CHAPTER EIGHT GABRIELLE
CHAPTER EIGHT
G AbrIELLE
C arter! Stop bouncing the ball in the house,” I say, angling my voice toward the kitchen.
The incessant rubber meeting hardwood stops. I tilt my head back in relief. Dylan sighs from the sofa across the room.
Despite my making them a meal before I went to Della’s, the boys were starving when I returned. I whipped up sausage patties and pancakes after a quick trip to the grocery store, which they scarfed down like wild dogs. I was surprised when neither ran to his room after we cleaned up their second dinner. Instead, Carter took his ball to the deck to practice dribbling. Dylan sat in the living room with me and turned on a murder mystery. I’m sure he did it to torment me, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to spend time with him.
“Want to give me your opinion?” I ask, scrolling to the top of my computer screen.
“Sure.”
“I have a pregnant customer with triplets who wants names with a theme. Any theme. Doesn’t matter. Two girls and a boy.”
Dylan turns the volume down.
“I have Luna, Stella, and Orion. Clover, Daisy, and Clay. Opal, Ruby, and Jasper. Brooke, Cordelia, and Adrian.”
He furrows his brows. “People really pay you for this?”
“Look, it shocks me too. But at one hundred dollars a pop, what can I say?”
“You say Ruth, Jackie, and Derek.”
“What?” I ask, laughing.
“You wanted themes.” He shrugs. “Those are all baseball greats.”
Oh. “Repeat those.”
“Ruth. Jackie. Derek.”
“I’m writing that down. When I looked at their social media, I noticed her husband was into baseball. Those could work.”
Dylan grins. “I want half the money if they use my idea.”
His face lights up, forgoing the narrowed eyes and pressed lips I’m so used to seeing from him. He’s happy—almost carefree. I’d give everything to understand why he flips back and forth so fast. And I’d give even more to keep him like this.
“So what combination was your favorite?” I ask.
“Mine. Then probably the one with Clover. You never hear that as a name. It’s kinda cool.”
Whoa. A compliment too? What was in those pancakes?
Carter’s footsteps echo through the house. They grow louder as he approaches.
“What are you guys doing?” he asks, swatting a lock of hair out of his face.
“I’m finishing up a project. What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Well, I was practicing my dribbling. But I think I’m dribbled out.”
Thank God.
Dylan climbs off the sofa. “Hey, wanna hop on and play duos?”
“Let’s go!” Carter races up the stairs, followed closely by his brother.
Their chatter hits my heart so hard it takes my breath away. Why can’t it always be like this?
I close my computer, too distracted to concentrate on my work. Middle names are always the hardest, and there’s no way I can think about that now. Instead, I turn to the basket of clean clothes on the coffee table. My mind wanders, flitting from one topic to the next.
I grab the shirt lying on top of the pile and fold it.
“He’s just Jay.”
Della’s words come back to me as I pick up his flannel. He’s just Jay. What does that mean?
At the end of the day, what it means doesn’t really matter. He’s my kind, albeit gorgeous, neighbor. That’s all.
I carry Jay’s flannel through the house and into the kitchen, stopping at the sink. The lights in his house are on. I mull over the idea of returning his shirt or keeping it until tomorrow. While tomorrow would be fine, there’s no time like the present.
My stomach tightens. I shoot Dylan a text and then exit the back door.
The night is cool, sending a wave of chills over me as I step onto the lawn. Brilliant stars twinkle overhead in the clear night sky—something I missed in Boston. We didn’t live downtown, but even in the suburbs there was enough light to prevent a clear view of the stars.
My anxiety grows as I get closer to Jay’s door.
Why did I think this was a good idea again?
Knock! Knock!
Jay opens the door. His eyes widen when he sees it’s me.
My jaw drops when I see him.
Even tequila couldn’t have prepared me for this.
He’s shirtless with a towel thrown over his shoulder. The lines of his shoulders, chest, and abs are covered in a sheen. Sweatpants sit low on his hips.
“Hey,” he says, wiping his forehead with the edge of the towel.
Words, Gabby. Use words.
