Reforming Gabe

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Yes, sir. The best ever.”

  “I don’t know about the best ever, but trust me when I say that when you call a pass play, I know where I’m supposed be and I’m going to be there. You stop worrying about that. You just need to worry about getting the ball where it’s supposed to be. You’ve got the arm to get it there, and I’ll be there to catch it.” Whether he would catch it was a different question.

  “Yes, sir.” Lance reached for the ball.

  “Wait, Lance. Who won the Super Bowl last year?”

  The boy looked mortified. “The Denver Broncos.”

  “Why was that?”

  He looked confused. “Because they were really good?”

  “They were. But why else? Go ahead and say it. I know the answer, and it’s okay.”

  Lance looked at the ground. “Because you dropped the ball.”

  “That right. I dropped the ball. And what does that tells you?”

  “That we all make mistakes?”

  Oh, good cow. What was this? Kumbaya Kindergarten?

  “Not the point. I dropped the ball. Dropped it. I didn’t miss it because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be or because Troy Milam didn’t get it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, we’re going to go again. What are you going to worry about?”

  “Getting the ball where it’s supposed to be. You’ll be there.”

  “Right.”

  The words Gabe had spoken didn’t make for magic, but Lance’s passes improved, finally to the point that a ball sailed within Gabe’s reach.

  And, as he feared, when he put his hands in the air and looked upward, the ball turned into Camille. So he did the only thing he could—closed his eyes, stretched out his hands, and hoped for the best. When he felt the ball land solidly in his hands, relief came over him. Not that the relief counted for much. That eye-closing trick might work at a high school spring practice, on a middle school field, with a sixteen-year-old arm on the other end of the ball. But it would never fly in the NFL with a gunslinger like Troy Milam behind the ball.

  “Good job, twelve!” Gabe yelled to Lance. “That’s what I’m talking about. Let’s go again!”

  And they did, with Gabe faking the whole way. The boy didn’t always get the ball where it was supposed to be, but when he did, Gabe usually caught it blind. When he missed, he made sure Lance knew whose fault it was.

  “My bad!”

  “Are you coming back tomorrow?” Lance asked when Coach blew his whistle and ordered the team onto the bus.

  Not for all the tea in the Orient and forty-six china cups to put it in. But that was wishful thinking. He’d promised Coach he’d help, and it was a promise he meant to keep, regardless of the crazy dancing around in his head.

  “Sure. I might come work out with y’all before practice, too.” At least working out was safe.

  “That’d be great!” Lance said over his shoulder as he jogged toward the bus.

  Relieved, Gabe turned to go. Maybe he could talk Neyland into having dinner in Nashville tonight. He pulled his cell phone out. He’d call her from the car.

  Gabe had taken no more than five steps when Coach MacKenzie materialized before him.

  “I think Lance made some progress today,” Gabe said.

  Coach nodded. “I’d say.” He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Son, what’s wrong with you?”

  Damn. He should have known. Those boys wouldn’t think a thing of the few balls he’d missed, but Coach knew he should have had them without breaking a sweat.

  But he’d told all the trouble-causing truths he could today. “Slept wrong.” He reached up and massaged his left rotator cuff.

  “Yeah? Does closing your eyes help a sore shoulder? That must be some kind of secret, NFL sports medicine I don’t know about.”

  “I’m fine. Really. See you tomorrow? That is, if you think I’m of any use here.”

  Coach nodded. “Sure.”

  And he was gone—running from Camille, running toward Neyland, and running for his life.

  Chapter Ten

  Neyland slipped a bite of filet mignon in her mouth and reached for her wine glass.

  “I like how you went right for the steak menu without pretending to look at the small plates and salads.”

  Neyland wasn’t convinced she should have let Gabe bring her to this upscale steakhouse with its white tablecloths, cushy chairs, and big wine list. This might be a little too close to a date. But she was hungry and he’d been insistent. He attacked a New York strip that could have fed a family of four if they weren’t too hungry.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said. “That’s why I got the truffled lobster add-on. I wanted to make you happy.”

  “You do, indeed. Don’t forget the béarnaise sauce and caviar you’ve got over there. I’m elated. You know why?”

  “I do not.” She ate a bite of spinach.

