um..." the shopkeeper said, looking to his hands on her hips. "Busy."

He retracted his hands, snapping them to his sides as if he also just realized that she was burning.

"Sorry about the mess," Gabriel spoke after clearing his throat.

When the hipster shopkeeper simply stood there watching her and Gabriel with a smirk on his face, Rosaline realized it was her cue to excuse herself. Obviously, they knew each other for some reason, and when she thought about it, why would Gabriel not know a second-hand bookshop, being a published writer from this town?

Rosaline looked to the shopkeeper and said, "Yes, sorry about this"—waving a hand at the mess around her—"I will just go."

"Don't you think we should at least help poor Mike here clean up?" Gabriel asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, you must stay," the hipster called Mike said immediately, nodding his head like it was too heavy. "I need to talk to customers."

Rosaline narrowed her gaze on Mike, who was now looking apologetically at Gabriel. There were no other customers in the shop; Mike had been looking at his phone when she came in.

"You knocked it over; you can at least help organize it," Mike added.

He was right though; she was the one who insisted on squeezing through the fragile piles. She huffed a frustrated breath. "I'll clean this up."

"Thanks," said the shopkeeper before quickly making himself scarce.

And when Gabriel squatted down to move the piles next to his feet, Rosaline was suddenly aware that they were without an audience again, and last time that happened, something else almost happened. Something that would have felt wonderful. Her breath quickened as the memory returned.

She mumbled, "I can do it by myself."

"You don't have to," he said softly, setting a stack of scattered magazines to the side, and starting to gather a new pile.

Extracting herself from the mess, she knelt next to him. "Don't you have better things to do?"

"Like stalking you?" he said, putting another pile aside.

"I knew it." She grabbed a few books and started to layer them.

"If you call a writer running into a literary editor at the only decent second-hand bookshop around here stalking, then yes, I was stalking you." The mess around him was almost gone; if he ever lost his job, he could always be a magazine organizer.

"Oh. I shouldn't have said that," she said softly after realizing what he said made actually perfect sense, and he was not teasing her for once.

"Don't apologize," he said. "That's why I like you."

She spun around to look at him and met his gaze.

"For an editor." He winked at her.

"Oh." She looked away, focusing on the mess in front of her, picking up a stack, and another.

Starting the third pile, she heard him murmur. "Among other things."

They fell into a short silence re-stacking the books before Gabriel stood up and announced in front of the dunes of magazines, "That should do."

Then his big solid hand reached into Rosaline's sight, its long fingers extended, offering to lift her up from the floor.

She looked to Gabriel, who was simply smiling at her, the skin around the corners of his eyes wrinkling from the smile. He looked divine, the silver light from the skylight spilling over him evenly, softening the edges of his outline.

"Join me for dinner?" he asked, wiggling his fingers when she did not take his hand.

Rosaline stared at the hand. She wanted to take his hand in hers, and she knew it would be warm and soft; it would feel like the soft yellow glow spilling to the darkness of the night through the window of their home when she returned at the end of a long day, and all her problems would dissolve when he held her hand to pull her inside.

"It's Italian," he said.

Maybe it was the promise that he seemed to carry or maybe she did not want to end it with a kiss that almost happened, but Rosaline placed her hand in his.

*****

For the life of him, Gabriel could not figure out what had possessed him to invite her to dinner, and as they stepped into Chiara and Max's trattoria, the first fat droplet of rainstorm hit his nose tip.

It was as if he did not learn anything at all, which was not completely true, of course; he had learned that he could always tempt her with food, that he did not mind his dinner jacket smelling like jasmine, and that her breasts were soft and perfect, like the rest of her.

He had just wanted to pull her out of the way from the direct impact of the falling magazines, but he held her more tightly than necessary, enjoying how perfectly she fit in his embrace. Caught in the moment, he had waited for her to kiss him, for the desire that sat deep in her eyes to take what she wanted.

He should thank Mike for showing his sorry-ass face at the most inconvenient time. If she had kissed him, he would forget all the reasons why he should not have her and surrender to those lush lips. And where would that leave him?

Gabriel pushed aside the door and his thoughts. Chiara poked her head out from the kitchen and squealed with excitement, "Look who finally showed up!"

She hopped out from the back and pulled Gabriel into a warm embrace, and he kissed her on either side of the cheeks.

"You must be Rosaline." Chiara turned to greet Rosaline, leading them towards the table.

Rosaline was about to open her mouth when Chiara added with a wink, "Gabriel told us."

"There's nothing to tell," she replied as a lovely shade of pink washed over her cheeks.

"He said you are his new editor," Chiara said.

"Oh." Rosaline paused, sitting down. "Right."

"What shouldn't he be telling us about?"

"Nothing," Rosaline said, shaking her head, her ponytail swinging back and forth from the denial, and Gabriel could not bite back his laugh.

"Please try not to embarrass my coworker, Chiara," he said half-heartedly, pulling out the chair to settle himself next to Rosaline.

"Coworker. Sounds serious." She contemplated the word. "I wonder if kissing is allowed between serious coworkers."

"Snitch." Rosaline snapped her head around to look at Gabriel.

"I didn't say anything," he said, trying to keep the corner of his mouth from lifting.

Her lovely mouth parted.

"It was to prove a point." Rosaline decided to roll with it, color high on her cheeks, her tone filled with righteousness.

