Chapter 18
Evie
What did I just say to him?
My pulse is still too fast. My skin too tight—tingling as if I haven’t yet processed that the argument is over.
I accused him of being afraid. Of holding back. Of not letting me in.
Where did that even come from?
I mean it’s true, he keeps me at arm’s length.
Distant. Gabe is nothing if not always aboveboard and appropriate.
But there’s never been anything remotely romantic between us.
He’s five years older. One of the few friends my brother has who isn’t a total asshole.
Who’s stayed around through the years. Not that my brother deserves friends who stay.
He’s the worst at keeping in touch. At reaching out. At maintaining friendships.
Of course, I’m not exactly one to talk. My closest friends are ones I’ve met through work. And once we’re no longer on the same case, I don’t see them as often. My closest friend in DC, Shonda, is close mainly thanks to proximity—her office is on the same floor as mine.
Was I projecting?
That’s too clinical of an assessment. Also, too easy.
I pace the bedroom, cardigan wrapped tight around me. Outside, the lake is dark glass, reflecting sunlight that wavers and blurs.
And what did he say back?
Because if you were ready, you wouldn’t still be standing so far away.
Is that true?
Even if it is, holding back is the smart thing, right?
I’m an adult woman, I can’t imagine that Scott cares about my sex life, but on the off chance he does, is it worth risking one of my brother’s few sustaining relationships?
It’s hard for men to connect. Hell, it’s hard for me to connect and it’s doubly hard for my brother.
At the window, the vast lake before me, a voice in my head asks, “Scott? That’s your excuse? You’re not a kid anymore. If something happened here in Switzerland, he’d never even know. And if it developed into more, he’d probably be elated.”
Scott is a weak argument. The trial lawyer in me understands that. It’s not one I’d present to a judge.
I’ve never been one for relationships. That’s the truth. I’ve dated but when push comes to shove, my relationships have always fallen to low priority status. And eventually they fizzle.
Now that’s a legitimate concern. What if Gabe and I did cross the line, if I’d let that kiss progress, and then what? After we solve this case—and we will find out who is behind killing the case and Lina—I’ll be back at it. Working insane hours for the best of causes—stopping the worst of humanity.
Gabe deserves someone with more to give, more time, greater presence. Someone who wouldn’t choose the job over him. Every time.
The internal voice comes back, the voice I rely on to shred my arguments so I foresee the weakness. “Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? You’re jumping to his frustration over canceled dinner plans before he’s asked you to dinner.”
Valid.
Which brings me back to…does he even want anything with me? Gabe isn’t the kind of guy who would come on to me just for sex. He’s not a player. Never has been.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, pressing my palms to my thighs.
Gabriel Martin has been in my dreams since I was fifteen.
Literally. Recurring dreams—the kind Freud and Jung said pointed to unresolved feelings.
I took a whole class on dream psychology just to understand why I kept seeing him.
The professor said it wasn’t about the person—it was about what they represented.
Unfinished business. Something my subconscious was trying to integrate.
I got an A in the class.
And I still dream about him.
Distantly, like he’s out of reach.
Not as a placeholder.
As him.
My hands shake as I stand and cross to the door.
If he meant what I think he meant—if he’s been holding back because of me—then I’m done thinking. Because thinking hasn’t kept me from wanting him. It’s just delayed it. My subconscious has been talking to me for years—this isn’t something to ignore.
The living room is dim—afternoon light going gray at the edges. The TV is off. Gabe sits on the sofa, phone face-up on the cushion beside him, but his attention snaps to me the second I appear.
“Still angry?” he asks quietly.
I blink. Right. We were fighting. About the café. About control.
I can barely remember why.
I cross to the sofa and sit, leaving space between us. Not much. But some.
“I need to know something,” I say.
He sets his phone on the coffee table, moving it as if it’s important, because for some reason it can’t fit on the sofa with both of us. With that done, he says, “Anything.”
I pull the cardigan tighter, stretching the threads, as if it can protect me from what I’m about to ask. “Am I imagining this? Or are you saying you’re interested in me?”
His jaw flexes ever so slightly.
I push forward before I lose my nerve. “That kiss earlier, …was it just...stress? Or if I hadn’t stopped, would you have wanted it to keep going?”
He meets my gaze with an intensity that sears. “Evie, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything more.”
I pretty much stop breathing.
“Does that really surprise you?”
“Yes,” I manage. “You never—you’ve never indicated—”
And then he’s there.
