Page 14 of Omega's Pretend Mate
“Ok. I’ll get dressed too, then I’ll take you home.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 4 - Christian
Gabe wrung his hands as he sat in my passenger seat, clearly nervous about something. Was he afraid to show me his place for some reason? The rental market in Harris Cove was brutal, but his salary should have been enough to at least cover a small apartment.
Did he have a landlord taking advantage of him?
“Turn right here,” he said as we approached the light for Cliffside Avenue.
“Right?” I clarified.
He nodded. “Right.”
I blinked, even more confused. There weren’t many apartment complexes on that side of town. Left would have been a much more understandable direction.
We drove along, until the last apartment complex was behind us. But he didn’t tell me to stop. The houses got larger, more exclusive, and pricier.
Maybe he’d been able to secure a room in a millionaire’s guest house? Reduced rent or something so that somebody was living on the property.
“Left up ahead,” he said as we reached the stretch of road commonly referred to as Billionaire Row. “The one with the gray roof and slate blue paint. You can park in the garage.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket, and I saw one of the garage doors start to open.
Now I was thoroughly confused. Gabe… the handsome but unassuming mid-level associate… lived on Billionaire Row?
I pulled into the garage, and the door slid shut behind us as I turned off the car. Then I looked to my right, and on the other side of the garage was the car I recognized as Gabe’s.
I’d thought that seeing his place would help things make sense. But now I was more confused than before.
“You ok?” I asked after several seconds of Gabe not moving.
He huffed a laugh. “Not really. To be honest, you’re the first coworker I’ve brought here. Not even Alan knows, unless it came up in a background check or he looked deeper into the address on my tax and employment information.”
Alan was the founder of the firm we both worked at, and after working alongside him for more than a decade, I knew his background checks looked for red flags like a criminal history, not into private details of an applicant’s life.
Gabe unbuckled his seatbelt. “I guess… I should invite you in.”
I nodded and followed as he stepped from the car and led me into the house.
The interior was bright and airy, the type of home that would easily grace the pages of design magazines. Floor to ceiling windows let in abundant light that spilled over a soft color palette.
“Welcome to my home,” Gabe said softly.
This was definitely not what I’d been expecting, and my mind reeled, searching for some sort of explanation that made sense.
“Do… are you a live-in property manager?” I asked. I knew that some of the houses in the area had that sort of arrangement. Somebody to live there and deter crime until the owners came into town. Then the person would just go to a hotel for however long they needed to be out. “Are the owners moving in permanently?”
Gabe rubbed the side of his neck. “No. This is my home. It’s in my name.”
Why was he convinced that somebody was going to take away his house if he owned it?
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a plush living room set. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Water?”
He blushed… “Sparkling? Or…?”
