Chapter 7
ALEX/KING/KATHERINE
King: knew I should have gone with her.
Alex: to the board meeting?
King: yeah.
King: it should be over by now but she’s not answering my texts.
Alex: Breathe, King. Her team says she’s meeting with Gabe.
King: uh oh. maybe we should check on them.
Alex: Gabe wouldn’t hurt her.
King: it’s not her I’m worried about *winking face with tongue*
KATHERINE
This is not at all how I thought my afternoon would go.
It’s so much better. Gabe’s saying all the right things.
And the no-touching rule is adorably sweet.
I’ve never been with a man so determined to get to the bottom of his issues, so open-minded and aware of his flaws.
Not to mention, intent on correcting them.
He’s taken the first steps to heal, and knowing him, he’ll continue until he’s successful.
“Yeah,” he parrots the word back to me. “Speaking of, I have a proposal.”
My heart somersaults in my chest, and I suck in a sharp breath.
The phone in his pocket vibrates against my hip, momentarily distracting me from his statement. My cell has buzzed several times since the meeting ended, so I’m betting King is trying to find us and maybe make sure we’re not killing each other.
But I’ve never wanted Gabe dead. On the contrary, I want him alive and kicking and preferably naked.
I wet my lips. “You were saying?”
He pushes away from the table. “We need to be face-to-face for this.”
Oh my god.
But instead of dropping to one knee, he toes one of the rolling chairs into position and perches on the edge of it, staring up at me with anticipation in his eyes.
“I want you to run Chanler & Cort with me. Out with the old, in with the new. We could change the company for the better. I’ve got so many ideas. I’m sure you do too. You’re so smart and thoughtful, and you understand the business in ways I don’t.”
My heart drops with each word. Then I start to vibrate with annoyance. Frustration. All the usual suspects. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course, we’d go from a beautiful heart-to-heart to talking business.
Business is all anyone seems to care about.
He babbles for another twenty seconds or so about his ideas with the same exuberance he shows here at the foundation. “We could start small. But there’s got to be a way to get rid of some of the fees that are keeping people broke.”
I swallow at that, my sails deflating.
Mouth open to continue, suddenly he bites the words back, and his lips curve down. His shoulders sag, and he leans back a little, losing himself in thought. Or maybe it’s a memory.
It’s easy to forget that he had a life before he became the tech tycoon he is today. That prior to making his billions, he was a bookish boy on a farm in Nebraska. Our childhoods were as different as dogs and cats.
Feeling less sour, I ask, “What are you thinking about?”
He takes my hands, resting them in my lap, and shrugs his sudden melancholy off. “Nothing important.”
The deflection is a hint of the old Gabe. The man who locks himself away when it doesn’t suit him. Who holds himself aloof. Which means it’s probably a painful thought. Some little gremlin he’d rather not release.
But I want to know because I’m endlessly fascinated by him, warts and all. Not that he has any, you know, actual warts. That lean body is pretty much perfection.
“I think it is,” I push back, squeezing his fingers.
He looks everywhere but at me.
“I was remembering a time when my mom bounced a check. She didn’t want us to know, but I saw her tears, heard the raised voices after bedtime.
The fees were money we didn’t have. She begged the bank, but—” He shrugs again, and my heart hurts for him.
For the sweet boy who hated seeing his mom sad.
“They’d already forgiven overdraft fees and weren’t willing to do it again. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, but I know that while I was thinking about my heart and my future, Gabe’s heart and future are caring not just about me but those in need. Mothers like his. Rural kids like he was.
And just like that, my frustration evaporates, and I sink down into his lap. His arms wrap around my waist, and I cling to any part of him I can. There’s something about the stiffness in his muscles that tells me there’s more to the story. More pain in the memory.
“I hated hearing her beg,” he murmurs, voice raw.
I squeeze his waist.
“My dad yelled, like he always did. My mom cowered. We all cowered.”
I can imagine the scene all too well. It’s not that much different from some moments in my childhood. Like Gabe’s father, my grandfather was an intolerant man.
“It wasn’t her fault we didn’t have the money. The fees made everything worse. Like we were constantly drowning. But she never stood up to my dad.”
I understand what he’s saying. The bank fees compounded the problem, and his mother never told the man she’d married to shove it. It sounds like his father never apologized for how he treated his family. Never tried to do better.
