Chapter 6 Gambit
SIX
GAMBIT
I woke.
I did it curled into myself.
I did it feeling warm and good.
This time, I did it feeling refreshed.
And this time, I did not deny how I got there, how he got there, and whose hand was curled sweet around the side of my neck.
Last night, terrified by the many revelations I’d sustained at Gabe’s hands, I decided non-resistance was the way to go for the short term.
The company who bought my stuff didn’t mess me about in paying, and that wasn’t due to my scary, built, cake-delivering assistant, but because they were a company and not entitled rich bitches.
We left.
Sitting in the Jeep, Gabe declared, “I feel like short ribs from Beckett’s Table.”
Since any red-blooded human who wasn’t vegetarian or vegan felt like short ribs on any given occasion, I replied, “I wouldn’t say no to short ribs.”
But instead of starting the car and driving us there, he got out his phone, his thumbs swept over the screen, he pushed his phone back in his pocket, and then he started the car.
By the time we got to Beckett’s Table, we only had to wait five minutes for our takeout.
He then drove us back to the Oasis.
In the first stroke of luck I’d had in what felt like forever, no one was in the courtyard to see us together when we returned.
Since Gabe was carrying our food, I opened the door to let us in.
Yes, I did.
No protestations, not a word breathed.
Further without rebuffs, we worked side by side in my kitchen plating short ribs, mashed potatoes, veggies, and Gabe’s outstanding additions of charred brussels sprouts and cheddar bacon biscuits (with apple butter).
I pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge and held it up to him.
He nodded.
He grabbed the open bottle of red on my counter, found a glass and poured.
“You seen Shetland?” he asked as we walked our plates and drinks to my thrifted olive-colored velvet couch that was a little rough, but it was deep-seated and had a lounge extension, so it was super comfy.
“Is that a documentary?”
“You like British crime drama?”
“Like Broadchurch?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he muttered, and with the skill born inherent in every being with a penis, he commandeered the remote, continuing to mutter, “You need all the good male role models you can get, even fictional ones.”
Oh boy.
He signed into his BritBox (because I sure as hell didn’t have that subscription—I allowed myself two streaming services at a time, taking in all I wanted before I canceled and subscribed to others).
We ate.
We watched Jimmy Perez be broody, astute, empathetic and an excellent stepdad through his grief, and Tosh be sharp and funny.
Between episodes one and two, I hauled my ass out of the couch to spoon some custard over fresh strawberries and brought it back.
Yes, I felt the heart-squeezing thing again when I saw Gabe’s brows go up and then his lips tip up after he put the first spoonful in his mouth.
And yes again, filled with short ribs, biscuits and custard, after episode two and a bit into episode three, I passed out.
I woke up being carried to my bedroom.
When he set me down, I was listing on my feet, so I obviously continued not bothering to fight it when Gabe handed me my nightie.
Though he left to shut down the apartment while I changed.
And lying in bed, I watched this time as he shucked his tee (that wide, hairy chest, God, those shoulders, dayum, and don’t get me started on his abs), and his jeans (those thick thighs, Lord, deliver me) and got in bed in his black boxer briefs.
Cunningly, he’d only turned on the lamp on his side of the bed before carrying me in, so he could turn out the light without disturbing me while I curled up. And then I found myself fitted into his side under his arm, and his fingers were playing with my hair.
“’Night, cupcake,” he murmured.
“’Night, Gabe,” I replied.
I stayed awake long enough to swim languidly in my amazement that he didn’t try anything. Not so much as a hint at it.
We hadn’t even been on a date. There was one of us who was in deep denial she even wanted to date.
But we went to bed like an old married couple who were so in tune with each other, they recognized they’d had trying days, they needed rest, no harm, no foul, no recriminations, just the knowledge they’d make up the nightly sex sesh in the morning.
I fell asleep thinking this.
Which brought me to now.
Beckett’s Table was not McDonald’s. It wasn’t even Shake Shack.
It was a mid-range restaurant that served excellent, award-winning comfort food at prices that would not cripple you, but for the vast majority of people, it was a special occasion place, and one I could categorically not afford.
I only knew how good it was because Shanti picked it as her birthday spot a few years ago.
And Gabe swung by there to get us takeout like it had a drive thru.
No, Gabe swung there to get me takeout, so I’d have a delicious, stick-to-your-ribs dinner and then I’d pass out.
