Summer Attractions Page 2

  Nick might not be the greatest boss, but she’d certainly never wished him dead. And it sounded like this man actually cared about Nick. She hadn’t even known he had friends. His work had been his whole life, and Jemma had always resented that a little, as he’d expected a similar commitment from her.

  He kept going. “We’ve been planning this for a long time. What happened shouldn’t have, and now I’m gonna make sure you’re safer than he was. But I also know you don’t give a shit about the tourist spots or the botanical gardens or probably even rhythmic gymnastics. I know why he hired you and why they were okay with sending you as a replacement.”

  Jemma swallowed hard. “I don’t care what articles you’ve read,” she snapped back. “Let me in my room.”

  “Article,” he corrected smoothly, that smooth smile morphing into an infuriating grin. She wanted to wipe it off his face with her hand or her mouth; she wasn’t entirely sure which, and the thought made her stomach jumpy and her mind go blurry with the possibility.

  “Fine,” she ground out. Of course he’d read her one claim to fame. “Article, singular.”

  He flashed her with a grin that altered his face from stern and somewhat drawn to shockingly attractive. She was attracted to him, Jemma realized belatedly, feeling pinned to the floor like a butterfly against a specimen card. A smile shouldn’t have been enough to so utterly transform him, but like the sun peeking through the clouds, it changed everything.

  He stepped gallantly aside, except she was convinced that even though he was her designated protector, he wasn’t a gentleman. A gentleman didn’t wear that kind of cat ate the canary smile and look like they enjoyed it so much. Frankly, she shouldn’t enjoy it so much either.

  She unlocked her door and was in the process of dragging her suitcase in when he said, “Dinner in three hours.”

  Slamming the door behind her without a single acknowledgement of his order, Jemma let out of a groan of frustration.

  This wasn’t how the her trip was supposed to go. At all.

  Jemma unpacked, folding her jeans into the Art Deco dresser, hanging her shirts behind the mirrored closet doors. She’d packed everything she could think of—jeans and shorts and the one nice pair of black pants she’d bought after college graduation, anticipating job interviews. She’d brought a few of her favorite maxi skirts and a few shorter ones, hesitating because all the casual clothes she had were what her best friend Colin had deemed “hippie chic.”

  Thinking of her best friend, Jemma glanced over at her dark laptop, already set up on the desk with its elegantly carved spindle legs. She should definitely check in with the Five Points office, and even more definitely, she should check if Colin had responded to the email she’d stayed up half the night writing, even though she should have used her limited time in more productive ways.

  But the last line she’d written was echoing in her head and she was too afraid of what he’d say in response.

  What could he say when she told him that maybe this three week trip to Rio was a good reason to detach from each other? She’d tried for hours to come up with a different way to phrase it, but in the end, she’d decided honesty was more important. Of course there was honesty, and then there was pointing out that he was still too in love with her. Not a subject she was going to touch with a ten foot pole.

  In the end, Jemma had chickened out. With, “I wish I could give you what you need, but I can’t,” echoing in her head, she escaped to the bathroom with its opulent gold fixtures and flipped on the shower.

  If she actually read Colin’s email, she’d probably end up crying over the whole stupid situation again, and Jemma had a feeling that if she wasn’t ready at Gabriel’s appointed time, she’d never hear the end of it.

  So even if she still wanted to cry a little in the shower, she didn’t, resolutely washing and conditioning her hair, and then scrubbing until her skin was pink and a little raw. She envisioned scrubbing away all the worry and sadness and regret, letting it all wash down the drain. It must have helped because she felt lighter after stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel.

  Her semi-upbeat mood hung around until she dug her straightener out of her duffel and froze.

  She hadn’t packed an outlet converter, expecting to pick one up at the airport or on her way to the hotel. Except that Gabriel had distracted her so completely, the thought had never crossed her mind.

