Summer Attractions (25 page)

No, Jemma reconsidered, he wasn’t the type. That was part of the issue. This whole fling had been so atypical for both of them; neither of them had really known how to do no strings, no obligations. She’d gotten optimistic and he’d gotten scared.

“Fine,” he finally said, and shoved his key into the lock, letting them into the room.

It was practically destroyed. There were half-empty bottles of beer balancing on the end tables, clothes strewn everywhere, the evidence of about ten room service meals piled in the corners, the plates beginning to smell. Jemma wrinkled her nose and wondered where the fastidious man of just a week ago had gone.

“Don’t,” he said brusquely, the first time he’d lost the pleading edge to his voice since he’d fucked up.

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it,” she said. “I came in here to tell you something, not to lecture you on your cleaning habits.”

“And?” he asked. She hated that hopeful gleam in his eye, like some deeply buried, illogical part of him actually believed that she was going to forgive him. Just because he’d said he hadn't meant it and that he was sorry.

“You’re not getting back into my room or back into my bed,” she said.

She saw the shock bloom on his face and steeled herself against it. Continued, even though it hurt her nearly as much as it hurt him. “You drew a line when you said that to Nick. We can’t go back from it. I’m not certain we can go forward. But all the apologizing and groveling in the world can’t fix what you said and who you said it to.”

It was painfully obvious the moment he understood. His whole face shuttered and Jemma
ached
. “I get it,” he said roughly. “I do. I fucked it up.”

What he’d never get was that his clear regret was the most acute pain of all. Jemma’s throat closed and it was all she could do to escape, practically running to the door. She couldn’t look back, couldn’t tell him she couldn’t be in the same room as him because how much he wanted her was tearing her apart. Back in the hallway, she tore her key out of her pocket and jammed it into the slot, escaping to safety.

Returned from enemy lines, Jemma leaned back against her closed door and cried.

The next day was worse.

Jemma
turned down an interview with Bob Costas, whose producers had gone from kind to bewildered to incredulous, and then she and Kimber went to the rhythmic gymnastics All-Around.

She’d almost given the tickets away because she felt raw after her confrontation with Gabe the day before. On top of that, she wasn’t sure it was an emotionally healthy activity for her after all the times they’d discussed going to that very event. But then Kimber had texted, all effervescent excitement about it, and Jemma hadn’t been able to tell her the truth.

It was too much of a relief to be able to see Kimber happy and acting like the teenager she was, so Jemma swallowed the protest.

Kimber took a shuttle over to the hotel and they ate lunch in the little café downstairs, to the intense interest of about twenty gawkers who’d clearly figured out who they were.

“I think we might have some admirers,” Jemma said uneasily as they’d sat down. They were in the corner, the most private area of the café, but it was still an open veranda.

“People love drama,” was all Kimber said, waving away the attention like it didn’t exist.

Jemma, who was smarting from last night’s run-in with Gabe and the morning’s lecture from Duncan about the Bob Costas interview, buried her head in the menu and tried to ignore the inquisitive stares.

When she'd called downstairs to ask for their most private table, Jemma had been reassured by the concierge that the hotel had a firm policy about celebrity athletes and their privacy.

Still, when two young girls approached the table hesitantly, Kimber greeted them with a friendly smile and proceeded to sign anything they put it front of her and have a lengthy, murmured conversation about swimming and all her gold medals.

It was adorable, but it unfortunately left Jemma with more time to think, something she'd had too much of lately.

The waiter came and left, and Jemma, who was still trying to convince Kimber she was fine, but had long since given up on pretending to herself that she had any sort of real appetite, picked at her salad and tried to ignore the club sandwich balanced at the edge of her plate.

She didn't know why she'd ordered it; she could only remember how many club sandwiches Gabe had ordered her from room service over the last two weeks. While she was writing and too busy to go out, when it was late and they were both sleepy and sated and uninterested in putting any clothes back on, when she’d needed a late afternoon snack before heading out for a long evening of Olympic events.

Too many club sandwiches, apparently.

Kimber glanced over, took in Jemma's mostly untouched plate, and frowned.

"At some point, you're going to have to talk about it," Kimber said pointedly.

Jemma knew that. She was just trying to put it off until she could get through the conversation without bursting into tears. Not something she wanted to do in the middle of a busy restaurant when everyone was already staring at them.

She shrugged and Kimber shot her a reprimanding look. "I mean it," she repeated.

"At some point," Jemma promised vaguely.

At some point turned out to be that night.

On the way back from rhythmic gymnastics, Kimber had declared she was too awake to go back to the Olympic Village just yet, so they'd had the pedi-cab pull over by the Copacabana boardwalk. They hit several of the bars on the way back, Jemma drinking too many caipirinhas than was wise, letting Kimber nurse her single drink and laugh at the way she couldn't walk quite straight after her third.

"I'm heartbroken," Jemma retorted before she could censor the words. "I'm allowed to drown my sorrow in alcohol."

