CHAPTER FIVE GABRIELLE
CHAPTER FIVE
G AbrIELLE
W hat in the world . . .”
I groan, shielding my eyes from the bright morning light. The sound coming from beneath my bedroom window begins again.
My body aches as I roll onto my side. Muscles I didn’t know I had throb. Scratches litter my arms and legs, thanks to my fall from grace yesterday.
I want to curl up on the soft mattress and go back to sleep. But I’m jostled awake not only by the thumping outside but also at the time shown on the clock—nine thirty.
“Crap,” I grumble.
The hardwood is cool against my feet. I reach into my small closet and grab my robe, tying it haphazardly as I head for the stairs. Both boys’ bedroom doors are open, and the rooms are empty.
“Boys!” I call down the staircase as I try not to trip over the edge of the robe. I poke my head into the living room. “Dylan? Carter? Where are you guys?”
I take the corner to the kitchen and almost run into my oldest son.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, jumping back.
“Better go wipe your ass, then.”
“Dylan James.” I glare at him. “Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry.”
He’s not sorry.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, thankful for automatic machines. First things first. “Where’s Carter?”
“Your golden child rode his bike to the park with a kid we met yesterday.”
“Does this kid have a name?”
Dylan shrugs.
“So you just let your little brother go off with an unknown person in a new town?”
“Look, Kyle knew the kid. Carter played with him for two hours yesterday, and his mom was walking with them. And considering this is the cheesiest town in America, I’d say he’s fine. Chill out.”
I hold my steaming cup between both hands. “Dylan, after I drink this and can think clearly, you and I are going to have a conversation about your attitude.”
“Wasn’t it you who said last night that you didn’t want to rehash conversations that we’ve had a million times?” He shrugs and starts up the stairs. “But whatever. All I got is time.”
I think he mumbles something like “Until I’m eighteen,” but I’m not sure.
The mug is at my lips when the pounding starts again. I jump, dousing my front with hot liquid.
I want to cry. I want to yell at whatever is making that damn noise. I want to pour the coffee down the drain and go back to bed until Dylan grows out of the stage that makes me understand why some animals eat their children.
“Ugh.”
I set the mug down and grab a hand towel. My jaw is set, and a growl is on my lips. I throw open the door ready to brawl.
“What the hell is going ... on out here .”
My voice softens until the last of my words are barely audible.
Holy. Crap.
Jay kneels on the deck, looking like a freaking snack. A tight white T-shirt that’s thin enough to snuggle his back and arms lies over the ridges and valleys of his body. Jeans hug his thick thighs. A tool belt wraps around his narrow waist. He looks up at me, does a quick scan from head to toe, then lifts a brow and goes back to work.
I vaguely remember putting on a pair of shorts with jelly beans on them that barely cover my ass and a white tank top, no bra, before I went to bed last night. Better keep this robe pulled tight.
“Your little boy is riding his bike with Hayes Collins,” Jay says without looking at me. “His mom, Freya, works at the city building, and his father is the principal at the elementary school. They’re both good people. He’ll be okay.”
What? I groan. They’re going to think I’m a terrible mom.
He stops drilling for a moment. “I heard you inside, talking to your other boy. The one with the mouth.”
“He has a mouth, all right,” I say, blowing out a breath. The attempt at slowing my heartbeat down to a regular speed isn’t successful. “Those people are going to think I’m awful. Maybe I am awful.”
“Relax.” He drills another screw into the post and then checks it for sturdiness. “Your older boy told her it was fine. No one is judging you.”
I hope that’s true. “How long have you been here?”
“Twenty minutes or so. Saw your kid out here and figured you were up.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “I see I was wrong.”
I’m not strong enough to deal with two males with attitudes without coffee.
I start to answer him, to justify myself by saying that I never sleep this late. I can’t remember ever sleeping past eight o’clock. But I don’t owe it to him, or to anyone, to justify anything ... even if he has nice muscles and is fixing my railing.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I ask.
He groans, standing up. He sets his drill on the railing, which is secured to the posts once again.