  Jemma pulled the towel wound turban-style around her head and let her dark brown hair tumble wetly around her shoulders. She’d been straightening her naturally curly hair for years now but unfortunately, she was going to have go au naturel.

  She scrunched in a bit of gel and hesitantly hit it with a few blasts of the hotel-provided hair dryer, critically examining the results after she was done.

  “So much for curly hair being easier,” Jemma said to her reflection with a grimace. She tried smoothing down the wild curls with a bit of hair spray, but it didn’t help. With a final glare at her image in the mirror, she gave up in favor of finding something to wear.

  The laptop taunted her from its position on the desk, and the closet didn’t offer much in the way of reassurance either.

  It didn’t help that Gabe hadn’t said where they were going, but Jemma concluded it wasn’t going to be particularly nice. This wasn’t a date; this was a business dinner. He was only going to dinner with her because he’d refused to let her out of his sight. It was in no way a representation of how he felt. It just happened that she only had to remind herself of this fact about half a dozen times.

  Casual decided on, Jemma threw on a pair of jeans in deference to the mild temperatures and a fun, floral, cropped blouse, a pair of leather sandals, and long, dangly earrings dripping with turquoise beads. She didn’t even bother with makeup except for a quick swipe of powder on her fair skin and mascara on her lashes.

  Unfortunately, the casual ensemble meant she had a good ten minutes to sit in the room before her three hours were up.

  Ten minutes to obsess over what kind of message her email might contain. If Colin would even answer it.

  Of course he would, Jemma told herself. He was that kind of person—kind and sweet and loyal. Add in Heisman-winning, National Championship-winning, first-pick-in-the-NFL-draft as additional adjectives, and it wasn’t any surprise that every person Jemma knew was astonished she hadn’t snapped him up the moment he’d expressed even the slightest interest in her.

  If he wasn’t such a good friend . . . but Jemma forced herself to stop there. He was a good friend, and that was all she’d ever felt for him, no matter what he’d felt for her. And she wasn’t about to do a disservice to both of them and pretend feelings that didn’t exist.

  She still had her laptop halfway booted up when there was a sharp knock on her door. She glanced at the cheap watch she’d picked up during her whirlwind shopping trip right before her flight. Gabe was five minutes early.

  Crossing the room and jerking the door open, Jemma shot him a half-hearted glare, ignoring the way he grinned at her. He’d clearly spent the last three hours asleep because she could see it in his eyes. “You’re five minutes early.”

  “And you’re ready,” he said, completely ignoring her biting tone.

  “Almost,” she retorted. “I need to finish something.” She risked a glance back at her laptop, open to the sign-in screen.

  “Sure, I’ll wait,” Gabe said, gracefully shouldering her aside before she could think to stop him. He sat down on the tufted chair in the corner and shot her an enigmatic smile.

  Jemma was one thousand percent sure she couldn’t possibly read Colin’s email in front of a stranger. Even if he was kind about what she’d suggested—and since this was him, she was certain he would be—it still would have hurt him. It wouldn’t be what he wanted. He’d be regretful and not sad exactly, but the emotions between-the-lines would be enough to make her feel unbearably guilty. She couldn’t trust herself to feel that and not have every single regret flash acr
oss her face.

  “We can go,” she said shortly, praying he wouldn’t ask her to explain why she’d changed her mind.

  Thankfully he didn’t, rising to his feet without argument and leading their way out of the hotel in silence.

  When they reached the street, Jemma asked, “where are we even going?”

  He glanced over at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He was still mysterious—probably didn’t even know how to turn the mystery vibe off—but he seemed lighter. Less intense. If Jemma wasn’t already so flustered around him, she might have told him it was a good look, but their partnership already felt like a minefield, full of don’t look and don’t touch and don’t ask, so she kept quiet.

  “You want to see Rio, yeah?”

  “Of course I want to see Rio,” Jemma said, rolling her eyes. “I mean, maybe not the Rio that Nick saw. . .”

