He’s still texting.

Sunshine: Hell. Clearly sleep deprived.

Sunshine: Ignore request.

I type fast, putting the poor guy out of his misery.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Your house, I mean. Where is it?

He pauses. I know he’s frowning at the phone. Probably has been for some time now. I bite back another smile.

Sunshine: A few blocks away. I could send a car.

Me: No. I’ll walk.

Sunshine: You will not. I’ll meet you.

My grin actually hurts my cheeks. I’m already out of the bed and scrambling for my jeans.

Me: Okay. Where?

Sunshine: In front of your hotel. Ten minutes.

“This is crazy. This is crazy,” I mutter as I haul on my jeans and root around in my suitcase for a bra and top. I don’t bother with the light as if it might kick-start my common sense and I’d text Gabriel back to say forget it. Because what the hell am I doing?

Does he really want to make me tea?

Yes. I know he does. Gabriel says what he means. He’ll make me tea. But does he want more? Why invite me over?

“Stop thinking.” Talking to myself can’t be good. I slip on a loose, cream-colored long-sleeve top and toe into my Chucks.

I’m in the lobby before I realize I forgot to put on makeup or brush my hair.

“Shitballs.”

The night concierge glances as me as if I’m off my nut, and I give him a tight smile before hurrying past. There’s no time to go back to my room, anyway; I might miss Gabriel. He might chicken out if he has to wait.

I love the weather in London. I don’t care if I’m the only one in the world who does. It’s crisp and cool, with enough damp to make the ends of my hair frizz. And damn if there isn’t an actual layer of fog creeping along the pavement. At two in the morning on a weekday, it’s also fairly quiet, the streets abandoned.

My hands itch for my camera. That need grows when Gabriel walks out of the shadows, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his dark slacks. A gray cashmere sweater hugs his broad shoulders and big biceps. This man could sell boats to desert dwellers just by standing there, looking pretty.

He strolls toward me, his chin slightly down, peering at me from under those sweeping brows of his.

I almost swallow my tongue. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Chatty girl.”

He stops a few feet away, and we stare at each other. My heart is going like a metronome. His gaze flickers over me, then steadies on my face. I don’t know what to say. Take me now, probably wouldn’t be appropriate. Or smart.

His voice is low and aggravated. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

I should be offended. But since he’s basically mirroring my own thoughts, I can’t throw stones. I fight a smile instead; he’s just so disgruntled.

“You texted, asked me to tea at two in the morning, then offered to pick me up.”

His lips firm. “I don’t…I don’t socialize.”

No shit. “Yet here we are.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Apparently so.” He doesn’t move. Another annoyed grunt tears from his throat. “I can’t fucking sleep.”

That he reached out to me because of it sends a rush of warmth through my chest. “So, let’s go do something.”

He obviously doesn’t want to like that. His shoulders bunch beneath his sweater. “This isn’t about sex.”

I laugh. “I hope not. It would be awkward to have to turn you down.”

Liar, liar, your knickers are on fire.

His lips twitch. “Sorry. I’m shite at this.”

“Stating the obvious, sunshine.”

With a snort, he turns his head, but I see the smile flit over his lips before he hides it. Then he nods sharply as if coming to some decision.

“Shall we?” He gestures toward the way he came with a tip of his chin.

We walk together in silence, close enough that our shoulders brush every few steps. I don’t mind the silence. It gives me a place to hide my racing thoughts.

“Just around the next corner,” he tells me in a low, gruff voice.

“Are you really going to make me tea?”

“Haven’t I said I would?” His gaze clashes with mine. “What’s wrong with tea?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” I search for the right word. “Grandmotherly.”

He laughs at that, a short chuff of sound. “I’m English. Tea is the remedy for all our problems. Had a bad day? Have a cup of tea. Head hurt? Tea. Boss a wanker? Tea.”

“Ah,” I say with triumph. “So I do have a reason to drink tea.”

Gabriel’s step stutters, and he peers at me. “Are we agreeing that I am your boss? Or does your head hurt?”

“Don’t know. Are you going to agree that you can be a wanker?” I smile so wide and fake my cheeks strain.

“A wanker who brings you lunch and is going to make you tea,” he points out mildly before nudging me with his elbow.

I’m about to nudge him back when a sharp crack rents the air. It’s so loud that I squeak, nearly jumping out of my shoes. Gabriel’s hand touches mine in an abortive move. I don’t know if he meant to grab on to me or he just flinched in surprise as well. Our fingers brush as light flashes across the sky. And then it opens up. Rain falls so swiftly and so very cold that I lose my breath.

We stand there, gaping at each other as the deluge swamps us. And then I laugh. Hard. Because what else can I do? Rain falls into my eyes, my mouth. I might drown. I’m sure as shit being drenched.

Gabriel is a statue, utterly gorgeous when wet, his black hair plastered to his head and rainwater sluicing over the sharp planes of his face, shining in the streetlight. He blinks, his long lashes spiky now.

“Of course,” he says with a raspy huff of breath.

“You aren’t going to blame this on me, are you?” I shout over the roar of the rain, still laughing.

“Everything from the plane trip on out is because of you, Sophie Darling.” He grabs my hand. “Come along, chatty girl, before we drown.”

We make a run for it, scampering across the slick pavers that make up the London sidewalk. I’m laughing, breathless. He glances over his shoulder at me. Everything is a blur but his features, which are somehow crystal clear in the moment, and my heart turns over in the cage of my ribs when I see glee in his eyes.