“Hey.” I flash him a wobbly smile. “I brought your shirt back.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Our fingers brush against each other’s as he takes the flannel from me. The contact ignites the alcohol that’s left in my system. My knees wobble as I struggle not to melt.
“I saw your little boy tonight,” he says.
“You did? When?”
“A few hours ago.” He chuckles softly. “That kid is a bundle of energy.”
I cringe. “Carter must have come over while I was at Della’s. I’m sorry if he bothered you.”
“Nah, he just wanted his basketball aired up.”
“So you’re responsible for him bouncing that thing in the house all night? I ought to make him come over here and practice. He’s driving Dylan and me nuts.”
Jay steps to the side. “He left his hoodie. If you want to come in, I’ll grab it.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I inhale a lungful of masculinity as I pass him. It’s sweat and cologne—a deep, rich scent that’s, in a word, delicious . The door closing snaps me back to reality.
“You can have a seat,” he says. “I need to remember where I put it.”
“That sounds like something I’d do. I put things in a safe place all the time. The problem is that the only thing it’s safe from is me ever finding it again.”
“It might be on my workbench in the garage. Hang tight.”
I sit on his brown leather sofa. “I’m hanging.”
His back, in all its glory, is on full display as he leaves the room.
“Just settle down and be normal,” I whisper to myself.
The living area is comfortable, with leather furniture and a large brick fireplace. A small desk is tucked into one corner and flanked by bookcases. And instead of trinkets adorning the shelves, it’s actual books.
So hot.
“Here you go,” he says, returning with Carter’s hoodie in his hand. “He left it lying on the garage floor.”
“Color me not surprised.” I take it from him. “When he was a baby, he used to take his diaper off and leave it wherever he was standing. Then it graduated to socks and then shoes. Now we’re at the hoodie stage.”
Jay sits in a chair next to the couch. “Be happy. In a few years, he’ll be leaving his pants—”
“No, no, no. Don’t say that about my baby.”
He chuckles.
“I’m not ready for that,” I say, wadding the hoodie on my lap. “In other news, it turns out that Della saw the Towel Incident.”
“I know.”
What? “How do you know?”
“She told my buddy Lark.”
“People are talking about it?”
“Didn’t you say you grew up here?” He shrugs. “It’s a small town. People talk. Although I doubt Lark said anything to anyone but me. He doesn’t get in other people’s business much.”
“Well, thank God for small favors.”
He picks up a water bottle from the coffee table and unscrews the lid. “Do you want a drink?”
“I had three palomas at Della’s tonight, and that’s probably two too many. I’m trying to lay off the fluids because my stomach’s still a bit squirrely. My fear of puking is real.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he downs the water. I don’t know how watching someone drink is sexy, but it is. It really freaking is.
The energy in the room is easy. He’s almost relaxed. I wonder if it’s because we’re on his turf, not mine. Every interaction we’ve had until now has been at my house.
He settles back in his chair. “So did you know Della before you moved here?”
“Della? No. It’s such a weird thing. Everyone says that small towns always stay the same. On the surface, that’s true. But if you’ve been gone for a while and come back, you see that some things did change. Buildings are torn down; new homes are put up. The people come and go. I didn’t know Della or Scottie when I lived here. But that was almost two decades ago.” I pause. “When did you move to Alden?”
“About four years ago.”
“Why here?”
A shadow filters across his face. Lines bunch around his eyes, and his shoulders are taut. He makes a point of swallowing before he speaks.
“Just needed a change of scenery,” he says.
“Where did you move here from?”
“Indiana.”
I wait for him to expand on his answer and elaborate a bit. But he remains unflinching.
Okay ... He’s not giving me much to work with, but he’s not clamming up. Maybe if I push a tiny bit, he’ll give me a nugget of information about himself.
“I had dinner tonight with Cricket, Della, and Scottie,” I say. “They said you were a good neighbor.”
“They all seem nice.”
“Do you know any of them well?”
He shakes his head.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I don’t care enough to know them well.”
His answer is straightforward, but it doesn’t satisfy my curiosity. Why?
