Page 57 of Boiling Point
She gestured—somehow both vague and graceful—toward the chandeliers, the band, the wineglasses. “All this sophisticated glamour. The dancing. The ordering. The bubbles before dinner.”
I smiled faintly. “Old habits. I grew up with it.”
Her brow lifted. “Really?”
I nodded, keeping it light. “Family dinners with too many forks. Weekend luncheons that required blazers. That sort of thing.”
She studied me. “What was it like—growing up like that?”
I traced the rim of my glass, stalling. “Rigidly structured,” I said. “Quiet. Very…polished.”
She didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
“Imagine a house with rooms no one uses, clocks that always chime on time, and staff who know where you’re meant to be before you do.” I glanced at her with the shadow of a smile. “I had everything I needed. Just…not much of it was personal.”
Her hand found mine beneath the table, warm and reassuring.
“I wasn’t unloved,” I said, softer. “Just…managed.”
Gabrielle’s eyes held mine, clear and steady. And for a moment I wanted to say more—to tell her about long corridors and closed doors, vacant conversation over breakfast, the coldness only marble and pride can maintain. But I didn’t.
She squeezed my hand, and I kissed her knuckles, grateful for the distraction.
“Now,” I said, lightening my tone, “tell me something about you. Preferably something scandalous, or I’ll be forced to guess.”
Her smile flickered in the candlelight. She shook her head, the soft waves of her hair spilling over one shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m not half as exciting as you’d hope. My story’s painfully boring.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said, leaning back, fingers trailing along her arm. “Surely there’s something. What’s the wildest, most reckless thing you’ve ever done?”
“Other than this?” she asked, gesturing between us with a playful, pointed smile.
That smile. That voice. They were going to be the end of me. I nodded, grinning. “Naturally.”
She tilted her head, thinking. “Honestly? Nothing. I’m a notorious rule-follower.”
“Come on,” I said, pressing just enough to see if she’d relent. “Not even a little rebellious streak?”
Her lips curled in amusement as she leaned in, conspiratorial. “I tried a cigarette when I was twelve but hated it. Got drunk once at a party in high school. And accidentally walked out of a store without paying.”
She paused, sipping her champagne with theatrical gravity.
“See?” she said, deadpan. “Boring.”
I laughed, low and easy. “Anything else?”
“I cheated on a math quiz in high school.”
“Ooh.” I grazed my lips along her ear and pressed a soft kiss to her skin. “I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you in class then. Not that I mind.”
Gabrielle turned her face toward mine as candlelight and jazz wrapped intimately around us. “Someone’s going to notice,” she murmured, voice low with amusement.
I brushed my lips against her again, savoring her warmth and scent. “Let them.”
The waiter arrived with our small plates, and I gave him a short nod as he set them down. A second server followed with wine—two perfect stems of Grenache, neither too heavy nor too soft, a deep ruby in the candlelight.
I watched Gabrielle take it all in—the colors, the scents, the warm bread and glistening figs—and felt something dangerously close to contentment settle low in my chest.
She sighed as she took her first bite. “This is decadent,” she said, echoing my thoughts.
