Chapter 4
Joss
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such a big man in my life. It doesn’t help that I’m sitting and he’s leaning over me, but it’s like he’s eclipsed my world in one move.
I should be frightened of him. His bushy copper beard and undercut, the gleam in his hazel eyes, even the bulk of his shoulders exude a menacing aura. But his casual smile looks genuine, and he’s in a baby pink hoodie with a juvenile screen print on it and athletic shorts. That undercut is messy and overgrown enough that it invites my fingers to run through it. I don’t think I need to be frightened of him.
Besides, Rose and Iris are like ancient pit bulls. Iris has mace in her bag. I’m pretty sure Rose could do some damage with her arthritis-friendly rotary blade.
So, no, I don’t have to fear him. But my heart is pounding harder than it has in a long time.
“I’m Gabe,” he says, his smile widening when his eyes drop to my hands in my lap.
“Your sweatshirt is ripped,” I squeak out, pointing down near the hem. “Just there.”
He looks down and frowns, but even that is incredibly inviting. His mustache covers his upper lip, but his bottom lip is as welcoming to my fingertips as his hair is. “Blaise did that when he rolled off the exercise ball,” he explains.
I have no idea what to say. I have no idea who Blaise is. “Oh.”
“He didn’t break the record.”
“I can fix it for you,” I whisper, unsure if I’m breathless or just dumbfounded. He’s all mass and harsh lines, but my god, those eyes.
“The record?”
“The sweatshirt. I can sew it up for you?”
He lights up like a kid on Christmas who’s just unwrapped tickets to Disney. “Really?”
I nod and say, as stupidly as possible, “I have a sewing machine.”
“I’d like that.”
“Who’s Blaise?” I ask.
“My quarterback.”
I blink a couple times as I process this, as the wheels start to turn and click into place. “Oh!” I cry out, releasing a laugh on the breath that had stilled in my lungs. “You’re with the Juggernauts? That’s why you’re so big.”
“I’m the center.”
I don’t know what a center is. I’ve never had any interest in sports. I lived on a treadmill in high school, and once I retired from competition, I did everything I could to avoid any physical pursuits. Cora drags me on walks just to make sure I don’t get too sedentary.
But he’s here for the quilt, not to . . . sweep me off my feet? Rescue me from my hermitude? Ride off into the sunset with me and the feral raccoon I feed my table scraps to?
“The quilt for the fundraiser, right? It’s not ready yet. I was told they didn’t need it until day of. Did something change?” I start to stand up. “I have to throw it on the longarm, the computerized ones are both running, but I can run it on a manual.” The calculations begin. Today’s show is for subscribers. They’re generally happy with any content, so if I demo some new free motion quilting on the longarm, I can do something simple but fun with the fundraiser quilt. “Tomorrow, I can have it ready—”
Panic must have leaked into my voice because Gabe rests a gigantic hand on my shoulder, its weight alone enough to keep me seated, its warmth calming, its grip reassuring. “No, no, you don’t need to rush it. Emily Hess was worried when you didn’t return her calls and asked me to check in on you.”
“Oh dear. My car broke down last week, and I left my phone in it.”
“See, I told you!” Cora says.
We both snap to her, Gabe with a little wave.“Hey, I’m Gabe.”
“Yeah, I caught that. Gabe the center. Joss, I’m telling Jimmy to fix your car.”
I sigh. “Fine, fine. Sorry for making you drive out here, Gabe. If you’ve got an extra minute, I can fix that sweatshirt now. Won’t take a minute.”
The sweatshirt is suddenly shoved at me, and I catch a light scent off it. Soap, definitely; Gabe must have just showered. There’s also a soft, inviting musk with notes of rosemary and freshly cut wood. Masculine but gentle. I glance back to say something, hopefully not anything insane, but my jaw drops.
Gabe is shirtless.
And he is big.
Like, okay, we’ve already established this, but there’s a difference between broad-shouldered in a baggy hoodie and seeing it wasn’t actually all that baggy. He’s got wide, well-defined pecs and a round belly that lacks a six-pack but has the vertical divots proving that the undefined layer is the mass needed to support the strongman build. He looks like he could flip tractor tires and drag firetrucks around on ropes. All that covered with skin lightly bronzed, the sort of tan one gets from working outside all summer instead of deliberately tanning, and lightly dusted in coppery curls that match his messy hair and bushy beard.