“If you’d like to get to know them, maybe we could have a neighborhood potluck or something and—”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Which is . . .”
He side-eyes me and sighs. “Look, I appreciate your misplaced sense of ... whatever this is, but I’m not a people person. I don’t need to get to know everyone on the street. I don’t want to, as a matter of fact.”
I blow out a breath and sink deeper into the cushions. “Aren’t you lonely? Don’t you miss having connections with people?”
“No.” He rolls his head around his neck. “I take it you do.”
“Yes, I do. Don’t you fear growing old alone?”
“I’d rather grow old alone than with the wrong person, Gabrielle.”
My instinct is to argue with him. But that actually makes sense.
Christopher thought the exact same way, so much so that he divorced me. “I love you too much to let you grow old with the wrong person, Gabs.”
Leave it to me to be attracted to two men who think I’m the wrong person.
“I don’t know that I even want to grow old with someone, per se,” I say. “I want companionship more than anything. Don’t get me wrong. I love love . It’s beautiful and wonderful when it’s right. But I’m not even after that at this point.”
Jay leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes are clear as he listens. His attentiveness encourages me to continue.
“I just want to feel like a woman again,” I say. “Love isn’t necessary. I just want a reason to get dolled up on Friday nights. I want someone to laugh with, cuddle up to—someone to have fun sex with.”
You’re not talking to the girls, Gabby. Shut up.
His brows shoot to the ceiling. He quickly catches himself and smoothens his features.
I scramble, trying desperately to figure out how to sweep this under the rug. Do I say I was kidding?
Jay bites his lip and watches me.
Oh, what’s it matter? He’s just Jay, after all—the guy who won’t look twice at Della. He’s obviously not interested in me.
“So do you have any friends looking for a hookup?” I ask, smiling sweetly. I might as well lean all the way in at this point.
“No.”
The word is rough and raw, uttered with an unshakable confidence. It toys with my hormones. It ruffles my feathers. The single syllable, mixed with the severity in his tone, nearly has me panting.
Why do I always go for the unavailable ones?
He gets to his feet and takes the towel off his shoulders. He wipes his face again before tossing it on the arm of the chair.
I stand, too, and try not to stare at him. He’s a beautiful, handsome puzzle I can’t quite snap together.
“Thanks for letting me borrow your flannel,” I say. “And thanks for helping Carter tonight with his ball.”
“It’s no problem.”
I smile at him and then head for the door.
“I’ll tell the boys not to bother you,” I say. “And like I said, we are self-sufficient ... despite the events of the last two days. Don’t worry about us being needy and wanting to connect or anything.”
It’s a joke—mostly. At least, I mean it as one. But when he reaches in front of me to open the door and I look up into his eyes, I’m not sure he took it that way.
He peers down at me with his hand on the knob. A storm wages in those hazel orbs. The intensity of the golds and browns holds my attention, not letting me look away.
Each breath has his chest brushing against my arm. I’m frozen in place, held hostage by nothing but his silent demand not to move.
It’s a request I’m too happy to oblige.
“Gabrielle . . .”
“Yes?”
The storm picks up. So does his breathing. My heartbeat races in anticipation of what he’s going to say.
Or do.
He licks his lips. His tongue leaves a trail of wetness behind, making him that much more kissable. His gaze drops to my mouth.
My mind races, sorting through a million thoughts powering through my brain at warp speed. Is he going to kiss me?
He lowers his face toward mine. I lift my chin to meet him, my breath trembling. This doesn’t make a whole lot of sense since he’s not into connecting with people—and kissing me would definitely be a connection. But who am I to turn down a kiss from a sexy man?
My heart thunders in my ears. I’m barely able to stand. The pressure between my thighs is so heavy, so great, that I squeeze them together, or else I’ll moan.
“Thanks again for the shirt,” he says, pulling the door open and stepping away.
What the actual hell?
My stomach drops. My jaw goes right along with it.
He makes no move except to blink.
This asshole.
I look at him, narrowing my eyes and smiling facetiously. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I’m out.
“You’re very welcome,” I say.
With that, I pivot and quickly exit his home.