“I told you this was on my list,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m a carpenter by trade, and I happened to have a box of decking screws handy.” He nods to the other side of the deck. “I fixed a piece over there too.”
“I’m probably going to have to shore up this whole thing.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Or at least wear clothes out here.”
I roll my eyes as my cheeks flush. “And I thought you were a gentleman. My hero. ”
“You thought wrong.” Even as he says it with pursed lips like he means it, his eyes shine with a kindness that makes my stomach flutter. “Do you want me to check the front porch too?”
“I didn’t know I was getting a new house and my own personal carpenter. I would’ve paid more.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“I’m kidding,” I say, slipping off my robe.
Jay’s eyes drop to my chest, and I’m quickly reminded of my state of undress. And that my white tank is wet from the spilled coffee and that my nipples are undoubtedly putting on a show.
Not that he probably hasn’t seen them already.
I clear my throat and put my robe back on. “Thank you for coming by this morning and fixing this. It is very kind of you, and I appreciate it.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” I smile. “I might be a mess, but we aren’t a charity case. I can take care of us. I promise.”
His head tilts as he takes me in, as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. The longer we stand face-to-face, the squirmier I get.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, needing to fill the silence. “I just made a pot of coffee.”
I think he’s going to decline. He seems surprised, maybe even taken aback, at my offer. But so am I.
What am I doing, asking a man I just met to come inside my house for a cup of coffee? I don’t know him enough to be letting him into my house. Many men who wind up being serial killers start off hot and charming.
Although he’s not exactly charming ...
“Coffee seems like the least I can do,” I say, nibbling my bottom lip.
“Are you feeling okay this morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, from your fall yesterday. Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh. That. ” I glance down and grimace. “Just some scrapes, and I’m sore as heck. I convince myself I’m still twenty-one, but something happens like this, and I’m quickly reminded that I’m thirty-eight.”
He grins. “Wait until you hit forty. Getting out of bed runs the risk of pulling a muscle.”
I laugh and motion to the house. “So, coffee?”
“Sure.”
I reach for the door, but he extends his arm before me and grabs the handle. He pulls it open and waits for me to go first.
“You’re so certain you’re not a gentleman, and then you do things like this,” I say, going in first. His cologne envelops me as I pass him. Goodness, he smells yummy. “I’m not sure what to make of you.”
He slips his tool belt off and sets it on the deck before following me inside.
I take out a mug and fill it for him. Then I top off mine.
“Do you take your coffee with cream or sugar?” I ask.
“Nope. Black is great.” He takes the proffered mug. “Are you a cream-and-sugar drinker?”
“I used to be. I didn’t want it if it wasn’t the color of caramel and tasted like candy. But I overdid it one year with a cookie-flavored creamer, and now the smell of creamer makes my stomach churn.”
He leans against the counter and scopes out the kitchen.
“I haven’t had time to decorate,” I say. “Much to Dylan’s dismay, I haven’t even gone to the grocery store yet.”
“Who is Dylan?”
“The one with the mouth.”
He nods, sipping his drink.
The room feels smaller, warmer ... cozier with him in it. I’m surprised it doesn’t feel odd having him in my space. I haven’t had a man in my home since Christopher died.
“So it’s just you and the two boys here?” he asks before taking another drink.
“Yeah. I grew up in Alden, actually, and moved away for college. I met their father there. We got married and moved to Boston. I’ve lived there ever since.”
He watches me over the rim of his mug, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight from the window. “Where’s their dad?”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. I imagine Christopher whispering to me, telling me to relax. To trust myself. To enjoy this interaction. But that doesn’t make it easier to speak about his death.
“Their dad, his name was Christopher—he passed away.”
Jay’s eyes widen. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I sigh. “We had been divorced for a few years, but he was still one of my best friends. Chris was a great dad, and I hate the boys won’t—”
“Where is my backpack?” Dylan’s voice and footsteps on the stairs interrupt me. “I knew it would get lost when you told Carter he could use it. Now I can’t find it, and I know you ...”
My blond-headed child skids to a stop when his gaze settles on Jay.
