Chapter 19 Lucy
Lucy
Evening light filters through Gabriel's kitchen window as I sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor beside Tyson, my good hand buried in his thick fur.
The Rottweiler's dark eyes watch me with that uncanny intelligence dogs possess, like he can read every conflicted thought racing through my head.
"I'm in deep shit, big guy," I whisper, scratching behind his ears.
Tyson's tail thumps once against the floor, and I take it as encouragement to continue this completely one-sided conversation with the only being in my life who can't judge me for the epic mess I'm making.
"Three men, Tyson. Three." My voice cracks on the number like I'm confessing to a crime. "And I want them all. What kind of girl does that make me?"
The memory of Colt's kiss this afternoon burns through me. The way his calloused hands had cupped my face, the taste of him, the raw hunger in his voice when he'd said my name like it was ripped from his chest.
I'd wanted to melt into him completely, forget everything except the way he made me feel alive and desired and absolutely precious.
But then there's Gabriel. Steady, controlled Gabriel who took me in without question, who looks at me like I'm something worth protecting instead of something broken that needs fixing.
The way his blue eyes track my movements when he thinks I'm not looking, the careful way he touches my shoulder when he checks on me.
And Beau. God, Beau with his quiet intensity and the way he calls me sunshine like it's a prayer. The almost-kiss in the barn that still haunts my dreams, the gentle way he'd held my face, the promise in those gray eyes that he'd burn down the world to keep me safe.
"I can't have them," I tell Tyson, who tilts his massive head like he's questioning my logic. "I can't have any of them. It would be selfish and stupid and completely unfair."
Because the truth sits in my chest like a lead weight.
I'm leaving. In a few weeks, I'll turn twenty-one and everything changes.
I'll file that petition, challenge the guardianship, and pray uncle Richard doesn't find me before I can disappear again.
These men don't deserve to be dragged into that nightmare.
They don't deserve the danger that follows me or the inevitable heartbreak when I have to run.
"The plan is simple," I continue, trying to convince myself as much as Tyson.
"Keep my distance. Be polite but not too friendly.
Definitely no more kissing anyone, no matter how much my body wants to.
Stay invisible, get my legal shit sorted, then maybe.
.. maybe figure out if there's a future here. "
It is a good plan. A smart plan. A plan that completely ignores the way my heart does gymnastics whenever any of them walk into a room.
Tyson huffs out a breath that sounds suspiciously like disagreement.
"Don't look at me like that," I scold gently. "I'm being realistic. I refuse to be the reason they destroy each other. Did you know Colt and Beau used to be best friends? That they shared someone before and it ended in disaster? I won't be the woman who finishes what's left of their friendship."
The sound of gravel crunching outside makes my pulse jump. I scramble to my feet, suddenly self-conscious about the way I've been fussing over dinner, like it matters. Like I haven't already crossed every line I swore I wouldn't.
The front door opens, and Gabriel fills the doorway in his sheriff's uniform, all broad shoulders and quiet authority. His blue eyes scan the room automatically landing on me before moving to the obviously empty space where Colt should be.
"Where's Colt?" he asks, setting his keys on the side table with practiced precision.
Heat floods my cheeks as this afternoon crashes over me again.
Colt's mouth on mine, his hands tangling in my hair, the way he'd whispered my name like a benediction.
"He, um..." I clear my throat, trying to find words that don't involve confessing to making out with him.
"He left about twenty minutes ago. Said you were almost home and he had some kind of emergency at the clinic. Tyson kept me company."
Gabriel's eyes narrow slightly, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he can read every guilty thought written across my face. Sheriffs are probably trained for that, and I've never been good at poker.
"Everything all right?" His voice is careful, neutral, but there's something underneath that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Fine," I say too quickly, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Everything's fine. I made dinner. As a thank you. For letting me crash here."
"You didn't need to do that." He moves closer. "But thank you."
There's something in the way he looks at me, a heat that makes my mouth go dry and my carefully constructed plan start crumbling around the edges.
