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CHAPTER SIX

GABRIEL

This isn’t normal for me.

I’ve had obsessions before, sure, but they’re always with solvable problems. Competitors, market shares, impossible deadlines—stuff you can dominate with money and power. But this? This is new. This is uncontrollable. She’s in my veins, and the harder I try to ignore it, the worse it gets.

By six, I’m in my penthouse, pacing the hardwood floors with my phone glued to my hand, trying not to look like a high school sophomore waiting for a text from his crush. The city lights shimmer outside the wall of glass, but all I see is Alice. Every damn detail burns in my mind.

The way she mutters under her breath when she’s annoyed. The pink flush creeps up her cheeks every time I push her buttons. The mouth that drives me insane, always set in this stubborn line like she’s bracing for battle.

I want her. No, scratch that—I fucking need her.

I change out of my suit and into a T-shirt and jeans, but time just seems to move more slowly. I’m wound tight, restless. I check the time. Fuck.

It’s only been four minutes since I last checked.

I’m insane. I know it.

I’m obsessed.

I order her favorite pizza and make damn sure it’s extra-large, extra cheese, all the toppings she asked for. Then I message Armand to let him know the pizza delivery is coming.

After wandering aimlessly around my apartment for a little while, I pour a scotch and sit by the window, glass cold in my hand, willing myself to calm the fuck down. I barely take a sip before my phone buzzes.

Armand

On the way up with your order.

Before I have time to respond, the elevator dings, and Armand steps into the penthouse, pizza box balanced effortlessly in one hand. He’s in his standard uniform of black suit, open collar, with a look that says he’s confused by my recent actions. Me too, friend. Me too.

He surveys me, eyebrow arched. "Will you need anything else from me tonight?”

“No. I won’t be leaving the building tonight. I’ll be having dinner with Alice on the eighth floor.”

“Very well.” He hands me the pizza and heads to the door. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Thanks.” I grab the pizza and head for the elevator, bracing myself against the wall as the car hums down to the eighth floor. I barely let the elevator stop before I’m out, stalking down the hall like a man on a damn mission. The pizza box is hot in my hand, and I can smell the cheese and pepperoni wafting through the cardboard. It’s not my usual style, showing up at a woman’s door with takeout like some overeager college kid, but—I don’t give a shit. I want her, and I’ll do whatever it takes to convince her to give me the time of day. I want to see her face when she realizes I listened, when she sees that I remember every word she says.

I knock on Alice’s door, telling myself to get a fucking grip.

The door swings open, and my brain shorts out. Yoga pants. Sweatshirt. Bare feet. Hair up in a messy bun that begs to be taken down. She’s so fucking adorable I almost drop the pizza. Her face is scrubbed clean, eyes wide and blue, and I almost lose my shit. I swear, I’m seconds away from dropping to my knees and worshipping her right here in the hallway. Fuck. I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life.

She blinks up at me, cheeks flushed, and gives me a smile that rocks me right down to the bone.

“Hey,” she breathes, almost like she can’t believe I actually showed.

I grip the pizza box tighter to keep from grabbing her and hauling her soft little body against my chest. “Hope you’re hungry, coffee girl,” I rumble, stepping right inside her space and making damn sure she knows I’m not going anywhere.

She snorts and rolls those big blue eyes at me. “I’m starving.”

She steps back, and I follow her into her apartment, pizza in hand, heart racing like a teenager’s. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what hoops I’m about to jump through.

And I fucking love it.

Alice’s apartment smells like fresh laundry and vanilla candles. It’s maybe six hundred square feet—half the size of my master bedroom alone—but it feels more put-together than any place I’ve ever lived. The sofa is navy, the rug is this geometric print that looks like something out of a hipster design magazine, and every surface is perfectly clean except the coffee table, which is covered in stacks of brightly colored sticky notes and a battered spiral notebook.

She closes the door behind me, hair bouncing as she does, and I realize I’ve already lost my goddamn heart.