Chapter 12 Here We Are
TWELVE
HERE WE ARE
I woke when my hair was pulled away from my neck, and then gentle fingers trailed down my hairline.
I opened my eyes and saw Gabe in very dim light.
“Sorry, baby,” he whispered. “So you can get home and get ready for work, you gotta get up.”
Damn it.
I’d passed out in front of the TV again.
I knew instantly that after days of Gabe looking after me, I’d had more sleep and was way more rested than I normally was, even if I could tell it was crazy early in the morning.
But I didn’t want to get up.
Gabe’s bed was preposterously comfortable, for one. His mattress was a miracle, and his sheets were the softest sheets I’d ever felt.
Further, Gabe was right there, looking his usual amazing, he was mine, we hadn’t done it yet, and I was in his bed, and again, he was right there.
And although that second bit was the most important bit, this bit was a close runner up: I didn’t want our chillax together time to end.
It had been heavenly.
“You want coffee for the road?” he asked.
Shit.
We both had bills to pay, therefore, our chillax time had to end.
I pushed up to a hand, mumbling, “Yeah.”
He caught me by the back of the head, planted a kiss on top of my hair, that came with the added gentle abrasion of his beard against my scalp and feeling my hair get tangled in it, so I got a happy shiver somewhere private.
He let me go and sauntered to the stairs saying, “New toothbrush by the sink for you.”
Such a good guy.
My good guy.
On that happy thought, I pushed out of bed and padded to his bathroom, shaking off the rest of my sleep.
I used the facilities, washed my hands and brushed my teeth, processing the fact that last night, after I woke up while Gabe carried me up the stairs (the stairs!), he’d taken his tee off and handed it to me, so not only was that what I’d worn to bed, it still smelled like him, and it made me happy.
On my way to leave the bathroom, I stopped as it dawned on me there were no beard clippings in or around the other sink (Gabe’s bathroom had two).
For a second, I stood there, staring at his sink.
He was off to the gym, so obviously he hadn’t showered.
And maybe he got paid so much, he could afford housecleaners.
However…
Yesterday was Sunday, so no cleaners would come in that day. Nor would they probably come on Saturday.
Gabe’s beard was always neatly trimmed, so unless he had a weekly barber’s appointment (and I knew he did not), he did it himself.
And there were no whiskers littering the sink or the counter beside it.
When Kevin was with me, I was constantly on his ass to rinse out the sink and wipe down the countertop, because, I mean, gross.
It was his mess, it was unsightly, and I didn’t need it getting into my makeup or hair stuff.
Not to mention, I didn’t leave a mess for him to clean up after I left the bathroom.
But Gabe was tidy.
Gabe cleaned up after himself.
Even living alone, he was a mature enough man to rinse his own damned sink.
God.
Why had I fought this for so long?
I will reiterate my desire to slap your bio dad across his useless face, Real Logic chimed in.
Mm-hmm, Dreamer agreed.
Yeah, Dad and his ilk sure did a number on me.
Bluh.
I left the bathroom, made the bed and got dressed, belatedly doing what I usually did upon waking, this being going through my day.
Go home, get ready for work, fill the case, serve, come home, bake more, meet at Raye’s (yeah, we had our phone call last night, at least I didn’t pass out before that) in order to suss out our mission, then do the mission.
Man, it’d be good when I got to that actual breather portion of my breather period, for sure.
Dressed, I walked down Gabe’s stairs, reminded of what I’d learned last night.
How much I liked his place.
He had a loft-style townhouse on the south side of downtown (and maybe ten minutes from my apartment, which explained how he got there so fast yesterday).
It had a brick wall, open-backed wood stairs with metal railings, visible ductwork, high ceilings, an exposed upper bedroom level with a sweet bathroom that included a soaking tub (lush!) and a nice, if not large, square of outdoor space.
It also had décor.
Color me shocked Gabe could pull together a couple of cool couches (one gray, one blue), a hip chair (butterscotch yellow leather), throw blankets, toss pillows, rugs, and even a couple of plants.
When I’d teased him about it, he’d said, “I don’t work hard to come home to a dump, cupcake.”
There you had it.
It was not lost on me all of this was designed for complete comfort and visibility of the TV (except the butterscotch yellow chair, a piece of furniture he told me his mother got him).
But it still rocked.
I wandered to where he was pouring coffee into two Nightingale Investigations travel mugs at his island in his brick and black and stainless steel with wood accents kitchen (in other words, yes, it was as kickass as the rest of his pad and at least twice the size of mine, maybe even three-times as big).