  Gabe just shrugged as they turned onto a major thoroughfare, with crowded sidewalks and full lanes of traffic, even though the sun was beginning to set in the distance. “That Rio isn’t dangerous if you’re smart.”

  “Smart how?”

  “Whatever someone asks for, give them, no questions.”

  “I read that too,” Jemma pointed out. “And I told Nick.”

  “Nick knew the risks. Nick knew it was a bad idea to go poking around without me. He knew what to do if he got in a bad situation. He just . . .” Gabe let out a growl of frustration and Jemma understood perfectly. If she’d ever doubted before that Gabe and Nick were friends, this moment made it very clear that they were close.

  Nick was book smart and had wonderful insight into people, but he was also completely certain of his own view. He was determined to be right, always, and stubborn beyond anything Jemma had ever encountered. She could very well picture him being asked to give up his phone and him refusing even though the intelligent thing to do would be not to receive a knife between the ribs.

  “He just didn’t do it,” Jemma finished quietly.

  They’d walked several blocks, and as they waited for a streetlight, the scent of salt on the air piqued her interest. “Are we close to the beach?” she asked.

  He shot her a sly, knowing look. “You said you wanted to see the real Rio. The real Rio is the beach.”

  Turning the corner, Jemma gasped in delight as the wide, deep blue bay and the ring of white sand beach, clustered with thousands of people, finally came into view.

  “Oh,” Jemma breathed out, filled with wonder.

  “I’ve missed it,” Gabe said, and the wistfulness in his tone took Jemma by surprise. She meant to ask him about it, but as they neared the broad boardwalk flanking the beach, she was too absorbed by the sights and sounds and smells of Copacabana.

  The brightly colored sarongs and headbands and shorts and the bright, flashing smiles of the laughing beachgoers as they streamed off the sand, looking for another icy drink or maybe someone to spend the long, languid dusk with reminded Jemma that it was just her and Gabe together, and what had seemed so strictly business back at the hotel seemed a little friendlier under the sunset light.

  She felt a hand brush the small of her back, and though it was gentle even through the cotton of her blouse, Jemma still jerked. She knew he’d felt her flinch, but his hand stayed, and she gradually relaxed into the soft touch as Gabe steered her away from the beach and its full boardwalk. They walked down a tiny side street, ducking into a simple building that looked deceptively empty as Jemma glanced in the dusty window bordered with colorful stickers. But when Gabe opened the door, she was surprised at the sheer number of people packed into what looked like a small deli. A long, clear glass case ran along one side of the room, dozens of trays of delicacies inside. There were maybe a dozen or so tables, and Gabe shouldered around a few girls clearly waiting to pick from the case and grabbed the last table. It was rickety and tiny, the old wood etched with years’ worth of customers wanting to leave a reminder of their visit.

  Folding herself into the even ricketier chair, Jemma eyed the table dubiously.

  Gabe raised an eyebrow. “We’re lucky we got this one,” he said. And like he’d known what was coming, another wave of hungry Brazilians crowded in, some wedging themselves onto the deli line, and others searching for a free table.

  “Tell me about this place,” Jemma said, itching to pull her phone out of her purse and start snapping pictures of the crammed tables, gleaming glass case, and the hundreds of bottles of liquor balancing on a far-too-small shelf at the back of the restaurant.

  But even the camera on her iPhone couldn’t capture the delicious scents emanating from the kitchen and the flash of the gold rings on the hands of the bartender as he poured drink after drink, plucking bottles from the liquor shelf without even glancing at their labels. It couldn’t possibly record the low hum of happy chatter that seemed to rise and fall with each breath she took.

  “My mom was a maid at the Copacabana,” Gabe explained casually. “She’d sometimes stop by here on her way home and pick up a treat for me.”

  She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before. It wasn’t hard to feel a little stupid for completely missing the point that Gabe might live in LA now, but he’d been born here.

