Chapter 2 #2
Further making ignoring him impossible, (again, my freaking luck) we both were in the same zone at the bottom of the stairs at the same time.
Thus, I said, “Hey.”
He did not say hey.
His eyes narrowed on my face, his head tipped to the side, and then he stepped in my way.
With no choice, I stopped short.
“Sorry, don’t mean to be rude, but can’t chat.” Not that he wanted to chat with me. In fact, he’d avoided me so splendidly (bluh) the last months, I didn’t know what he was doing now. “I’m on my way to make a delivery.”
Not speaking a word, he whisked the cake out of my hands.
No.
The masterpiece of a cake that was going to rock the world of a five-year-old.
“Hey!” I snapped, but I did this at his departing back. “You stole my cake!”
“Text me the address,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll deliver it.”
Wait.
What?
“Gabe,” I called, scurrying after him (and dang, I was totally scurrying, how embarrassing—fortunately, he was still walking away from me so he couldn’t see it). “Gabe!” I raised my voice when he ignored me.
His shit-hot, anvil-gray-blue Jeep Wrangler was in one of the three coveted guest parking spots just outside the security gate.
He’d even reversed into the spot, something I would never in a million years attempt to do, even if it wasn’t such a tight squeeze to perform that miracle maneuver like that spot was.
He stopped at it, and I made it to him.
“You can’t make my delivery,” I informed him.
“Why not?” he asked all the while terrifying me as he juggled the cake and opened his passenger-side door.
My hands flew out to spot the precious parcel. “Oh my God, don’t drop that.”
“I’m not gonna drop it,” he muttered as he set it carefully on his passenger seat. He then slammed the door on it.
I flinched then peeked inside and saw my baby was all good even if the entire strong, reliable Jeep shook with the door slam.
He started to round the grille.
I chased after him. “Gabe.”
Since he wasn’t stopping, I grabbed his arm.
When I did, he stopped dead and turned his cobalt-blue eyes, first, to my hand on his arm, then to me.
Kill me.
Kill me dead.
The bright, vivid blue of his eyes in that gorgeous, tanned face with that head of black, black hair, that thick, well-kept beard and the fringe of spiky black lashes making the blue almost impossible, and all that aimed at me while my fingers were curled around the bulge of his steely bicep?
Jump him! Dreamer screamed.
Retreat! Retreat! RETREAT! Logic shouted.
“Text me the address, Willow,” Gabe said, pulling from my touch.
He kept walking toward the driver’s side.
I kept following.
“Why are you making my delivery?” I asked.
He opened his door, kept his hand on it and turned to look down at me.
“You look ready to drop,” he answered.
Fantastic.
He was all buff and beautiful and vital and well rested due to probably having the elusive talent of balancing work and life, and definitely not having a leech of a partner put him in a financial bind he had to work his ass off to extricate himself from.
And I obviously looked as tired as I felt.
“No way you should be behind the wheel of a car,” he finished.
“I’m not sure a man who looks like an action hero should deliver my cake,” I told him truthfully.
“Word might get around. People might expect that. Especially since it’s always, but always, the moms who order the cakes.
It’s also usually them who answers the door.
Besides, she’s going to open the door to you, likely have an orgasm, and first, that’s highly inappropriate right before her five-year-old’s birthday party, and second, she’s probably partnered up, and I don’t need Willow’s Good Stuff getting the reputation of wrecking happy homes. ”
I finally shut up, but when I did, Gabe stood perfectly still.
Okay, did I just say all of that?
Out loud?
You sure did, Dreamer purred.
Totally did, Logic sniped.
Right, how tired was I?
I wasn’t so tired I didn’t notice something changed in him. And that change was no good because it was absolutely spectacular.
“Get in. I’ll drive, you can deliver,” Gabe said, and his voice had changed too. It was usually deep and fabulously rumbly, but now it was even deeper and sinfully rumbly.
I stiffened my spine that, not but a few months ago, he’d alluded I did not have.
“I can drive myself.”
“I can also kidnap your cake so that kid doesn’t have one for their birthday, or their parents have to run to Costco to get one.”
I gasped in affront.
No shade on Costco or their decorators, but would they meticulously cut seven wee pendants out of fondant and fold them over thread to adorn an Encanto cake?
No!
“Are you seriously holding my cake hostage?” I asked, just to see if there was the slightest chink in his armor, and he might give in.