“What were you saying?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Who is that?” Dylan asks, motioning toward Jay with his head. His features make it clear he’s not happy to see a man in the house.
“I’m Jay. I live next door.”
Dylan turns his attention to him. “Why are you here?”
“I was fixing your deck, and your mother invited me in for a cup of coffee.”
“You don’t have coffee at your house?” Dylan asks.
“Dylan!” I hiss.
He glares at Jay. Jay looks unbothered. He lifts his mug and slowly sips, never taking his eyes off my son.
“Have you unpacked your drill?” Jay asks, setting his drink on the counter.
My heart pounds as I watch them go back and forth.
“What?” Dylan asks, his facade cracking.
“Every post out back needs a couple of screws put in them,” Jay says. “I didn’t look at the front, but I’d imagine it’s about the same. You’re gonna want to get on that before someone gets hurt.”
Dylan pulls his brows together. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? You came in here and talked to me like a grown man, so I’m reciprocating. There are a lot of grown-man things that need to be done around here. Let me know if you need to borrow any of my tools.” Jay places his cup in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee, Gabrielle.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, scrambling to understand what just happened. “Thanks, Jay.”
He winks at me before slipping out the back door.
As soon as it shuts, Dylan sparks into motion. “Why the heck was he in here?” he asks, pointing at where Jay stood.
“Dylan, I know you’re going through a lot right now, but—”
“You can’t just have men in here. You don’t even know him.”
I blink slowly. “Young man, I’ll have whoever I want in my house.”
His chest rises and falls as if he’s struggling to keep himself in check.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m the adult, the parent, and it’s my responsibility to stay calm and help my child handle himself.
Lord, help me.
“Do you want to talk about anything?” I ask.
He shakes his head like he’s disgusted by the question.
“Do you want to talk to someone else—”
“Don’t start with the whole therapist thing again,” he says.
“I’m just giving you the option.”
“I don’t want it.”
“That’s okay. But you need to figure out how to handle your emotions, because you’re being a jerk to me, and now to our neighbor, and that’s not okay, Dylan.”
He narrows his eyes.
“I love you, buddy. I’m here. I’ll always be here— on your team ,” I say gently. “But please remember that I’m a person and I have feelings too. And the way you’ve been talking to me hurts. I don’t want to punish you and make your life harder, but I can’t let you think that your behavior is okay.”
I brace myself for the incoming onslaught of words, of defiance , that’s been the norm lately. Instead, he looks away and swallows heavily.
My head begins to pound. I pinch my temples as fatigue begins to settle in my bones. I am so tired of this, but I don’t know what to do.
“Look, maybe I’ve let you get away with too much lately,” I say. “Maybe some of this is my fault. Maybe—”
He throws himself at me, pulling me in for the tightest hug. He buries his face in my shoulder and squeezes me.
I hold the back of his head with one hand and hug him with the other. All the while, my heart breaks.
Oh, my sweet boy.
Tears spring to my eyes as he clutches me for dear life—like maybe he needs this as much as I do. I don’t dare speak. I don’t tell him how his pain is mine and I feel it in the depth of my soul. I only hold him, swaying gently back and forth, and comfort my child. Loving on him in the only way he’ll accept right now.
Holding him like this reminds me that he’s still a baby, no matter what’s coming out of his mouth. My baby. And he may be down a father, but I’m still here.
“I love you,” he says into my robe. Then he pulls back.
His eyes are glassy as he wipes his hands down his face.
“I love you,” I say. “More than you’ll ever know.”
Shades of fear and hope mix in his light-brown eyes. Hold on to hope, baby boy. We’ll get there.
Dylan turns on his heels and moves quickly up the staircase. I wait until I hear his door close.
I exhale harshly, the weight of the world sinking onto my shoulders.
My coffee doesn’t sound appetizing anymore, and I turn toward the sink to dump it out. Before I can take a step, my gaze is drawn out the window and across the lawn.
Jay stands in front of his garage, watching me.
I give him a little smile.
He gives me one back before disappearing inside.