“Well, you’re good at work.” Her hand squeezed his in encouragement. “Maybe Aidan and I can help you paint. We have experience.”
Hope opened like a pit beneath his feet, a chasm in his chest. Because, yeah, that sounded like . . . “I was thinking you could come look at it with me tomorrow. When you’re done at the bakery.”
“I’d like that.”
“Don’t expect too much,” he warned. “The third bedroom’s more like a closet. But I can build on later. Unless you need a home office now or something.”
Her hand stilled in his. “No. No, I don’t need a home office.”
“Then we’re set. One bedroom for Aidan, one for us.”
“Gabe, are you . . . are you talking about me moving in with you?”
“That was the plan.” Not the entire plan. Fuck it. He was going for it. When something is right . . . “First I was going to ask you to marry me.”
* * *
JANE’S HEART SOARED. Her stomach plummeted. Like she was on some crazy carnival ride, the slow climb to the top, the breathless anticipation, and then . . . Swoosh. The bottom dropped out.
Somehow her no-strings hookup on the kitchen prep table had turned into this—this emotional roller coaster.
She should have known better. She wasn’t any good at casual sex. There were feelings involved, hers and his, and now her stupid heart was careening off the tracks.
She stared across the table into Gabe’s deep, warm hazel eyes. Tempted. Terrified. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘yes’?”
She gave a little laugh, breathless and giddy and disbelieving. “It’s not that simple. We’ve known each other three weeks.”
“Four.” His gaze held hers. “Long enough for me to figure out that I’m in love with you.”
Oh. There it was again, that incredible high, that rattling, dizzying descent.
But marriage . . .
“I’ve been married,” she blurted. “I don’t want to be married again.”
His lashes flickered. “So, we don’t get married. You move in, we’ll see how things go.”
She was shaking. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to grab him and never let go.
Wasn’t it just like a man, wasn’t it just like Gabe, to think that action would solve everything?
Or anything.
“It’s too soon,” she said.
She wasn’t nineteen anymore, free to throw her heart and her future away, ready to risk everything for love.
Oh, God. She loved him. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
His grip tightened on her hand before he very gently, very carefully loosened his hold on her fingers. “I don’t expect the two of you to pack up tomorrow. I haven’t even made an offer on the house yet. Hell, it’ll take a month to close. That will be eight weeks.”
She opened her mouth. Shut it.
“You said yourself, you don’t want to live with Hank forever,” Gabe said.
She found her voice. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to move in with you.”
He didn’t move. She couldn’t read his body language at all. But his eyes seared into hers.
Jane faltered. “I’m sorry. I have feelings for you, too. And they scare me. Because feeling isn’t enough. I have to be sure. I have to do what’s best for Aidan.”
“Aidan and I are fine. I like Aidan. If you’re worried about having somebody to watch him, I can do that. I don’t mind getting him off to school. Whatever he needs.”
It was the perfect answer. It was no answer at all.
“He needs stability,” Jane said. “He needs security. He needs somebody who will always, always be there.”
“He needs? Or you need?”
“It’s the same thing. I’m responsible for his happiness. Please try to understand.”
Their server hovered at Gabe’s elbow. “Is everything all right here?”
Not all right. Not all right at all.
“Fine, thanks,” Gabe said. “You can bring the check anytime.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said again when their waiter was out of earshot. “I wish I had the courage to give you the answer you want. But I don’t.”
“Bullshit,” he said, the first time he’d ever sworn at her, and she flinched. “You have plenty of courage. What you need is a little faith in yourself. In me.”
“I need time.” She hated the sound of her voice. Weak. Pleading. Like the echo of her years with Travis. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t leave me. I’m sorry. Please. Please. Don’t.
Gabe drew an unsteady breath. “Okay. I get that you’re not where I am. Not yet. Just tell me what I have to do to make you trust me.”
Guilt flayed her. He was hurt. She was hurting him. She hated that. “You don’t have to do anything. I trust you. I do. It’s myself I don’t trust.”
“‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” He shook his head. “That’s the oldest cliché in the book.”
“It’s true. I have baggage. I need time to . . . to unpack.”
“You’ve had six years. How much longer are you going to let that asshole control your life?”
She winced. Her first infatuation had gone down in defeat and humiliation, in bruises and heartache. She had worked hard to protect her heart, to strengthen her defenses, to rebuild her life since then. Maybe it wasn’t a perfect life behind her fragile barriers, but it was safe.
“I’m not letting him control anything. Or you. I’m telling you I need time to think. We need to take a step back.”
“I say we move forward. I love you.”
Her heart ripped in two. She was so dangerously, so hopelessly, in love with him.
But once she told him so, once she admitted how much she wanted him, needed him, what then?
I love you wasn’t simply a statement.
It was a demand. A call to action. And she was paralyzed by doubt.
Maybe he did love her—now. But how could she judge? He could leave, like her mother had left, like Travis had left, like her father had withdrawn into his recliner and the TV.
And then what would she have left? Not even her pride.