I also noted there was a paper Trader Joe’s bag on the island with him.
I barely came to a stop when he turned to put the coffeepot back in the maker, saying, “Key on the island. Remote to the garage in the bag. We’re at mine tonight. Come to me when you’re done.”
Painstakingly, I lowered my gaze to the key on the counter.
I’d given into the he’s-my-man, I’m-his-woman thing, but this was a whole new level of fast.
“Gabe—”
He turned back to the island and began screwing on the caps to the travel mugs.
He did this cutting me off.
“Also in the bag is a black knit cap, one of my long-sleeved tees, several pairs of black latex gloves and a Maglite. Be sure you get all your hair under the cap. I don’t think, if you break into that guy’s place, he’ll call the cops, and you don’t intend to take anything, but you might do damage, and that might piss him off enough to phone in a report.
So you don’t need to leave anything at the scene.
Be sure whoever enters with you has the gloves and does the same thing.
Don’t turn on the Mag until you’re inside and keep the beam aimed low. ”
Well, there it was.
Evidently, our rhythm was going to be: Gabe was going to be bossy or pushy or go too fast, I was going to have the desire to scarper (even after the beard clippings revelation), then he was immediately going to show me why I should stay right where I was (which was when I’d remember he cleaned up his own whiskers).
As such, I took the key, went to get my purse, dug out my key chain and added it.
He was at the short hall that led to a laundry room and onward to his garage. He was also holding both coffee mugs and the Trader Joe’s bag.
I went to him, took the mug, but when he moved to head toward the garage, I caught his hand.
He looked down at me.
“Sorry I passed out again last night,” I said softly.
His eyes warmed (dang, that was pretty), and he replied in the same tone, “Point of yesterday was for you to feel free to do just that.”
“Can I ask why you don’t kiss me?” I blurted.
His heavy brows drew down. “I kiss you.”
“Not on the lips.”
Comprehension dawned and his entire face warmed.
“Gotta ask again if you were even conscious for our first kiss,” he said, a teasing lilt to his deep voice I instantly fell in love with.
“Of course I was, but—”
“I got control, babe, but I didn’t have a lick of it that day with you,” he declared.
I stared.
My heart thumped.
He kept going.
“That’s not me. I knew better than to do that when I was assigned to you. I couldn’t help myself. Powerless to stop it.”
Oh…
My.
He wasn’t done.
“Now you need to get to work, and I’m gonna go to the gym, again, not the right time. It hasn’t been the right time any time before that, either. So, until it is, baby, you don’t get my mouth, and I’m not taking yours.”
Why did that make me want his mouth (and what might come after it) more than my next breath?
“Cool?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I answered honesty. “But I hear you so I’m with you.”
Because I want this to be special too, because this is special, I’m seeing that clearly now, and I’m not about to fuck it up.
“Thanks, babe,” he muttered, bent to kiss my nose, and since his hand was in mine, he used it to pull me to the door to his garage and beyond, so we could face our days.
* * *
I was filling the coffee cubby case.
Tex was outside with his bottle of white shoe polish, ignoring the line that was forming and drawing his coffee special on the front window. It was backwards from where I stood, and it looked mildly terrifying, which meant, as it always did, it appeared mildly threatening straight on.
You’d think Tex’s complete lack of ability to draw and his handwriting that veered toward hostile would keep people away.
But as I mentioned, the line was forming.
I’d closed the case and was heading back to the kitchen with the trays when I heard Tex call, “Hold up, Willow.”
Just inside The Surf Club proper, I turned to him.
He was clipping the cap back on the white shoe polish and heading my way.
He stopped and said, “Had a chat with Tito. Something’s gotta give, and it’s gonna.”
Confused, I asked, “Sorry?”
“You’re burning the candle at both ends. You can’t do that shit,”—he twisted to point at the coffee cubby and came back to me—“serve and run a business. It’s too much and it’s not working.”
It felt like my whole chest caved in.
Was he…?
Were they…?
Firing me?
Did I…?
Was I…?
Doing something wrong?
“Talked to Lucia. She said you two have a groove,” Tex carried on.
“I-I-I…yes, I think we do.”
“Right, and we got a contract with someone to deliver the shit we sell in the front case on the weekends, and that shit doesn’t move,” Tex informed me. “Your stuff is sold out by, latest, eleven. That shit, half of it we throw away. It’s waste. Money and resources.”
I said nothing.
Tex was feeling chatty.