Kimber's expression morphed from amusement to a sympathy that was absolutely galling.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kimber asked, steering Jemma toward one of the benches lining the boardwalk. Jemma collapsed onto it, a puddle of booze and sadness.

"Not really," Jemma sighed. "But I guess I'm going to."

“I think it might be good for you,” Kimber said. Sober, her honesty might have been too much, but it was tempered by just enough
cachaça
.

Jemma stared at out at the ocean, not entirely sure where to begin. She’d told Kimber the bare bones of the initial incident, but nothing since.

“I let him apologize last night,” she finally said, letting her head drift down to land on Kimber’s shoulder. It was easier to say this if she wasn’t actually looking at her. “Of course, he’s sent about a thousand apologies via text. But he was waiting for me last night and I actually let him say it out loud.”

“And?” Kimber prompted.

Jemma shrugged. “It was an apology. He means it, I think. But so what? He’s sorry he said it? He didn’t mean it? That doesn’t change that it happened and that he said it to my boss.”

“Have you talked to him?” Kimber asked.

“To Nick?” Jemma asked in surprise. “Yeah, a few times, though Duncan has been handling the big details of the story since Nick’s still recovering.”

“No, not about work, about what Gabe said to him.”

“Oh.
Oh
.” The alcohol buzzing through her veins made it tough to think it through, but the truth was, Jemma had been glad initially that he hadn’t brought it up because she was so embarrassed, and then after, she hadn’t considered it.

“I think you should talk to him about it,” Kimber said. “It might not change anything, but it might give you a way to move forward.”

“Gabe hasn’t even said he wants to move forward,” Jemma insisted. “He apologized, yeah, and he said he didn’t mean it. But he’s never said anything about how he feels. I think he’d asked me on a date, but then we never got to actually go on it.”

Kimber rose to her feet and tugged Jemma to her feet with a quick movement. “Sweetie, if you don’t know how he feels, then you haven’t been paying attention.” Jemma floundered a little, her legs not working quite properly, and Kimber let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, let’s go get you into bed.”

It was a horribly awkward conversation.

Jemma really didn’t want to have it, but from the moment she’d woken up, early morning sunshine streaming in and lighting up the empty place next to her, she’d known Kimber was right. It was a conversation she needed to have.

She didn’t want to be angry forever and if the issue was Nick, then Nick was who she was going to have to talk to.

It still twisted her gut and made her feel even sicker than the deserved hangover when Nick answered the phone with a steady cheerfulness.

“You sound better,” she said hesitantly. “Every day you sound better.”

“I’d be better if they’d let me stay at the office longer than four hours,” Nick griped.

“You shouldn’t be working at all,” Jemma said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“How’s that going?” Duncan was a tough boss, Jemma wouldn’t have called him an empathetic one and he’d not asked how she was doing and she hadn’t volunteered. She was there to do a job and she did it.

She would have counted Nick as a tough boss too, but Jemma heard an underlying and very genuine desire to know how she was
really
doing in his voice. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard that before.

Maybe that meant it was the right moment to bring it up. Jemma took a deep breath. “About that,” she said, “I want talk about what Gabe said to you.”

There was a long, breathless silence. Jemma thought she might be sick. She grasped an empty water bottle in her hands, the plastic crinkling loudly, and stared at the phone lying so innocently on the bed, broadcasting nothing but the faint sound of Nick’s breathing.

“That’s fair,” he finally said. “Though I want you to know that if you never wanted to talk about it, I wouldn’t have thought less of you.”

She couldn’t believe it. This didn’t sound anything like the Nick of the last year; the Nick who barked orders and texted her his coffee order at five in the morning after a long night of deadlines. “I . . . I’m not sure I understand.”

“What Gabe said didn’t and doesn’t reflect on you, Jemma,” he said patiently. Kindly.

“But . . . I . . .”

“Yes, he’s my friend,” Nick interrupted impatiently, which was a lot more like him. Always needing everyone to keep his pace. “But what he said was unacceptable and doesn’t diminish the respect I have for you, not in the slightest. You’re someone worthy of it, even if you slept with a hundred guys who didn’t deserve you.”

Jemma flopped back against the pillows, speechless. She’d always assumed Nick was some sort of heartless bro type, a standard in the sports journalism profession. Most didn’t believe women belonged and only gave respect based on their physical appearance. Jemma had known Nick had hired her for her brain, but she’d never expected to find this fierce vein of feminism in him.

She’d worked for him for nearly a year, and she suddenly felt like she didn’t really know him at all. A surge of gratitude that she hadn’t accepted one of those other job offers out of sheer embarrassment crested through her.

“In fact, you deserve an apology,” Nick continued. “I thought Gabe would protect you, not take advantage of you. And I’ve told him as much.” The edge of voice grew hard and unyielding. She should be happy to hear it, but instead all it made her remember was how devastated Gabe had been at Nick’s injury. She’d seen firsthand how much the two men cared about each other.