“I made the mistake of jumping into a relationship once before,” she said painfully. “I can’t do it again.”
A muscle knotted in his jaw. “We are not a mistake. I am not that guy.”
She threw up her hands, badgered, driven on the defensive. “How do I know that?”
Gabe went still. “I do not hit women,” he said between his teeth.
Oh, God. Oh, God. She met his burning eyes. She might as well have thrown her wine in his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
Of course he wouldn’t hit her. But he could hurt her in other ways. He could break her heart.
“Here we are, Mr. Murphy.” Shawn Prescott presented the black check holder with a flourish. “You’ll see that there is no charge this evening for your beverages or, of course, for your des—”
“Shawn,” Jane said through her teeth. “Go away.”
He threw her a startled look. “Excuse me?”
Gabe pulled some bills out of his wallet and handed the folder to the manager. “Thanks. It’s been a . . . swell evening.”
He was furious. Hurt. She couldn’t blame him.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said as soon as the manager was gone. “I was upset.”
She was terrified. Of loving him. Of losing him. Of making a mistake. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please. Don’t.
“When people are upset, that’s generally when they say what they do mean.” Gabe stood. “Why don’t you take the car and go on home.”
Not a question.
She sat there, miserably aware that she had ruined everything. “But what about you?”
“I’ll walk.” His mouth set in a hard line. “I need some fresh air.”
Twenty-one
THE MOON WAS a thin dime in a pocket of clouds, its edges corroded by soft gray shadows. The
trees were black and solid.
No street lights.
Gabe trudged along the side of the road, his dress shoes slipping in the sand, making his way by the reflected light of the sky and the occasional beam of a porch light. The headlights of a passing car blinded him.
If he were in his truck, the darkness wouldn’t be a problem, but . . .
Shit. His truck was at Jane’s.
He almost turned around right there.
Except he really didn’t want to see Jane again tonight. She’d made it pretty damn clear the date was over. He kept walking. Maybe he’d call Luke, ask his buddy to bring Lucky back to the motel. Gabe could pick up his truck in the morning, after Jane left for the bakery.
Of course, that would leave his truck parked outside her father’s house all night. That would make the neighbors talk.
Hank would know Gabe hadn’t spent the night. As long as Jane’s father wasn’t coming after Gabe with a gun, who gave a shit about the neighbors?
Jane would care.
And Gabe cared about Jane.
He loved her. He’d never said those words to a woman before. He wanted her to move in with him. He’d asked her to marry him, for God’s sake.
She needed time to think, she said.
She wanted to take a step back, she said.
He reminded her of her ex.
Jesus.
He raised his head. Breathed deep. But the wind off the sea didn’t do a damn thing to ease the hot lump in his chest, to cool the burning sting of her rejection.
She accused him of being controlling when all he wanted was to take the next natural step forward in their relationship. To take care of her, to be there for Aidan. To let him be part of their lives.
After three weeks.
He shook his head. Okay, maybe that was a little . . . Not controlling. But quick. She had warned him she had baggage. He probably could have been a little more sensitive.
Or she could have been more trusting.
She might have trusted him if he hadn’t pushed.
Hell.
He could at least have tried to see things from her point of view. Could have taken more time to listen, to reassure.
Maybe he was more like her ex than he wanted to admit. The admission didn’t sit well with him at all.
The blue-and-white sign of the Fishermen’s Motel stuttered over the parking lot. Most of the spaces were taken by SUVs and pickup trucks, weekend fishermen sleeping four and eight to a room. Gabe dug in his pocket for his room key.
A car door opened behind him.
He half turned, his instincts on alert. Even in this sleepy coastal town, a parking lot encounter could be anything. A belligerent local, a drunk Marine . . .
Jane.
His heart leaped, choking him. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”
She stopped a few yards away, like she didn’t want to get too close. “I wanted to talk with you. To explain.”
He was still raw from their last discussion. “Cupcake, a woman shows up at a guy’s motel room, it’s usually not for conversation. Unless sex is your idea of an apology.”
God, he was such an asshole.
Her chin came up. She looked him straight in the eye. “Not anymore.”
Did that mean there was a time when she . . . ? Had her ex ever . . . ?
“Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.”
Jane shrugged, as if she didn’t count on any better from him. Which made him, of course, feel worse. “I suppose I expected that. You’re angry.”
He was. Or he had been—his usual knee-jerk response to rejection.
It was hard as hell to figure out what he was feeling now. Harder still to put those feelings into words.
But by some miracle, Jane was giving him another chance. All he had to do was not screw up.
He took a deep breath. Exhaled hard. And tried, really tried this time, to think before he opened his big mouth. “I’m disappointed you don’t feel the way I do, sure. I’m mad at myself for pushing you before you were ready.” He attempted a smile. “Mostly I’m trying to figure out what to do next. Just like you.”
Those big gray eyes regarded him steadily. He forced himself to hold her gaze.