“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me,” I say. It feels good to be on the inside, to see into his past and help him carry those burdens.
It’s a miracle that Gabe didn’t turn out just like his dad. Calloused. Hardened. Intolerant.
But he’s putting in the work. He cares. About me. About Alex. About King. About the world beyond himself and those in his inner circle.
Cuddling in close, I soak in his goodness, accidentally rubbing against the erection blossoming in his pants.
“You’re torturing me on purpose.” The clouds vanish from his eyes, and the tension in his frame is replaced by something more erotic.
He grips me tighter, not exactly mad about the teasing. It certainly brightens his mood, which I’m glad for, even if I relish him telling me the truth about his past.
“I might be,” I agree.
“Minx.”
No one’s ever accused me of being too sexy and certainly not promiscuous. Before him, before the auction, I never felt desirable as a woman. Only as a status symbol, like a Chopard timepiece or a Bugatti. Well dressed, of course. Pampered and coiffed, absolutely.
Gabe makes me feel powerful. Alive. Confident.
“This no-touching rule... That only applies to you, right? As in, you can’t touch me, but I can touch you?” I could have so much fun with that.
His groan is somewhere between agony and a whimper, a delicious masculine sound that brands my soul. A giggle bubbles up my throat, and I nuzzle his cheek.
“I love you.” The words escape, real and tangible, unwilling to be held back any longer.
The hand on the outside of my thigh stops its lazy track up and down. I hold my breath. Is it too soon to admit those feelings?
“Say that again,” he commands.
I sit up so I can look him in the eye. His gorgeous baby blues are startling bright, and there’s an expectant half smile gracing his lips, as if he’s holding out on the full deal until he hears what he wants.
There’s a little flutter in my chest that moves to my veins, lighting me up in a way I’ve never experienced.
This time, I say it slowly. Intentionally. “I love you.”
His gaze drops to my lips, and he’s silent for a long, heart-wrenching moment. “Really? You’re not just building me up to swipe the rug out from under me, right?”
The old me would be offended at the suggestion.
Hell, the new me is offended because I’ve done so much work and healing and changing and growing.
But she gets it. This is a person who wasn’t loved unconditionally as a child.
He was picked at, picked on, teased, and downright abused.
And then, it happened again, by my own grandfather.
The boy was barely a man when that happened. Not much younger than I am now.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I promise.
He cups my cheek, then tips his forehead against mine. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He really does sound sorry. Gutted, even. Emotional, like he’s realizing exactly what those words mean. That I trust him. I don’t care about his company, his status, his wallet, or his stock portfolio, but about him.
All the feelings of the past two weeks crush together inside me, creating a giant ball of love, hope, and desire. I press a kiss to his lips, clinging to him, telling him without words that he can trust me, too. The little boy can trust me. That he doesn’t have to go through life alone.
Sinking his fingers into my hair, he kisses me back. Our breathing grows ragged as we strain against each other, trying to get closer. Hands roaming everywhere. Somehow, I end up straddling his lap. The zipper at the back of my dress gives, and his fingertips coast down my spine.
“King was right,” he says between kisses. “I am crazy about you. Tortured myself there for a bit. But he’s right. I love you. I’m in love with you.”
His afternoon scruff teases my cheek as he whispers those immortal words into my ear, then nips the lobe. I squirm in his arms, needing his touch. Skin on skin.
“You tortured me too,” I whisper, arching against him.
“No more of that. It’s past us.”
I shiver and my nipples pebble, eager for more.
For everything he has to give. His lips tear from mine and then trail, no, nip their way down my jaw, to my throat.
Eyes shut tight, I sink my fingers into his hair.
He peels my dress down, exposing inches of skin that he kisses.
My nerve endings fire rapid pleasure warnings to my brain.
“More,” I whimper. I don’t recognize the huskiness in my voice.
My bra strap slips over my shoulder, and he’s right there to lavish attention on the revealed skin. Needing to return the favors, I shove at his suit jacket, but it doesn’t budge. At least not far.
“Hold on, Pri—” He halts the endearment, respecting my earlier request. His thoughtfulness kills me and rebuilds me in an instant.
I want to be his. His princess, his lover, his everything. Honestly, he makes me feel like a queen.
“Say it,” I plead. “Who am I?”