think you can distract me with your, your … scowl.”
“My scowl?” He looked amused.
“You cannot rip out my aunt’s front door. I’m going to call someone, the historic society or something. I’m sure it’s listed. You can’t just rip out doors!”
“This is none of your business,” Gabriel said, the laughter disappearing.
“This is my home—of course it’s my business!”
He raised a brow.
“Okay, so it’s both of our homes. You on the top, me on the bottom.”
That got a different kind of raised brow.
“Errr!” Portia grumbled. “That door belongs to both of us!”
Gabriel’s jaw set.
“Well?” she demanded. “I bet we’re something like one of those insane apartment building co-ops they have in Manhattan, you know, giving everyone who lives there equal rights. I have rights to that front door, just as much as you do.”
“The door was rotting. And if you don’t like what I’m doing, you can always leave.”
“Funny. But I can’t. I have nowhere else to go.” Belatedly, she realized that after all her ranting, he just might ask her for half the price of the rotting door.
It flashed through her mind that maybe she should just sell him the apartment and be done with it. She had been scouring the New York Times real estate section, and she knew she could make a small fortune by selling.
Gabriel clearly saw her moment of vulnerability because he suddenly looked like a shark circling a floundering cruise ship tourist. He sensed blood. “Ariel,” he said, “can you give me a second to talk to Ms. Cuthcart?”
Ariel glanced between the two of them, shrugged, and trotted back inside.
Gabriel took two steps up. There was an intent look to his face that … well, Portia had the distinct idea that he was going to reach out and kiss her, never mind the work crew milling down below on the sidewalk.
But at the last second Gabriel’s eyes cleared and he said, “Why are you here?”
Portia blinked—then blinked again, hating the implication that she didn’t belong.
That was the thing. She did belong. Ever since that first morning she woke up in the garden apartment, she had felt as if her whole life had been bringing her to this place. Texas wasn’t home anymore. New York City was.
“I belong here,” she said. Then found herself blurting out, “You don’t like me, do you?”
That threw him. He gave her a look as if to say, “You are such a girl.” And who could blame him?
Aloud, he said, “I don’t even know you.”
Unbidden, the image of the way he had looked at her after peeling her out of the burger suit came to mind. He had wanted to know her that day, at least on some level.
“This is not about liking or not liking you,” he stated firmly.
“Dad!” Miranda marched out the front door. “There isn’t a thing to eat in the whole house! Are you trying to starve us? Huh? Is that what you really want?”
Gabriel took a deep breath. “Give me a second, Miranda. I’ll fix it.”
“Yeah, right. Sure, you will.”
She wheeled back inside.
“Listen,” Gabriel said, dragging his hands through his hair. “You need a job, right? Given the demise of the burger suit, I mean.”
“And?” Portia said carefully.
“The girls need someone to make meals for them. Breakfast and dinner, on school days.”
Portia felt her blood begin to boil. “Are you offering me a job as your cook?”
He eyed her. “I guess I am.”
“Either you are or you aren’t.”
“Fine, yes. I am offering you a job.” He told her an amount he would pay, and her stomach actually rumbled at the thought of all the boxes of cereal, not to mention fabulous food, she could buy with the amount. But then she remembered.
“What is the matter with everyone? How many times do I have to say that I don’t cook? Not anymore!”
Though she wanted to. God help her, she did.
Portia reminded herself of things that were normal. White picket fences. Food that didn’t come in visions. She took a
“My scowl?” He looked amused.
“You cannot rip out my aunt’s front door. I’m going to call someone, the historic society or something. I’m sure it’s listed. You can’t just rip out doors!”
“This is none of your business,” Gabriel said, the laughter disappearing.
“This is my home—of course it’s my business!”
He raised a brow.
“Okay, so it’s both of our homes. You on the top, me on the bottom.”
That got a different kind of raised brow.
“Errr!” Portia grumbled. “That door belongs to both of us!”
Gabriel’s jaw set.
“Well?” she demanded. “I bet we’re something like one of those insane apartment building co-ops they have in Manhattan, you know, giving everyone who lives there equal rights. I have rights to that front door, just as much as you do.”
“The door was rotting. And if you don’t like what I’m doing, you can always leave.”
“Funny. But I can’t. I have nowhere else to go.” Belatedly, she realized that after all her ranting, he just might ask her for half the price of the rotting door.
It flashed through her mind that maybe she should just sell him the apartment and be done with it. She had been scouring the New York Times real estate section, and she knew she could make a small fortune by selling.
Gabriel clearly saw her moment of vulnerability because he suddenly looked like a shark circling a floundering cruise ship tourist. He sensed blood. “Ariel,” he said, “can you give me a second to talk to Ms. Cuthcart?”
Ariel glanced between the two of them, shrugged, and trotted back inside.
Gabriel took two steps up. There was an intent look to his face that … well, Portia had the distinct idea that he was going to reach out and kiss her, never mind the work crew milling down below on the sidewalk.
But at the last second Gabriel’s eyes cleared and he said, “Why are you here?”
Portia blinked—then blinked again, hating the implication that she didn’t belong.
That was the thing. She did belong. Ever since that first morning she woke up in the garden apartment, she had felt as if her whole life had been bringing her to this place. Texas wasn’t home anymore. New York City was.
“I belong here,” she said. Then found herself blurting out, “You don’t like me, do you?”
That threw him. He gave her a look as if to say, “You are such a girl.” And who could blame him?
Aloud, he said, “I don’t even know you.”
Unbidden, the image of the way he had looked at her after peeling her out of the burger suit came to mind. He had wanted to know her that day, at least on some level.
“This is not about liking or not liking you,” he stated firmly.
“Dad!” Miranda marched out the front door. “There isn’t a thing to eat in the whole house! Are you trying to starve us? Huh? Is that what you really want?”
Gabriel took a deep breath. “Give me a second, Miranda. I’ll fix it.”
“Yeah, right. Sure, you will.”
She wheeled back inside.
“Listen,” Gabriel said, dragging his hands through his hair. “You need a job, right? Given the demise of the burger suit, I mean.”
“And?” Portia said carefully.
“The girls need someone to make meals for them. Breakfast and dinner, on school days.”
Portia felt her blood begin to boil. “Are you offering me a job as your cook?”
He eyed her. “I guess I am.”
“Either you are or you aren’t.”
“Fine, yes. I am offering you a job.” He told her an amount he would pay, and her stomach actually rumbled at the thought of all the boxes of cereal, not to mention fabulous food, she could buy with the amount. But then she remembered.
“What is the matter with everyone? How many times do I have to say that I don’t cook? Not anymore!”
Though she wanted to. God help her, she did.
Portia reminded herself of things that were normal. White picket fences. Food that didn’t come in visions. She took a
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