“I know what I want to happen next,” Jane said softly. “And it doesn’t involve us standing out here in the parking lot where anyone can see.”
* * *
NOT AN APOLOGY, Jane thought. Her heart beat like crazy.
It was important he understand that she wasn’t offering sex as a sort of amends, a way to make things right between them.
It was vital that she did.
Because with Travis, sex had too often been a matter of obligation. You owe me. For my dead-end job and this crappy apartment, for getting pregnant, for leaving for work. For forgetting to buy beer or buying the wrong mustard.
After a while the reasons all blended together in a dreary chorus of coercion and compliance.
“Whatever you want,” Gabe said.
His hoarse admission was somehow louder than all the voices in her head.
“I want you.”
Those eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes, widened. He looked stunned. Confused. “Now?”
She smiled. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I want to. I mean, I want more than sex in a cheap motel room. But we both know I’ll take whatever I can get. Whatever you’re willing to give me.”
That was just so . . . hot. Him wanting her. On her terms. On any terms at all.
I’ll take whatever I can get.
She melted all over. “Then maybe you should invite me in.”
His gaze burned into hers. “Right.”
He unlocked the door.
Inside the cramped, low-ceilinged room, she was struck all over again by Gabe’s height, by the discrepancy reflected in the mirror. She was so much smaller than he was. Rounder, softer, defenseless.
But his eyes, meeting hers, were deep and vulnerable. He leaned against the bureau. Despite the casual pose, there was no relaxation in him at all. His body was taut with tension, his strength tightly leashed and controlled. For her.
Arousal flooded her. Arousal and tenderness. She wanted to touch him, to communicate without words the things she couldn’t trust herself to say: I love you. I care about you. You are important to me.
She reached for the buttons on his shirt. One by one, she undid them, her fingers brushing his skin. His breath lifted his chest and shuddered out of him, but he did not reach for her. Not yet. She smoothed his shirt from his shoulders, revealing his hard, lean body, the hair that was darker than the hair on his head, his velvet skin, his sobering tattoo. Her arms weren’t long enough to push his shirt all the way off. For a moment they stood trapped, tangled, his arms at his sides, her breasts brushing his chest, before he helped her, shrugging and tugging at the constrictive fabric, leaving himself open to her, exposing his heart. She kissed his chest, licked his nipple. His groan reverberated through them both.
She loved it. How beautiful he was, how powerful she felt.
She undid his buckle with shaking fingers, tugged down his jeans and his dark briefs with them, kneeling with the movement. His erection sprang free, warm against her cheek.
He sucked in a ragged breath. “Jane . . . you don’t need to . . .”
“I want to,” she said fiercely. She gripped him firmly, owning her desire, owning him, taking control.
She kissed him, tasting, exploring, a conqueror mapping new territory, taking it for her own. His hands moved to the dresser behind him, curled around the edge with white-knuckled strength as she nuzzled him. She lapped at him like a cat before fitting her lips around him, taking as much of him as she could into her mouth, into herself. Trying to swallow him, to possess him, the heat and the hardness, the pulse, the life, the sweet-salty taste of him. Mine. All mine.
She was drunk with power, dizzy with arousal, her lower body clenching on nothing, wet with wanting him.
His han
ds moved to her hair. “My God. Jane.”
She laughed, smug and joyful, and stood, yanking her dress over her head. He ran his rough hands all over her. Together they turned and stumbled to the bed. She pushed him down and crawled over his naked body, delighting in his warm, dense skin, the delicious abrasion of his body hair.
He stretched out one arm, reaching for the bedside table, and almost knocked over a lamp. She lunged to steady it.
“Condom,” he said. “In the drawer.”
She fumbled and grabbed, straddling his thighs as she rolled the condom in place. And then—oh, yes—she took him hard inside her, rocking on him, sliding with him, slow and steady. Riding to her own rhythm, absorbed in her own pleasure, until the vibrations started deep inside her, until the tremors spread, lengthened and strengthened and quaked through them both. His grip tightened as he moved her up and down, driving deeply inside her, taking his own release.
She collapsed, both of them breathing hard, dissolved in bone-deep pleasure.
She turned her head and kissed his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His puff of laughter stirred her hair. “Honey, after the best sex of my life, I should be thanking you.”
She raised her head, seeking . . . What? “Was it really?” The best sex of his life?
He stroked her hair from her face, his eyes deep, his touch gentle, that tiny groove at the corner of his mouth. “You destroyed me,” he assured her solemnly.
She snuggled back against him, but her mind refused to settle.
It wasn’t only sex, she thought. What they shared was raw and real, tender and more honest than any words she had said to him tonight.
She just didn’t know if it was enough.
For either of them.
* * *
“THANKS FOR WATCHING my dog,” Gabe said.
“No problem,” Luke said. His blue eyes narrowed in the porch light. “Beer?”
Gabe hesitated. It was ten thirty when Jane left the motel, almost eleven o’clock now. “I should let you get to bed.”
Luke was a family man now. Lucky bastard.
Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel Page 24