He took me there to share he thought I was worth a takeout meal for two that cost over a hundred dollars.
He took you there because he is not Kevin. He is not your dad. He took you there because you are worth it. And he took you there because he’s a good guy, Dreamer drilled into me.
Yeah, a good guy who’s half naked in bed with her and she’s half naked, and he knew that would buy him his place right there, Logic declared.
He couldn’t know that! Dreamer retorted.
He could. And just sayin’, we’ve been love-bombed before, may I remind you, Logic shot back.
Sick of the both of them, I squeezed my eyes tight.
And Gabe’s body jolted, his fingers that had been curled light in sleep on my neck tensed, and I heard him suck in what sounded like an uber pained breath.
Alarmed, I pushed up to an arm and looked down at him in the dim light coming from around my shades.
He was blinking rapidly, and he looked clouded, and worse, intensely, even cataclysmically troubled.
Hang on.
What was this?
“Gabe?” I called.
His eyes came to me, that expression remained for a long disturbing moment before it cleared, and he lifted his hands to rub his face like he could scrub the last vestiges of…whatever that was from his psyche.
“Nightmare?” I asked.
He dropped his hands and met my eyes.
“No. Yeah,” he stated confusingly, pushed out a breath then did an ab curl, grabbed my neck again, pressed a hard, swift kiss on my lips and rolled out of bed.
Okay.
Hang on.
Now what was this?
He was tugging on his jeans.
“Gabe—”
He hefted them over his very fine ass, saying, “You need space.”
I did, indeed, need space, but at that moment, I hadn’t asked for it.
Buttoning his fly, he went on, “And you got shit to do today. So do I. We’ll reconnect tonight. Five. I’ll be back, and I’ll bring food.”
He bent to nab his tee.
“Gabe—”
He came to me, another claim of my neck, another swift hard kiss.
Then I watched him walk out of the room.
And two seconds later, I heard him close the front door.
* * *
Late that afternoon, I was at my kitchen bar and my laptop.
The cakes had been decorated, delivered, and I’d been paid.
I’d done a shop to have the supplies on hand to fill the orders I had for the next week, and I topped up on groceries.
Doing this, I was in active denial that I bought more beer.
I didn’t often drink beer, but the Oasis was a social place.
There were about twenty-five people who lived there who at any time could knock on my door for a drink and a gab, and some of them drank beer.
But why I was in denial was because that was not the reason I healthily replenished my stock of beer.
Ahem.
I’d also done a clean of the apartment (there were big positives to it being so small, and being able to give it a relatively thorough clean in less than an hour was one of them), some laundry, and I’d changed the sheets on the bed because I wanted a free and breezy Sunday with nothing dragging on me.
And now I was going through emails and sorting my schedule.
I had several birthday cakes to do the next week, a couple of cupcake towers, and the big Saturday job: a baby shower with a three-tier cake and four dozen cookies, all decorated in a woodland’s animal theme.
Fortunately, I also had next Sunday free.
Since people who were smart and organized tended to get orders in early, the next three weeks were pretty packed, but after that, my schedule lightened up.
However, I had five emails with prospective orders that would mean my schedule would remain steady, which meant excruciatingly and drainingly busy.
Therefore, I got out a notebook, grabbed a pen, wrote down average tips, computed what the take of my current schedule of orders would be and added my paychecks, and saw, if I remained on my strict money diet, that the next six weeks as they stood would plump my savings account minimally, but every little bit helped.
It would also mean I’d have two and a half months’ worth of bills paid sitting in my checking account.
Thus, I decided to take a breather.
Not a break. But a breather.
Already, I had work, orders, whatever was happening with Mr. Shithead, and finding a way to extricate myself as Gabriel Stark’s latest challenge at the same time figuring out a way to get him to confide what the hell happened that morning (an impossible task!), and not enough time to do all of that.
Furthermore, I didn’t want to get burned out.
My future goal: have my own kitchen or even a full-on bakery, and if not that, look at getting hired as the pastry chef for a posh outfit like Christopher’s.
I could not start hating what I loved and had a passion for because, well, because I let Kevin play me.
So I was in the midst of kindly but professionally letting down the people who had requested orders, all the while asking them to consider me for future ones, when there was a knock on my door.
Even if it wasn’t Gabe’s two sharp raps and him calling out, “It’s me,” a thrill raced through me that he said he’d be back tonight, and that might be him.