My former husband, may demons eat his soul for all of eternity, looked like an evening mug of warm milk in comparison.
Gabe frowns. “I shouldn’t have taken that off.”
“You absolutely should have,” Cora pipes up. “That’s just her cocksucker Brian face. She was comparing you to her ex-husband.”
“I wish she’d kept that thought to herself,” I mutter to Gabe. “But yeah, you look great. I mean, not in a creepy way, I’m not like, thirsting, or—oh but I’m not saying you’re not attractive.” I spin right back to my sewing table, distracting myself with matching thread with its coordinating bobbin. I also grab one of my business card magnets. “That’s my shop number. Please give Emily my apologies and this card.”
As he takes the magnet from me, our fingertips brush, and I swear we generate a current. “Yes, ma’am,” he rumbles.
At 30, I don’t very much appreciate being called ma’am, especially when so many of the people I work with are over twice my age, but that current shoots right up my spine the way Gabe says it, so I don’t correct him. I’m looping the thread into my machine when Cora makes a soft tutting sound. I raise an eyebrow at her, and she says, “I mean, you should really darn that.”
“You can do it however you want,” Gabe assures me. “It’s just a sweatshirt.”
I nearly agree with that. It is just a sweatshirt, and it’s in rough shape beyond the tear. The cuffs are splitting; one of the metal grommets has fallen off. It should be retired.
But it’s pink and has that silly cat print on it. It’s definitely for a girl. The tag has faded to pure white so I can’t check to see what size it is, but I’m guessing it’s a ridiculous one. This wasn’t something just plucked off the rack at Walmart. Maybe it was a gift from someone. Could be a rare find of his. Even a custom order. Whatever it was, it has sentimental value.
Sentimental value deserves darning.
I smile up at him. “Nah, I like darning.” Totally a lie.
“Totally a lie,” Cora says, and before I can glare at her, she throws in, “I gotta go, you got a show to do, love ya, bye!” and disconnects.
“You have a show? Do you need me to leave?” Gabe asks.
“Nope, I got your hoodie.” I begin whipping through the stitches. “I’d say I could make the show about garment repair — definitely not a topic I discuss, but my viewers would probably enjoy it — but I can’t have you shirtless on camera. Nobody would learn anything.”
Not only do his cheeks flush, but so does his chest, a weirdly intimate thing for me to know about a complete stranger who probably has a line of girlfriends around the block. Everyone went nuts about the Juggernauts when they did well their first year. I overheard plenty of chatter and have already sold through four bolts of fabric with their logo.
“What’s your show about?” he asks, his voice going uncomfortable to match his color.
I laugh. “Quilting, of course! But today’s for my subscribers, so I can be a little more flexible. I was going to preview the Cathedral Window tutorial I have coming out next month.” At his confused look, I nod to the Hocus Pocus quilt. “That’s Cathedral Window.”
“Ohh,” he says, reaching for it but bringing his hand back to ask, “May I?” before grabbing it at my nod. His eyes shift between it and the one I just pulled off my machine. He looks at one of the earlier ones where it’s just white squares folded into triangles and stitched to colorful, unfolded squares the same size. “This is pretty. How do you turn that into this?”
“If you subscribe to me, you can find out at seven p.m. Eastern,” I say with a wink.
“Yes, ma’am. What’s your screen name?”
I smack his phone out of his hand probably harder than I should, immediately returning to the darning because my god, why am I this awkward? “That was a joke. You don’t have to subscribe to me. You can Google it. But, like, you don’t sew, so that would be weird. Just trust the process.” I finish the last stitch, tightening the threads to make sure the hole has closed up but isn’t puckering. “Here, you’re all set. Does Emily need me to call her? Does she need the quilt early?”
“No ma’am, I think she was just worried something was wrong.” He holds the sweatshirt close to his face, studying the tear. “That’s so good. I can hardly tell.” He slides it back on, wiggling his head through the collar and popping back out, the hood catching so he briefly looks cozy with his head covered in baby pink. He pushes it back and takes hold of the bottom of the sweatshirt, tugging it out so he can look at the patch again.