"I should shower," he says finally, his voice rougher than before. "Change out of the uniform."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and watch him disappear down the hallway. The moment he's gone, I press my palms against my burning cheeks.
Get it together, Lucy. He's being nice. That's what decent people do.
While Gabriel showers, I busy myself setting the table and checking on the simple carbonara I've prepared.
Nothing fancy, just something to show appreciation without looking like I'm trying too hard. But my hands shake as I work, and the sound of running water down the hall makes me think of things I shouldn't.
Gabriel's hands soaping over those broad shoulders, water running down his chest, steam fogging the mirror...
I splash cold water on my face at the kitchen sink. This is exactly what I can't be thinking about.
When Gabriel emerges twenty minutes later, he's traded the uniform for dark jeans a navy henley that clings to his chest like a second skin. His hair is still damp, and he looks younger somehow, less intimidating but infinitely more dangerous to my peace of mind.
"Smells incredible in here," he says, moving to help me carry plates to the small dining table.
"Nothing special. Just spaghetti carbonara." I'm proud my voice sounds steady, even though my pulse is doing the Macarena.
We settle at the table, and for a few minutes we eat in comfortable silence. The food is good, but I can barely taste it with Gabriel sitting across from me, his presence filling the space between us like heat from a forge.
"Tell me about New York," he says eventually, twirling pasta with surprising grace for such large hands. "What did you love about it? What do you miss?"
My chest tightens. Simple question, loaded implications. Like he's asking what might make me leave, what might call me back.
"The energy," I say carefully, testing the words. "The way the city never sleeps. You can walk down the street at three in the morning and still find life, sometimes you need the world to be awake when you can't sleep."
Despite myself, I find myself talking. About my mother, about the long afternoons we'd spend in Central Park when the chemo made her too tired for anything else.
About the way she'd read Pride and Prejudice to me even when her voice was barely a whisper, about the apartment that felt too big and too quiet after she died.
I don't tell him about uncle Richard. Don't mention Rosewood or the fact that I'm running from it all. But I give him pieces of myself I haven't shared with anyone in years, and he listens with the kind of focused attention that makes me feel like I'm the only person in the universe.
"What about you?" I ask when I run out of safe stories. "Have you always wanted to be sheriff?"
Gabriel's smile is crooked, almost sheepish. "Actually, I wanted to be a carpenter when I was a kid. Build houses, fix things with my hands." He gestures around the kitchen. "This place was my compromise. Protect people during the day, rebuild something at night."
"That's quite a shift from carpentry to law enforcement."
His expression grows serious, and for a moment he's quiet, rolling his whiskey glass between his palms. "Growing up, I watched my father hurt my mother for years.
Watched her make excuses, watched her choose to stay.
" His voice is carefully controlled, like he's reciting facts instead of reliving trauma.
"I was too young to do anything then. Too small to be the protection she needed. "
He takes a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid.
"Joined the Marines right out of high school.
Figured if I was going to fight, might as well learn how to do it right.
Came back knowing that sometimes protecting people requires more than good intentions.
Sometimes it requires a badge and the authority to use it. "
There's a story there, layers of pain and purpose that run deeper than what he's sharing. The way his jaw tightens when he mentions his father, the careful distance in his voice when he talks about his mother.
But I don't push. We're both experts at sharing just enough truth to seem open while keeping the dangerous parts locked in vaults.
We finish dinner and move to clean up, falling into an easy rhythm that feels dangerously domestic. Gabriel washes while I dry, and every time our hands brush passing dishes, electricity shoots straight up my arm.
"Stars are out tonight," Gabriel says, moving to the window. "Want to sit by the fire pit for a while?"
My pulse jumps at the suggestion, but I nod. "That sounds perfect."
Gabriel grabs a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet and two glasses. Outside, he lights the fire pit with practiced efficiency while I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs. The flames catch quickly, casting dancing shadows across his face and warming the cool evening air.
"Whiskey?" he offers, holding up the bottle.
"I don't drink," I say quickly, then feel compelled to explain when he raises an eyebrow. "Bad experience once. That was enough."