“I am seriously holding your cake hostage.” He enunciated every word crystal clear.
I mean, you couldn’t blame me.
But…
I lost it.
I did because I was tired, because he was gorgeous and I couldn’t have him, and because he was holding my cake prisoner to get me to bend to his whim.
“You are such a dick,” I snapped.
“I have one, but I’m not one,” he replied easily. “Now get in. Let’s go. Figure you don’t want to be late.”
No, I didn’t. I never, ever missed my fifteen-minute window.
With no choice, I stomped around the hood of the Jeep, hit the passenger side, opened the door and saw that Gabe was holding the cake, waiting for me to get in.
I pulled myself up into that American-made symbol of grit, resilience, durability and might (a vehicle that was perfect for him), buckled up, and only then did Gabe hand me my cake.
Once I had it secured in my lap, he started the Jeep and pulled out.
“The house is in Arcadia,” I told him coldly as we idled at the exit of the complex.
“Gotcha,” he replied, then turned right when he had an opening.
“For the record, I’m perfectly fine to drive,” I declared.
“For the record, that’s total bullshit,” he replied.
“You have no idea how I feel,” I bit.
“You get what I do for a living, right?” he asked.
I clenched my teeth.
He didn’t take my hint of no response to let it go.
“You get that I deal with a lot of different people from a lot of different walks of life. I observe them. I investigate them. I question them. Sometimes, I interrogate them. And I’d be shit at my job if I couldn’t read them. And, babe, I am not shit at my job.”
I knew he wasn’t.
The Nightingale team was the best of the best.
It wasn’t me saying this.
They had testimonials on their website. A lot of them.
(Duh, Gabe kissed me! Of course, in my self-flagellation, I looked up his company’s website hoping they had a picture of him on it (they did not).)
And Titus, one of our informant/friends (just to say, if Titus invited us to his man-cave garage for a chill session, I always found a way to make it, because Titus was the shizzlesticks, and his man cave was too) said they were one, if not the premier investigation service in the entire US of A.
And Titus always knew what he was talking about.
Oh, and there was the small fact we saw them in action not too long ago—Cap, and particularly Gabe, taking down two bad guys in a matter of what seemed like seconds.
This had happened post kiss, so witnessing it caused a cacophony of emotions in me: awe, shock, admiration, terror, despair and unequivocable lust.
Belatedly, I decided silence was the way to tackle this unexpected situation.
Though, I had to puncture this by giving directions.
Gabe fell in with that silence like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that made me even more ticked at him (because, I’ll reiterate, I was exhausted and making conversation with a hot guy, or fighting with him, took energy) along with grateful to him (which was worse).
We hit the house, and he idled at the curb.
“I won’t be long,” I mumbled as I handed him the cake so I could hop down.
“I’ll be here,” he said when I was out, and he handed it back.
The unexpected velvet blow of his words hit me like a promise I’d been waiting for my whole life had finally been fulfilled.
I lifted my gaze to him, and I just didn’t have it in me to hide what I should have.
The vulnerability.
Just how huge those words were to a girl like me.
Fortunately, I had enough in me to turn away from the flicker of comprehension and the softness that began to infuse his rugged features, and I dashed up the drive to the front door, or I went at as much of a dash as I could while holding the cake.
I hit the doorbell, and the door opened to a member of what I thought of (but being the good sister I was, I would not say it out loud, ever) as one of the Arcadia Squad.
Those being young women who had young children, rich husbands, cleaners and probably nannies.
They wore Lululemon almost exclusively, unless they were going out with their men in the evening, or on a shopping and lunch date at Fashion Square Mall.
And they always carried Chanel, Dior, Gucci or Louis Vuitton bags.
They had old-wave “perfect” bodies (that word in quotes because who really gave a shit about that anymore?…except the Arcadia Squad), even when their children were but months old in their strollers, because they had time to go to Pilates classes and work out in their state-of-the-art home gym.
Normally, I would not be judgy about this.
To each their own.
I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a rich husband, designer bags or a home gym either.
However, they were so aggressively snooty, dismissive and entitled, I got judgy about it.
And I knew the instant I clapped eyes on her she was precisely what I thought she was.
She then set out to prove it.
“Thanks so much,” she said, reaching for the cake. “I’ll catch you later to pay the remainder.”
Catch me later?
I lived north of downtown. She lived twenty minutes away from me and five minutes away from Scottsdale.