Chapter 12 Gavin
TWELVE
GAVIN
I walked into the shop after a long day on-site.
The smell of cedar clung to my clothes—the product of framing a new build—and the ache in my shoulders was deep and familiar.
The sun had dipped low behind the trees by the time I pulled into the no parking zone spot in front of the shop, casting a honeyed glow over the cracked pavement outside.
I was exhausted, coated in a thin layer of sawdust and sweat, but none of that mattered the second I stepped through the door.
She didn’t see me at first.
Rose was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, on a tarp I had purposefully left there after noticing that she liked to sit on the floor when she worked.
She said the chair made her back hurt, but I suspected it was more than that.
Some kind of comfort. Some kind of grounding technique.
She was surrounded by papers and binders and an open laptop. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed low, and for a moment I thought she was just focused—until I noticed the trembling. Her shoulders were shaking.
She was crying.
Fuck.
Fuck.
It was like someone had reached inside my chest and crushed my lungs in their fist. The air left me.
I stepped in quietly, the bell above the door giving a soft jingle I tried to mute with a gentle touch. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing us in, and I kept my voice low. Careful.
“Rose?”
She flinched like I’d caught her mid-crime. Like crying made her weak. She swiped at her face with both hands, frantic, like she could erase it—like she could hide it from me if she was fast enough.
Her eyes were wet, wide, and wary when they met mine.
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “Really. I’m just tired.”
Bullshit. But I didn’t push. Not right away.
I crouched in front of her slowly, letting her see every move, letting her breathe.
Because if there was one thing I’d learned this past week, it was that Rosemarie Carter didn’t open up easily.
She was always buttoned up. Prim. Polite.
But never cold. There was fire under all that quiet.
I’d seen it in her mouth when she kissed me back.
In her hands when they held on like she didn’t want to let go.
And right now, that fire was flickering. Barely holding on.
So I waited. Quiet. Still. A steady presence she could lean into if she chose to.
Eventually, her gaze dropped again. She let out a shaky breath and whispered, “It’s the insurance stuff.
” Her fingers tightened around a binder as she spoke.
“I don’t understand half of it. They’re not covering the amount of inventory we thought that they would, and the mold remediation is more than the adjuster originally estimated, and—I just—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
That sound—her breaking—was worse than any injury I’d ever taken on the job.
My chest caved in. I would’ve taken a bullet for her at that moment.
Hell, I’d burn the whole damn insurance system down if it meant she wouldn’t look this broken ever again.
I didn’t give a shit about paperwork or protocols or bottom lines.
I cared about her. About the girl on the tarp with wet lashes and too much weight on her shoulders.
I reached out and pulled her into my arms. She didn’t resist. Just curled into me like it was instinct.
Like it was the only place she felt safe.
Her fingers clutched the front of my shirt like she could anchor herself there, like she might drift away if she let go.
I wrapped my arms around her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other firm on her lower back.
“You’re not alone in this, sweetheart.”
She nodded, but I felt the tension still coiled tightly inside her.
It wasn’t enough.
Not tonight.
“That’s it,” I said, rising to my feet and tugging her up with me.
She blinked. “What—?”
“Lock up. Get your things.”
“Gavin, I—”
I stepped in close. Real close. Close enough to feel her exhale against my chest, to see her pupils dilate when I crowded her space. Her breath hitched, and I saw the confusion begin to melt into something warmer. Something deeper.
I slid my fingers into her hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt her head back until her eyes met mine. Her lips parted with a soft gasp, and I could feel the weight of it—of her—settle right beneath my ribs.
“You’re going to lock the shop, go upstairs, and pack an overnight bag.” My voice dropped, every word thick and firm, leaving no room for argument. “Then you’re going to walk your pretty little ass to my truck. And you’re going to come home with me.”
Her lips parted, breath shaky.
I let my thumb brush along the edge of her jaw, slow and steady. “Let me take care of you tonight,” I stated. “No more worrying. No more spreadsheets or emails or insurance things tonight. Come home with me, sweetheart.”
Her lashes fluttered shut for half a second. When she opened them again, the look in her eyes nearly brought me to my knees.
Trust.
Need. Longing. And a hint of surrender.
She nodded once, barely more than a breath.
“Good girl,” I whispered, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her hands found the front of my shirt again, softer this time. A quiet cling, like she wanted to stay there just a little longer.
Because tonight?
Tonight she was mine.