It was such a dumb thing to say. If it meant more time with Gabe, I could drink coffee. I could choke down a whole fucking carafe of it.

“I have tea,” Gabe said.

VANITY FAIR

GABE PARKER:
The Man Who Would Be Bond
[EXCERPT]

BY TASH CLAYBORNE

He can’t stop gushing about his family. Parker is the youngest of two, though “we were practically raised as twins,” he says. “We shared birthday parties, shared a room, shared almost everything until she started going to school. I know technically you’re only Irish twins if you were born within the same year, but we’re only thirteen months apart. Maybe you could call that Montana twins, or something.”

He has equally loving things to say about his niece, who just turned two.

“She’s the love of my life,” he tells me, pulling out a picture of a chubby-cheeked child with dark curls. “I mean, she’s way smarter than I am, but besides that we’re actually pretty similar. When I go visit my family, it’s usually just the two of us at the kids’ table, laughing at how silly peas are. Because they’re pretty silly, aren’t they?”

We talk about his list—about the things he always wanted to do when he became successful—and how most of them ended up being gifts for his family.

“My mom was a high school teacher,” he says. “We didn’t have the kind of money that other families had to go on trips and vacations. I wanted to take her everywhere that she dreamed of going.”

They’ve been to Bali, Paris, Argentina, and Kenya. Next on the list?

“She wants to eat her way through Italy,” he says. “I think we’re going to take the whole family for that one.”

All that in addition to the bookstore he bought for her and his sister.

“The Cozy.” He makes sure I write the website down. “They have everything. Books, crafts, everything. And if you aren’t sure what you want, write them an email—they’re great at recommendations.”

Chapter 6

Chapter
6

“I USED TO HAVE A GOOD recipe for chai,” Gabe said as he rummaged through his kitchen. “But I keep misplacing it.”

“You have a recipe for chai?” I asked.

“From Preeti,” he said. “She used to bring it to work every morning and it always smelled so amazing. She gave me the recipe on our last day.”

He pulled his head out of the cabinet, revealing a box of pink tea bags in his hand.

“Is peach okay?”

I nodded, wondering who he had bought peach tea for.

“Why do you hate New York?” Gabe asked as we waited for the water to boil.

“I don’t hate New York,” I said, once I realized that he was recalling the part of the conversation we’d had at the restaurant where he had essentially handed me my ass for being presumptuous and unprofessional.