Close enough that I feel the heat of him. His hand comes up, fingers sliding along the side of my neck, thumb brushing the side of my face.
“I’ve been holding back since you were sixteen.”
My throat tightens. Not fear. Want—sharp and disorienting and overwhelming.
I’m not sure I can swallow.
“And now?” The whisper is all I can manage.
“Now,” he says, leaning closer, “If I’m reading you right…”
His mouth brushes mine.
Soft. Testing.
The world narrows.
Everything else—the case, the danger, the noise in my head—falls away like it was never real.
I’ve dreamed of this. A thousand times. But dreams don’t feel like this—don’t taste like this—don’t make my pulse hammer like this.
He pulls back, just slightly, watching me. Waiting.
I lean in.
His tongue touches my lower lip, and I open for him, and the sound he makes—low, animalistic—I feel it everywhere.
My nails scrape the short hair on the back of his head, for the briefest of seconds, caught in this moment, and then I’m done with the hesitation.
I tug him closer.
He groans into my mouth, hands sliding to my waist—grip firmer now, and lower, like something in him has finally given way. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Does that answer your question?” His voice is rough, lips wet—and god, he looks very turned on. There’s no question what he wants.
But…“Why didn’t you ever—at the holidays, or—”
“Fuck, Evie.” He exhales sharply, forehead falling to mine. “At first, you were so young.”
“I’m thirty.”
“Were,” he corrects, and kisses me again. Slower this time. And much more certain.
His tongue is now demanding, and he’s far more exploratory, hands curving around my bottom, along my sides.
When we break apart, I admit on an exhale, “You were my first crush.”
He pulls me onto his lap, arranging me so I’m straddling him.
“I noticed you early,” he says, caressing my cheek. “Too early.”
“Did you know?” I ask because it’s a question I’ve wondered. “That I had a thing for you?”
He shakes his head, but his eyes drop. “Maybe. You were so nervous around the guys. But when it was just us—”
He pulls me into another kiss, and this time my hips rock against him without permission.
I feel him. Hard. Ready.
God.
“I thought I was just Scott’s sister to you,” I whisper against his mouth. “Someone to watch out for. Not someone you’d want.”
His hands slide under my shirt, the calloused skin both rough and warm, tracing my curves, all the way to my bra strap. “Never.”
His touch is reverent. Slow. Like he’s memorizing me.
But also staying within lines.
I tug at his sweater, needing skin. Wanting more.
If we’re doing this, I want it all.
“I forced myself to back away,” he murmurs against my throat, fingers gliding between my breasts. “Didn’t trust myself. Not with you.”
My breath stutters.
Holy shit.
I shiver as his lips graze my pulse point. “Why?”
“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “It’s always been you.”
“Gabe—”
He nips my lower lip. “Yes. You were always special.”
My cardigan slips off my shoulders. He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look.
“Can I take this off?” he asks, fingers at the hem of my shirt.
I nod.
“Do you need time to think?”
In answer, I remove the cardigan and sweater, so I’m sitting on his lap in my bra.
“I’ve wanted this since I was fifteen.”
Is that bad to admit? Maybe. But the boys in my class didn’t visit me at night in my dreams. Just Gabe.
The guttural sound from Gabe as he cups my breasts is incendiary.
“It’s a good thing I stayed away. I would’ve ended up in jail.”
I shift off his lap and take his hand. “You stayed away long after I turned eighteen.”
“Life,” he says, standing with me. “Every holiday, I wondered if you’d show up with someone.”
I lead him to the bedroom, but he pauses at the desk.
My heart skitters.
He grabs his wallet, and I understand.
We’re on the same page.
In the bedroom, he tosses it on the nightstand.
I tug once more at his sweater, and he lifts his arms, removing it the rest of the way for me.
The afternoon light streams through the window. We’re not hiding.
“You’re sure?” he asks as I take in his tight, muscular chest, the mix of dark hairs and the divots along his abdomen.
“Evie?”
“Stop asking,” I scold. “I want this.”
He tucks my chin up, brushes his lips over mine, and pulls back. I stand there in only a bra and jeans, heart hammering, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin.
The bra tightens around my ribs for a split second, then loosens.
He guides the straps over my shoulders, and I let it fall.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful.”
My fingers lightly trace him—firm muscle, a thin scar on his side.
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp.
“Sensitive?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes.”
He bends, lowering his mouth, tongue circling one peak, and my knees weaken.