He glances up at me and then back down.One more glance at me, this time blurting out, “Doyouwantmetopickyouupforthefundraiser?”before he looks back down at the sweatshirt.
“What?”
“Do you want me to—”
“Oh!” I squawk out over him, realizing that I just told him my car’s in the shop. He was offering to pick the quilt up before the fundraiser. “Yeah, absolutely. That would be fantastic.”
“Awesome, it’s a date!” he says with way more energy than I think the moment needs. “Well then, I’ll look forward to seeing you next Saturday. Good luck with your video tonight.”
“Good luck with your, umm, game? Do you have a game this weekend?”
“Yeah, pre-season. We’re flying out to Cleveland tomorrow morning. I should probably go pack. It was really nice meeting you, Joss.”
“You too, Gabe.”
I’m still thinking about him when I launch my stream and, mixed in with the greetings from my regular subscribers, I see a new subscriber flag on the messageI really do want you to show me how to make a cathedral window.
The new subscriber’s screen name is GabeShaunessy, followed by the smiling face with hearts emoji, and then YourFavoriteJug.
“Okay, walk to the wall and back. I need a snappy spin this time. And a stomp. Angry catwalk. I want you pissed that I made you do this and ready to go home. Make the cameras fight to get the good shot. Make them know they are not worthy of you. You’re not a model. You’re asupermodel. A queen. Why the fuck are you on this runway? You have a goddamn reality show to film and an agent to fire. That’s it, bitch, that’s it. That’s—nope, I fucking hate this length.”
I sigh as I hoist myself back up on the platform.
Tilly starts pulling pins from the hem. She’s home for three days, and she got roped into working anyway.
Cora scowls at both of us. “This is important. I realize that you just need it to work on film for ten minutes of screen time,” she says to Tilly before looking at me and adding, “and you will happily die in a patchwork swing dress, but I need perfection on this runway. I need every single outfit to look great in full motion, full body, all angles, and I need this two-piece dress to look every bit as perfect on a size 8 as it does on a size 2, or I will get roasted for not understanding the everyday woman and still being stuck in my bespoke phase.”
“I don’t think you’re stuck in your bespoke phase,” Tilly says as empathetically as she can. As a professional costumer, her only phase is bespoke.
“My feet are just hurting,” I add to explain my own sigh.
Cora glares up at me. “Why do you insist on lying when you suck so bad at it?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a fair question. My feet don’t hurt. I haven’t worn heels regularly in six years and prefer to not put the extra thirty pounds I’ve gained in that time in stilettos, but no. I’ve only been in these heels for an hour. I’m fine. “I’m just concerned you’re about to drop the hem a quarter inch that no one will see.”
“Says the point queen,” Cora huffs, but points are super important on quilts. People see when lines don’t match. They don’t see a quarter inch dusting around the ankles. “Tilly, can you do me a solid and fix that funny seam on the boning casing? See how it’s bunching a little?”
Tilly loosens the laces in the back and drops the side zipper, catching the bustier before it falls on the ground. There’s no catching my boobs, though.
And listen, there was a point in pageant life where we all dressed in front of each other. I even did some modeling for Cora back in the day, which meant lightning-fast wardrobe changes. It’s not like I have any issues being topless in front of my friends. They both make garments. I am apparently a perfectly proportioned size 8, according to Cora, right down to the reasonable height of 5’7”. I am their Barbie doll when they need one.
But I’m 30. I have the boobs of a 30-year-old. They are boobs that need either a bra or a far freer spirit than I possess. Of all the things I regret about marrying that asshole monster I married, the one that bothers me the most now is the fact that I wasted my good boob years on a criminally perverted man who was so weak he refused to even live to face the consequences of his actions.
I cross my arms over my chest, not even to cover them so much as to fluff them up as casually as I can, but Cora sees everything.
“I bet Gabe Shaunessy would love to see those gals just how they are.”
“GabeShaunessy?” Tilly repeats, her eyes brightening right up at the prospect of hot gossip.
I groan. I was hoping that what Cora witnessed would end there and not make it to Tilly. Tilly is a dog looking for a bone, but there’s no bone here. Gabe was cute and sweet and just enough of an oaf that I got the feeling that he doesn’t do anything criminal. He looks safe. He paid for my highest level of subscription and even watched some of my streams this week, which was really sweet of him.
