Page 133 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“One more thing. Separate bedrooms. And no sex,” I blurted before I could stop myself. Jesus. This mouth needed a filter. Why had I even mentioned sex?
“What the fuck, Cleo?Never?”
I stifled a laugh at his indignant tone. “We’ve gone three and a half years without having sex,” I said sharply. “I’m sure another few weeks won’t kill you.”
“You’d be surprised,” he muttered.
“See you Monday,” I said cheerfully and hung up, feeling proud of myself and a little bit smug. That lasted for all of two seconds.
With a groan, I buried my face in the pillow and pounded my fists against the mattress. Why had I taken sex off the table?
I wanted sex. On the table. On the kitchen counter. Against the wall. On every available surface.
Three and a half years, Cleo.
Might as well just join the convent and take a vow of chastity while I was at it.
But no, this was a smart move. Sex would only complicate an already complicated situation and wouldn’t solve anything.
So, it was absolutely for the best.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Cleo
The Jitney groundto a halt next to a bus shelter behind a parking lot. The last stop on the line. It was all blue skies in Montauk, and I was feeling cautiously optimistic as I stepped off the coach.
“What the hell, Cleo? You should have let me pick you up,” Gabriel said when I dumped a large cardboard box and a duffel bag at his feet then dashed back inside to grab my other bag.
So much for travelling light.
“What have you got in here? Bricks?” he asked, picking up the box after he’d shouldered both duffel bags, leaving me empty-handed.
“Power tools.” I gave him an exaggerated wink.
He groaned like this was all too much for him.
His gaze travelled from the top of my head to my cropped tank top and flowy cotton pants I bought in Bali all the way down to the flip-flops on my feet. Annika and I got pedicures yesterday, so I’d be beach-ready.
I returned the favor as we crossed the parking lot. Today he looked like a surfer dude in a faded blue T-shirt, board shorts and Old Skool Vans. No laces, of course.
The many faces of Gabriel Francis.
We stopped next to an older model black Jeep Wrangler with the top down, and he stowed my things in the back.
“Cool Jeep,” I said when we hopped in and donned our sunglasses.
There was sand in the footwell. Sand on the seat. Sand everywhere. Like he’d gone to the ocean and brought half the beach with him. When he turned the key in the ignition, Ray Charles’ “Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Cryin’” poured from the speakers.
Gabriel glanced over. “Have you ever been out here?”
“Nope. Never made it out this far.”
“It’s called The End. I love that. It’s not as much of a scene as the rest of The Hamptons.” He gave me a brief history of Montauk. Brief because it was only a five-minute drive.
Gabriel’s house was hidden behind tall bushes at the end of a dirt road.
Nestled in a grove of oaks, the two-story house wasn’t grand or flashy—the cedar shingles were weathered and the robin’s-egg blue paint on the front door was peeling. I loved it immediately.