  “This is what I hate: A woman says, ‘This salad with this little bit of raw tuna and wasabi on top is all I want. More than I can eat.’ The next thing you know, she’s eyeing your rack of lamb or pork chops. And then you have to order dessert to tide you over until you get home. And she eats half of that. You can’t win. I like a woman who gets her own food.”

  “In truth, you’re getting it for me. I’m too poor for this place. This week, I’m too poor for the coffee shop.” Neyland laughed a little under her breath. “My mother would give me The Look for poor mouthing.”

  “I don’t think you’re poor mouthing,” Gabe said. “Poor mouthing is when you whine to everybody you see about what you don’t have and what you can’t get. You’re merely stating facts to a friend who already knows the situation.”

  Friend. Her feelings snagged on the word, though she couldn’t have said if it was in a good way or bad. But it was enough good that she felt a smile bloom that she didn’t summon.

  “Friends? Is that what we are?”

  “I don’t know about that exactly.” He half closed his eyes, looked her up and down, and his face went all sexy. “In that dress, you’d make a fixed dog beg for his testicles back.”

  Laughter bubbled out of Neyland, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “So eloquent! Not to mention romantic.” She wiped her eyes with her napkin.

  “I like that sexy, mafia-widow look you’ve got going on.” She’d worn the little black dress—one of the pieces she shouldn’t have bought after selling Catherine last year. Tonight she’d put the dress with the Christian Louboutin heels and Annabelle.

  “Who is that you’ve got hanging around your neck? Clarabelle? Mary Jane?”

  “Annabelle. But I can’t be a mafia widow without a black hat and a little veil over my face.”

  Gabe’s eyes widened. “Let’s get you one on the way home! We can play a game. You can be going into the witness protection program. I can be the poor but humble and noble federal marshal. I’d lay down my life for you, but we only have this one night.”

  Pretty soon, it would be only one more night—in twelve nights, to be precise.

  “You’re out of control.”

  “That’s what they tell me.” He refilled her wine glass and then his own.

  “Anyway, I am a mafia widow,” she said. “Didn’t you know? The family still watches out for me. So be careful what you say to me.”

  “I always am.” Gabe looked into his wine glass and played with the stem. “I’ve been thinking.” He opened his mouth and closed it again.

  “And?”

  “I would like to commission a piece of jewelry.”

  Not that again. “I am not—”

  “No! Stop shaking your head. Hear me out. I want you to make something for Emory. A sort of ‘welcome to the family’ present.”

  Maybe that should have made her mad, but it didn’t. It was endearing in a cockeyed sort of way.

  “No, Gabe.” She laid a hand on his. “I appreciate the thought, but no.”

  “I don’t know why not.”


  “Yes, you do.”

  “Then I have another idea.”

  There was something in his voice, something in his face that made Neyland think this was the real idea, the one he hoped she’d consider after saying no to his fake idea.

  He leaned forward and looked at her intently. “Have you ever thought of selling a design?”

  “For mass-production?” Her hands covered Annabelle. She suspected her tone told him what she thought of that. Noel sold designs to a quilt supply manufacturer, but that was different. They didn’t mass-produce quilts. People bought the pattern and made their own.

  “Why not?” he asked. “It could generate some income for you while you wait to sell some of your big pieces and become famous.”

  She ran her fork through a little pool of sauce on her plate. “You sound like you think that’s going to happen.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “I think it can happen, but maybe not on your own terms. At least not at first. You need a plan and some time. And for now, you need some income from something other than those little silver bracelets and things you make.”

  Her radar prickled. “How do you know so much about this?”

  He shrugged and tilted his head. “I don’t … not really. But, once, I knew someone—dated her—who did something like that.”

  Would wonders never cease? Gabe Beauford was blushing. This was interesting. “Tell me more.” Neyland had to work to keep the jealously out of her voice—and her heart.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Even so.”

  He picked up his dessert fork. “Do you want dessert?”

  “You can depend on it. Now tell me more about this person. What kind of design?”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. She made … metal things. Candlesticks. Special hardware like door handles and hinges. Fireplace tools.”

  It became clear. She’d been searching her brain, and there it was. As relief settled over her, she began to laugh.

  “You were sleeping with that blacksmith, Kitty Ames, weren’t you? Before she got run out of town for seducing half my daddy’s team!”