But I can’t do this. I have tried to date a few times, and it’s always been a disaster. I tell myself I’ve moved on, but there’s a point where things become too real, our lives start to merge, and it hits me that if he’s another monster, I’ll be destroyed again.
I’m safe here.
“He stopped by on Friday right after you had to go,andhe thinks Joss is a marry.”
Tilly’s jaw drops. “Gabe is totally a marry.”
Cora nods as she goes back to adjust the hem down a hair. “Agreed.”
Oh god, not this again. “I’m still so confused. Who are the other two?”
“Blaise Sinclair and—” Cora starts.
“Kill,” Tilly says immediately.
Cora gasps, stopping what she’s doing so she can look Tilly in the eye as she says, “Merrick Briggs is the kill.”
“No way! I would ride that man like a show pony. Blaise is crazy.”
Cora shrugs. “Yeah, crazy hot.”
“Merrick’s hot and not crazy.”
“Are you sure? Are you really sure? Because I think he’s a secret psychopath.”
“Whatever,” Tilly huffs. “I need Doritos.” With that graceless adieu, she stomps her way down the set of stairs and through the door that leads outside. There should be a door at the top of the landing, too, but it got requisitioned for an art project back during the quarantine days, same as this spot that used to be my dining room and is now set up with a platform and circle of mirrors for Cora’s tailoring. Since it’s a full flight of stairs and the exit is on the opposite side of the building from the path to the barn, it’s not like anyone is going to see me standing here topless.
“Leave some Doritos out there for Jerry!” I yell as the door slams.
“You really need to stop feeding the raccoons,” Cora chides.
“I’m not feeding raccoons, I’m feeding raccoon. Jerry. And before you say anything, I got some rabies vaccine treats from the SPCA. He’s fine.”
I can tell Cora doesn’t believe me but recognizes a losing fight when she sees one. “So whatisup with you and Gabe?”
“Nothing.” Have I spent way too much time thinking about him this week? Yes. Have I gotten excited seeing him in the chats? Yes. But it’s not real.
“Lift your arms,” she says, and I swear it’s punishment for being grouchy.
“Your model isn’t going to be walking down the catwalk with her arms like this.”
“First of all, I still want you to be the model, and don’t give me that too old shit. Second of all, Gabe liked you so much he subscribed to your channel. I saw him in the comments. He was flirting with you.”
“He wasn’t flirting with me! He was asking for demonstrations.”
“And considering you don’t even have a phone right now, that was the closest thing to flirting he could do without being a creeper. You should ask him out when he comes to get that quilt.”
“Too late. It’s today. I left it with Barb in the shop.”
“You sneaky bitch, you,” Cora gasps. “That’s why you wanted to do this today. So you could hide from him.”
“I am absolutely not hiding! I am—” I’m interrupted by a knock on the door downstairs.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, did Tilly lock herself out and forget the passcode?”
“Pregnancy brain?” I reason, not sure if that’s a thing at only six weeks. She’s having a rough time in general, has for a few years now. The pregnancy was a one-night stand gone wrong. She’s excited but scared, and she’s a contractor, so there’s no maternity leave. Thankfully, the baby will have two aunties right here. One of them even has a nursery.
That’s been dormant for six years.
My apartment is mostly normal. Nice kitchen, little breakfast nook that’s more than enough for me, two whole bedrooms and a comfy living room I’m hardly ever in. But that nursery is the one thing from my past I will not let go.
“9317!” I yell down as Cora smacks my underarm to get it up in the air again. “Why could you possibly need me to do this?” I grumble over heavy stomps up the stairs. “It’s the dumbest—”
“Oh no,” someone who is definitely not Tilly says, and through the reflections in the mirrors set up around me, my eyes meet Gabe’s a dozen times.
I shriek, attempting to cover myself. One of my stupid heels slips. I start to tumble, only to be caught in Gabe’s arms.
His massive, strong, secure arms.
I see his eyes first, of course, noticing this time that they’re the sort of hazel that starts blue in the center before feathering out to an earthy green.
His beard has been trimmed up, the ginger frizz tapered down to a long but tidy strip on his chin.
He’s in a tux.
He smells really nice.
