But she stops and gives me another happy look. “Oh, I found your phone on the dresser.”

She pulls it out of her pocket and gives it to me.

I stand there, phone in one hand, tea in the other, unable to form words.

Sophie pats my shoulder. “Can’t believe you left that behind.”

I can’t believe anything about myself anymore. I don’t know whether to run or grab hold of her and never let go.

“Walk with me?” I ask, pocketing my phone.

“Where?”

Anywhere. “Outside. I need air.”

Neither of us mentions that we’re in an outdoor venue. She simply takes my free hand. “Lead on, sunshine.”

 

* * *

 

Sophie

 

* * *

 

Outside the stadium isn’t exactly conducive to a nice walk, as it’s in a fairly industrial area. Of course Gabriel, being Gabriel, texts his driver to pick us up and take take us to a nearby harbor.

It’s gorgeous here: the Riviera sparkling in the sun, palm trees rustling overhead. Gabriel fits right in with his tailored light grey suit, sunglasses covering his eyes, his coal-dark hair swept back from his face. Images of Cary Grant dance in my head.

I’m no Grace Kelly in my jeans and Chucks. But he never makes me feel frumpy or underdressed. Even now, he walks at my side, his hand lightly touching my lower back as he guides me around an older couple strolling along hand in hand.

As soon as we pass them, Gabriel shoves his hands deep into his pockets and stares out over the sea. He’s so pretty against this backdrop it almost hurts to look at him.

But he also appears distracted and unsettled.

“You okay, sunshine?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “We didn’t have very much money growing up. My father was a mechanic. Originally from Wales, but he settled in Birmingham.”

I have no idea why he’s talking about his dad, but I’m not about to stop him. I know without a doubt that The Book of Gabriel doesn’t open very often, if ever.

“Was? Did he retire?”

He snorts. “Retire would imply that he worked steadily. He never held down a job for very long. He preferred to live on the dole.” Gabriel’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know if he’s alive, actually, since he walked out of my life when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” I don’t say anything else, sensing that he needs to talk more than I need to question him.

He keeps walking, his pace slow and steady, his eyes to the sea. “My mother was French. Her parents emigrated to Birmingham after her father took a managing position at the Jaguar plant. For a time, she worked as an accountant. She met my when she did the books for one of the shops where he worked.”

“Do you get your love of numbers from her?” I ask softly, because he’s drifted off, his expression tight.

“I suppose I do.” He glances at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the shades. “My mum died when I was fifteen.”

“Oh, Gabriel.” I want to take his hand, but they’re still tucked in his pockets. I wrap my fingers around his thick forearm instead, leaning slightly into him. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Lung cancer.” A deep breath rattles him. “Rather, she was diagnosed with stage four, non-small cell lung cancer. However…she, ah, decided to take her own way out.”

I stop short, and he does too, since I’m still holding on to him. A lump rises in my throat. “You mean she—”

“Took her own life,” he answers shortly. “Yes.”

“Oh, hell.”

“I don’t…blame her,” he grits out. “I simply… Ah, bollocks, I resented the hell out of her for taking what short time we had left away from me. Which is selfish, I know, but there it is.” He spreads his hands as if to encompass his pain.

A thought occurs to me, and my skin prickles in horror. “And then Jax…”

“Yes.” The word is a bullet, his face flushed and full of rage before going blank.

I move to hug him, but he turns and starts walking again, still controlled but his pace faster now.

“As I said, we did not have a lot of money. But Mum always wanted to go back to France. Her parents had died, and she felt a bit lost, I think, missing her country. This one time, Dad piled us into the car and we drove here, to Nice for holiday.” He stops and stares at the sea. “I was ten. It was the last time we went anywhere as a family.”

He lets me take his hand, and his cold fingers twine with mine.

I hold him more securely. “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

Nodding, he keeps his gaze averted. “I remember being happy here. But it brings back other memories I’d rather forget.”

“Of course.”

We don’t say anything for a while, simply walk.

“I feel shitty now,” I confess. When he glances at me with confusion, I bluster on. “I went on and on, complaining about my mom showing up, and what a pain my parents are—”

“And I loved hearing about it,” he cuts in. “Don’t you dare think otherwise. And don’t you dare pity me. I won’t stand for it.”

“It’s not pity,” I say softly, squeezing his hand. “I just…” Ache for you. “Hell, I don’t know. I feel like a shit just because, okay?”

He chuffs out a half-laugh. “Well, okay. And I do have a family.”

“The guys and Brenna?”

“Yes.” His hand slips from mine, and he clears his throat. “After Mum, well, Dad was around even less. But I’d always done well in school. I received scholarship for an independent school. You’d know it as a prep or boarding school, I suppose.”

“I know Harry Potter,” I offer.

He almost smiles. “I think we’d all have preferred Hogwarts.”

“Was it bad?”

“It wasn’t good,” he says with a touch of asperity. “I don’t know how much you know about Britain, but whether we admit it or not, classism is very much alive. All I had to do was open my mouth to speak and the other students knew I was working class.”

“You?” I have to laugh. “You sound like Prince William to me.”

His ghost of a smile is bitter. “Mimicry. You learn to adapt to survive. And there are days I hate the sound of it coming out of my mouth. Because I ought to have stayed true to myself. At the time, however, I just wanted to fit in. Didn’t work, though.”