"I didn't know you are such a bad kisser that women need to justify the kissing afterwards," Chiara said.

"She doesn't like me right now because I was apparently stalking her," he explained to Chiara, and to himself.

"Only right now?" Rosaline's eyes went wide.

"You seemed to enjoy the kisses before." He smirked; he could not help it.

"At least it's plural," Chiara said, her eyes twinkling with enjoyment from across the table.

"That was before you"—Rosaline waved her hand back and forth—"doesn't matter. It was a singular incident."

"And it was to prove a point," he said.

"Yes, exactly, thank you." She nodded.

Gabriel grinned at her until she grew self-conscious under his humorous and unyielding gaze, and she asked, "What?"

"Your gratitude is a rare occurrence; I intend to fully enjoy it."

Her brow furrowed.

"I've thanked you before," she said.

"Not last night."

She looked away as if to summon courage, and then back to him. "Fine, thank you for forcing me to drive home with you."

"And just now?"

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you for stalking me then."

He gave her a winning smile. "You're welcome, although I can do without the alternative perspective."

"Beggars cannot be choosers."

He resisted the urge to finish that kiss from earlier right in front of his friend and laughed instead.

"And there is nothing going on here." Max joined the conversation waving a handful of cutleries, popping out from the kitchen with a full carafe, four glasses, two plates of entrée and obviously eight arms.

Rosaline cleared her throat as a protest.

Before long, food filled the table, and Rosaline was soon relaxed into her chair, enjoying the food and herself. Gabriel watched her laugh and saw how her eyes flashed at the whisper of a dessert.

He barely survived when those sighs of pleasure escaped her lips at the first bite, but Maximillian intruded on his observation and muttered under his breath only for Gabriel to hear, "I hope she has nothing to do with the bullshit."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Gabriel lowered his voice to reply to Max while Chiara had Rosaline's full attention, waving her hands in the air for the theatrics. Chiara was telling her the secret ingredient to make the perfect tiramisu.

"You don't think people know why you're back?" Max said.

"This is my last job." Gabriel turned to his friend, his broad shoulders shielding the voice from traveling beyond the intended listener.

"And they will just erase everything and let you go?"

"If they want her badly enough."

"What did your family say?"

"When have they ever cared?"

Max scowled.

"And her? Do you care about her?" Max nodded in Rosaline's direction.

Gabriel did not answer. His gaze traced the elongated line of Rosaline's neck when she tilted her head backwards with laughter. Chiara had just revealed that the secret ingredient was nothing but the booze.

Gabriel closed his eyes. "It's one girl's life or hundreds of girls'. If she works with them, they might actually save some lives with her alleged magical powers by occasionally swinging the politics in the right direction."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

Gabriel heard Rosaline's laughter in his silence.

"I just want out." Of The Order and of this conversation.

"You forget we've known each other for thirty years; I know what you do around girls you like." Max looked to Rosaline over Gabriel's shoulder.

Gabriel lifted an eyebrow.

"If you really think this can ease your conscience and grant you the freedom you so desire, then you're nothing more than a naïve and selfish child, and in that case, I think The Order might actually suit you," Max said, ignoring Gabriel's challenging look.

"It's not your place," Gabriel said. "You don't know what it's like to grow up with—"

"You're right, I don't know what it's like." Max scowled, interrupting him.

One's parents did not simply name their child Maximillian without the adequate superciliousness that defined the members of The Order.

Gabriel pressed his lips into a thin line. "I didn't mean it like that."

"No one is free, Gabriel," Max said, shaking his head.

"What are you guys talking about?" Rosaline turned to the men and picked up the conversation with curiosity gleaming in her eyes.

Max raised an eyebrow at Gabriel before turning to ask Rosaline, "We were just talking about how you guys met. Actually, how did you guys meet?"

Rosaline smiled then, all pretty and sweet. "We were at a café, I was reading this book, and Gabriel came over and we just started talking."

"That's a funny coincidence," Max said, sliding a look at Gabriel, who knew exactly where his friend was headed with this line of conversation. He had to hijack it.

"She was reading my book."

"I was not reading your book, it was—" Rosaline turned to him then, and his knowing smile stilled her, mid-sentence.

He nodded to confirm her unvoiced thought. "How did you find the book?"

"In the bookshop that—" she said, her eyebrows threading together, then realization dawned. Her hands flew to cover her mouth. "No...

"But you didn't say—" She could not finish her thoughts; a wave of crimson consumed her lovely cheeks, and spread outwards to her ears.

"It's not my genre," he said, offering her a small smile. "So we left out the name, you know, for marketing reasons."

"That's how you just knew." Her eyes widened, thinking back on their conversation two days ago.

He rubbed a finger down the side of his chin.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she asked.

He looked away and collided with Max's stern gaze. "You thought it was written by a woman."

She rolled her eyes. "And nothing can be worse than being thought of as a woman."

He shook his head, dragging the dessert spoon across the plate, making nonsensical lines with the leftover cream. Then he heard himself tell her the truth, "No, because I can never live up to your expectations as a man."

Her lips were soft at his ear; her breath warm, smelling like chocolate and alcohol, lust and sin. "But you are so much more."

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Thank you, Chas, for the last-minute edit; your oxford commas are more than illuminating.

As usual, comments or feedback are more than welcomed!

Next chapter will be posted next week, if all goes well.

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