Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ROSEMARIE
Sitting in front of the mirror while getting ready to go out with Elodie, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gavin.
We’ve spent several nights together since he picked a crying me up off the shop floor (again), took me to his home, and wined and dined me—emphasis on the wined. And then there was that bath…
It wasn’t just that night—though that bath tub is something out of a dream—but everything.
The way Gavin held me in bed. The quiet way he touched me, like he was memorizing my skin just to prove to himself I was real. The press of his mouth against my temple when he whispered, “Goodnight, sweetheart,” into my hair.
We hadn’t had sex. And, okay, I was a little disappointed.
I’d been ready. Wanting. More than that—I was basically feral at every brush of his fingers, every stolen kiss on my shoulder or stomach.
But I was also … awed.
Because even when I’d been leaning into him with nothing but a thread of cotton between us, he hadn’t taken advantage. Not once. Not even when I’d looked up at him with wide eyes and a smile that silently begged for more.
His restraint wasn’t hesitation. It was care. Deliberate and quiet and impossibly kind. He just … took care of me.
Last night, he picked me up at the shop. We had dinner and talked for hours on the patio before he tucked us into bed. And, sure, maybe he was the reason I was a little wine drunk to begin with. Gavin’s idea of a pour was half the bottle. But still. He’d kept his word.
We woke this morning tangled in his tan sheets, limbs wound together in a way that made it hard to tell whose was whose.
My thigh was slung over his hip, his hand resting low on my back, his breath soft and even against my temple.
The room was quiet and the morning light slid between the slats of his blinds in long golden bands, catching on the faint lines around his mouth and eyes.
I watched his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek, steady and strong, like nothing could ever shake him. I didn’t want to move.
I was wearing one of his work shirts. It hung off my shoulders, oversized and worn in the softest way—probably from years of sun and sweat and washing. No panties—because someone hadn’t given mine back … again.
His phone had vibrated on the nightstand, the sharp sound a rude interruption to the silence we’d been wrapped in. The noise startled me enough that I tensed, but Gavin just groaned and reached for it with his free arm, dragging it to his ear without even checking the screen.
His voice was gravel-thick with sleep when he said, “Yeah?”
I blinked up at him, tucked tighter into his side as he pulled the phone to his ear. His chest rumbled under my cheek, the sound of his voice as peaceful as it was distracting.
“Morning, Harry,” he said after a pause. I froze.
Harry. My father Harry.
I looked up sharply, heart stuttering. Gavin didn’t even flinch. He just lifted his hand and started tracing soft lines down my spine like I wasn’t in full panic mode.
“Mhm. Yeah, I know the place,” he continued, casual as anything. “Is it still on the market?”
He was talking business. With my father. While I lay half-naked in his bed.
I opened my mouth, probably to whisper-scream something along the lines of oh my God, are you insane, but he just kept his hand moving.
Calm and steady, dragging the pads of his fingers down to the small of my back and back up again.
Comforting. Soothing. And basically the only thing keeping me from launching myself off the bed and out the nearest window.
They talked for a few minutes—about the foundation, the plumbing (of course), the fact that it had been on the market for months but needed more work than people wanted to admit.
“Alright. Drinks later?” Gavin said. “Yeah, I’ll bring comps and some reno estimates … Sounds good. Talk soon.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone back to the nightstand like he hadn’t just committed social arson.
I stared up at him, breath caught in my throat.
“You just … kept talking to my father while I am—”
“Wrapped around me in nothing but my shirt?” He grinned, eyes still sleepy-soft. “Yeah. I noticed.”
I pushed at his chest lightly. “You’re awful.”
He caught my hand with easy reflexes and kissed my knuckles. His lips were warm. Familiar. Dangerous. “You’re lucky he didn’t FaceTime.”
“Oh my God—”
He laughed, deep and low and warm. And I melted right back into him.
“I owe Elodie a girls’ night,” I said after a minute, voice muffled against his chest. “And she’s going to want an update.”
“You should go,” he said, still stroking lazy circles on my back. “I’m guessing the update is about us and not the shop?”
“She already knows.”
His hand stilled. “Of course, she does. She’s your best friend.”
“Yeah.”
The word hung there for a moment, heavier than I expected. We were quiet for a second.
“I’d like to keep waking up like this,” I said, softer this time.
The air shifted between us, like we’d crossed some invisible line.
His voice matched mine when he replied, “Then let’s figure out how to make that happen.”
We locked eyes. And just like that, it felt real. More real than it ever had.
This wasn’t temporary. It wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t some dirty little secret we’d sweep under the rug and pretend never happened.
We were doing this.
“Why don’t we have dinner with your parents in a few days, weeks, or a month,” he suggested. “Whenever you are ready.”
“Together?”
“Safety in numbers,” he said, a teasing tilt to his voice. “Maybe a public place. Keep them from throwing things.”
“Exactly.”
He chuckled, then added, “I’ll let Harry take one good swing.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I’d do the same if it were Teagan.” His eyes softened. “He’s allowed a gut reaction. Just one.”
I shook my head. “You’re such a dad.”
“You like it.”
I did.
Breakfast that morning was waffles and bacon.
He made it while I stood in his kitchen sleepy and basically naked, sipping coffee from one of his perfectly matching mugs.
He’d draped a blanket over my shoulders and kissed the top of my head when I leaned against the counter, watching him work the waffle iron like it was serious business.
The kitchen was sunlit and quiet, the kind of quiet that wraps around you and makes you want to stay forever.
The smells of maple syrup and crisp bacon filled the air.
I kept sneaking glances at him—barefoot, shirtless, his hair still sleep-mussed, with that focused crease between his brows as he debated how long to let the waffles cook.
We ate on the deck, curled up together with more blankets, plates balanced on our laps and second cups of coffee in hand.
The morning air was still cool, sunlight slowly melting through the clouds, turning the dew on the railing into tiny glittering stars.
Birds chirped somewhere off in the trees.
Everything about the moment felt unhurried, untouched by the rest of the world.
It was cozy. Peaceful. Real. Too real to be temporary.
He dropped me off at my apartment later that morning, carrying my bag to the door. His palm lingered against the small of my back, like he didn’t want to let go just yet.
He kissed me goodbye just outside my door—slow and deep and final in the kind of way that made my knees threaten to give out. I clung to his jacket and tasted maple syrup and coffee on his tongue.
When he pulled away, I was breathless.
And already wanting more.