  He’d made it obvious enough himself, with his comfort navigating the busy streets of Rio, both in the car and on foot, without once consulting a map. And he’d made direct reference to it earlier by the beach, when he’d said he’d missed seeing it.

  “When did you move to America?” she asked.

  “I was ten.” He’d opened up the discussion by telling Jemma the story about his mother, but at the same time, his tone shut the door on any further questions about his past in Rio.

  Jemma simmered in frustration; he was simultaneously open and closed all at the same time, and she didn’t know what buttons to push to generate simple consistency.

  So she didn’t even try. Let him think that she was perfectly fine with him being stupidly mysterious. He’d not see her carefully-disguised interrogation coming.

  “No menus?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “You want me to order for you?”

  Jemma hated anyone ordering for her, but it would be way too difficult to muddle through without a menu or understanding of the language and cuisine, and she wasn’t a fan of that knowing look he wore when she was clearly over her head. “Sure.”

  The waiter approached and Gabe answered one of her questions without her even trying to hide it; he rattled off the order in what Jemma could only assume was flawless Portuguese. It certainly seemed to trip off his tongue well, and she couldn’t help but think that speaking his native language gave him a whole new level of authority and control. It also brought out what were probably his natural hand gestures, and Jemma enjoyed watching him lose himself in the culture he likely never got to experience when he was in the States.

  She was all set to ask him her first casual question when he trumped her.

  “So you know Colin O’Connor?” he asked, not casually at all.

  It didn’t matter how many times she had this conversation, she never really enjoyed it. There were too many potential mines in the questions people liked to ask, and she never felt comfortable either telling the truth or lying. Even worse, Gabe struck her a perceptive observer, and no doubt he’d figure out very quickly how uncomfortable she was talking about him.

  “You know I do,” she answered carefully.

  “It was a good article,” he said.

  An understatement of the century and they both knew it. It hadn’t been just good; it had been a great profile of a rising athlete. An athlete who was considerably tight-lipped with all the other members of the press. That had been something Nick and his boss, Duncan Snyder, had asked Jemma when she’d interviewed for her position at Five Points: “why would Colin O’Connor confide in you, when he’s famous for never saying more than is required to the press?”

  The problem was there were so many ways to answer that question.

  Pr
obably the most accurate one was, “because he’s in love with me.”

  It was also the one answer she’d never given and she certainly had no intention of giving it now. “He’s my best friend,” she said to Gabe, which was one of her favorites because it was technically true.

  Gabe’s nod of understanding and dry chuckle pissed her off. It shouldn’t; she saw it enough. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the insinuation, voiced or silent. It wasn’t even the hundredth, but it was either Gabriel getting under her skin or the straw that broke the camel’s back, because she snapped.

  “I have a lot more to offer Five Points than a friendship with Colin O’Connor,” she retorted bitterly. “Besides, we’re not even speaking right now.”

  Jemma knew the moment the words were out of her mouth she’d made a huge mistake in losing her temper—enormous, really, because Gabe’s eyes shone and his lips twisted into what might have been a very attractive smirk except she was pissed and panicking and she wasn’t in any kind of position to notice his lips. Or at least that was what she told herself.

  “Had a bit of a falling out, did you? Nick’ll be disappointed to hear that.”

  Nick was one of the few people who suspected there was a hell of a lot more to Jemma’s story about Colin. He’d never exactly pushed for the truth, but she knew how much he tentatively dug for it. The sheer number of times Nick had claimed he was writing an article on the history of the Heisman trophy or the NFL draft or even the team Colin had been drafted to was all too coincidental.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” Jemma said primly. She had no story carefully designed to explain why they weren’t talking anymore. In fact, she wasn’t even sure that was the case.

  Gabe waved a hand absently as the waiter approached with two frosty glasses filled to the brim with ice and what looked to be wedges of muddled lime. “I could care less about you and Colin O’Connor.” This didn’t seem to be a true statement, considering who his first question to her had been about, but Jemma let it go.