“A little issue . . . in the kitchen.”

She nodded. “I’ll be back.”

“Fine.” He could use a minute alone . . . time to collect his thoughts.

He watched his wife . . . his temporary wife, he reminded himself . . . walk away, and in her place, Andrew stood.

“I’m not sure what I expected,” Andrew said in a whisper. “But it wasn’t her.”

Hunter had disengaged . . . tapped out . . .

He hadn’t said a word, or lent a hand to her, since she’d pulled him into an unexpected kiss.

The crowd in his home thinned, and eventually the only ones standing were Tiffany and a few select employees of Hunter’s LA office.

Gabi meandered around, directing the staff as they cleaned and set the room to rights. The kitchen slowly became something respective of a bachelor pad.

Gabi walked out of the kitchen in time to see the last of Hunter’s guests leave.

“I’ll be back Tuesday,” he told his secretary, “but out again on Wednesday.”

Tiffany tipped a hand in the air, her eyes a tad glossed over from the free-flowing champagne. “Gotcha covered.”

Hunter peered closer. “Someone driving you home?”

She waved a finger in the air and said, “Have that covered, too.” She giggled, which seemed to surprise Hunter. Tiffany glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Gabi. “Good luck.”

Then the slightly intoxicated personal secretary wobbled on a two-inch heel and stumbled out the door.

OK, maybe slightly was an understatement.

Once the door closed, Gabi called behind her, “Andrew?”

“Yes, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Can you make sure Tiffany has a ride . . . that she doesn’t get in her own car?”

“I’ll call the desk.”

“Thank you.”

She went ahead and slipped off her heels. It wasn’t quite eleven, but the night had taken a beating on her feet. With her shoes in her hand, she lifted the floor-length dress and made her way to the leather couch.

She dropped the shoes by the sofa and moved to what remained of the bar. “Marilyn, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. You were great tonight.” If there was one thing being the sister of a successful restaurateur had taught her, it was to be grateful for every efficient staff member.

“My pleasure.”

Gabi took leave to pour a final glass of champagne for the evening. She’d refrained most of the night and looked forward to relaxing.

From the corner of her eye, Gabi noticed Hunter removing his jacket and tugging on his bow tie.

Hector and the remaining staff members emerged from the kitchen. “We’re all cleaned up in there,” the chef said.

“Are you married?” Gabi asked, feeling safe to ask with the evidence of said relationship sitting on the chef’s ring finger.

“I am.”

Gabi turned to the remaining bottles of champagne and took one of the many dozen roses in the room and handed them both to the chef. “For your wife. Thank you for ensuring our guests weren’t ill.”

Hector offered a full-watt smile, glanced behind her, then back. “Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. Please call on us whenever you need a caterer.”

“I’ll do that.”

Once the last staff member had left, and only Andrew and Hunter remained, Gabi collapsed into the sofa.

“Miss Tiffany was escorted home. Her car is in the garage,” Andrew announced. “Unless you need me, I’ll retire,” he said.

Gabi glanced at her distant husband. “Good night,” Hunter said.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Gabi said.

With a slight tip of his head, Andrew offered a smile and left the room.

Hunter moved behind his bar and poured a splash of something stronger than champagne.

Without words, he stood beside the massive window overlooking LA. The tension in his body radiated.

“Are you going to tell me what I did wrong or be ticked all night?”

Instead of answering, he took a long drink and continued to stare out the window.

“Everyone loves you.”

She lowered her glass to her lap. “Wasn’t that the point of tonight? Introduce me . . . have your colleagues support my place in your life?”

He finished his drink.

Not a good sign.

She set her unfinished wine to the side and stood. “I’ll call a car to take me home.”

“No!”

She jumped.

“We just announced you as my wife. You leaving here tonight isn’t possible.”

The cold walls of the modern space started to close in. Hunter must have realized how he sounded and pulled back.

“Good God, Gabriella, I’m not going to attack you. Sit.”

The couch became a better option than hitting the floor.

“I have a spare room,” he told her. “You can sleep there. Tomorrow we’re leaving for the weekend.”

Her heart started a rapid ascent and her breathing quickened. “Leaving?” She stood again, her head spun.

“A weekend away. A honeymoon. We need to—”

On some level she knew Hunter was still talking, but Gabi’s head soared to a completely different time . . . different place.

“A weekend away . . . I need to make up to you all the time I’ve been away.” Alonzo stood beside her, his smile genuine. “I want to reconnect with my fiancé.”

She kissed him knowing the staff wasn’t anywhere close and he wouldn’t object.

Her stomach twisted and an all too familiar rush washed over her, hot . . . needy. “More . . . please.”