I swallow hard and cover my chest with my arm. “Um, hi.”
“You gave me the code.”
“I thought you were Tilly.”
“I’m not.”
He gently sets me back on my feet, his hands skimming my sides to make sure I’m solid before he lets go of me.
“That was fucking hot,” Cora whispers.
I give her the most pained look while Gabe scrubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, I thought you’d be ready by now.”
As Cora mutters something about how he’s even bigger in real life, I bring my hands up to my mouth to cover my gasp. “Oh my god, no, this is my fault. The quilt’s ready. I told Barb where it was. She must have forgotten.”
“Oh, she gave it to me. I meant you. I thought you’d be ready now.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going.”
He furrows his brows, and then his face goes red, his eyes giant, and he juts his hands out.
To cover my chest.
Because my arms were covering them until my brain thought it was more important to cover my face.
“You have to go,” he says with a scowl. “You made the quilt.”
I let out a nervous laugh, unsure if I should cover my boobs myself, but he didn’t leave space for my hands there. If I put mine over his, I’m basically making him grope me.
Perish the thought.
“Vendors don’t go to these sorts of things.”
“You said you’d go with me. I asked if you wanted me to pick you up, and you said yes.”
He’s so giant that even with the platform and the heels, I’m only a few inches above him. But he starts to look incredibly small, like he’s deflating before my very eyes.
There’s nothing more terrifying to me than a society function in Wilmington. This is the sort of event that attracts money and influence. A decade ago, my husband surely would have wanted us to go, and I would have loved an excuse to don a pageant gown.
The thought now has my lungs tightening, my breaths going shallow as I shrink back, replacing his hands with my arm once more. Still, I feel bad for Gabe as I say, “I meant the quilt. I thought you meant the quilt.”
“Right, well.” He doesn’t say anything else, just bends down in his nice tux and his polished shoes to pick up a small box he must have dropped to catch me. It contains a corsage matching the boutonniere I’m only now noticing on his jacket. It’s simple but elegant and modern, a sprig of orchids with a bit of green.
The flower projects I have framed in my studio, the two central ones, they’re both orchids.
I gnaw at my bottom lip as I exchange a look with Cora.
“Wait!” she pipes up. “She’d love to go!”
I don’t have a dress! I mouth at her, but Gabe is already returning, this time looking cautiously hopeful.
“Honey, you’re in a dress.”
“I am in a skirt. I really don’t think Gabe wants to hold my chest all evening!”
Gabe wisely stays quiet as, from the bottom of the stairs, Tilly yells, “I’m all over that boning!”
“This is for your show,” I remind Cora. “I can’t—” I look back to Gabe. “I’m sorry, I sound like I don’t want to go with you. That’s not true. But this is for Cora’s runway next month.”
“I’ll make it different colors,” Cora says.
Gabe holds up the corsage. “You match the flower.”
I look down at myself as though I’m not surrounded by mirrors and haven’t been in this for the past hour. Both the bustier and ruffly, asymmetrical skirt are colorblocked in white and fuchsia. I really do match it.
“But you can say no, I won’t be offended,” Gabe adds.
But he will be. Or, he should be. It all clicks now; he’s been hanging out in my stream to get to know me as best as he can. Cora was right. He did it as appropriately as he could. He’s a good guy.
I shoot a desperate look to Cora. “It’s in Wilmington.”
Cora’s lips thin down. She approaches Gabe, and it’s impossible not to notice how gigantic he is when Cora, barely five feet and thin as a breeze, faces him.
“You need to protect her.”
Gabe recoils. “I would never hurt her.”
“It’s not you. It’s the world.”
Puzzlement crosses his features, but he shakes it away like it doesn’t matter why I need protection. It’s enough for him to know I do. He fluffs up his chest, taking up the entire room with his presence. “I will protect her with my life.”
Cora gives me a look I can’t fight.
But I don’t think I want to after that proclamation. “I’d love to go with you, Gabe.”
“Awesome,” he says on a big exhale. “I’ll be back in an hour. Does that work?”
I cringe. Tilly’s pulling a seam apart; Cora needs to stitch the hem. That’s the better part of an hour right there, and I still need hair and makeup.
“I just saw Sherry Hunt in the shop,” Tilly says. “I’ll drag her up to do your hair.”