  “Now, Neyland. Kitty was very particular. She never slept with anybody under eighteen. She made you bring your birth certificate. She didn’t trust drivers' licenses.”

  “All that blew up when I was about fourteen. So you must have been at UT by then. How old was she, anyway?”

  “Not that old. Maybe twenty-eight. Maybe thirty. What can I say? She liked football players.”

  “Young ones.”

  “I’ll give you that. I got too old for her.”

  “A dark day.”

  “Anyway, you’ve changed the subject. Kitty might have had her issues, but she was a good businesswoman. She designed these bottle openers—all twisted iron with designs on top like fleurs-de-lis and flowers. For holidays there were Christmas trees and pumpkins. Maybe Easter rabbits. Seems like she made a few prototypes and submitted them with the designs. After she got a contract, she just designed. She didn’t have to make the stuff. You could do that.”

  “I can’t, Gabe, at least not until I give up.”

  “Give up? This would help you buy time so you don’t have to give up.”

  “You’re sweet. You really are. But if I put my name on some trendy designs made of base metals that have been punched out by a machine, I would never succeed at doing the kind of work I really want to do. And even if I didn’t put my name on it, people in the industry would know.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. It could be silver. And you could do something really different to sell to upscale gift shops. That’s what Kitty did. They charged a fortune for those things—at least a fortune for what they were.”

  She shook her head. “It would be no different than the bracelets and earrings I turn out by the dozens now.”

  Shaking his head, he reached over and ran his fingers over Annabelle. “You won’t convince me that the woman who came up with this idea can’t think of something interesting that could be the next hot thing. Just think about it?”

  She nodded.

  He licked his bottom lip. Her heart began to pound—maybe because Gabe had faith in her, maybe because what he was saying might be possible, maybe because he licked his bottom lip.

  Probably the last. He did it again. Unlike the first time, he knew what he was doing the second time, had read her face and knew she wanted her tongue where his was.

  His smile was pure evil. “You said you wanted dessert?”

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  “So, sassy britches, chocolate lava cake for two? To go? It’s no black widow outfit, but it has possibilities.”

  • • •

  Gabe woke up cold in the wee hours of the morning. The sweet smell of chocolate attacked his senses, bringing back the memories of the night before. Immediately, he wanted Neyland again—wanted to be deep inside her without preamble, foreplay, or an if you please.

  But when he reached for her, she was gone. Fuck. Or not fuck. That was the point. She had made a halfhearted attempt to go to the carriage house before sleeping last night, but he’d pulled her close and elicited a promise from her to stay. And now it looked like she had gone anyway. He was half-irked and whole-horny. He’d show her to leave him alone. After pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he rummaged around on the dresser until he found his Beauford Bend master key.

  But when he charged out of the bedroom, there she was sitting on the floor crossed-legged, sketching something. His laptop was open at her side, and she was surrounded by dozens of sheets of paper.

  If the sight of her in that black dress—the one that looked like it had been waiting in heaven until she summoned it down—had put him in fantasyland, Neyland wearing his discarded, half-buttoned, blue oxford shirt might kill him. There was a smear of chocolate on the front.

  But it wasn’t just the sight of her in his shirt; there was something more. The look of elation and excitement on her face said she was totally content with her solitude, that she needed nothing—nobody—except what was on that paper. He had never felt that way about anything. He had never been comfortable with his own company, had always needed to be with people. Jackson said it was because he was a twin, but Gabe wasn’t so sure. Rafe could be content in solitude. This serene sweetness that he had not seen in Neyland before went beyond content. She reveled in being inside herself, and seeing it did something strange to his body. The heat in his loins moved to his chest, leaving him feeling tight, bewildered, and so alone. But he was happy for her, too.

  He was considering retreating with his confusion when she looked up.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.

  “You didn’t. Or I guess you did. By being gone.” In spite of her welcoming smile, he felt like a spy or, at best, an intruder. “I’ll leave you with your work.”

  “No.” She held out a hand to him. “Come and see.”

  He waded through the mess of papers. “How did you get into my computer?”

  “It wasn’t that hard to guess your password. It only took me three tries. Wideout#16 isn’t really that secure. You could at least use a y for the i and a zero for the o.”

  He let himself down beside her, a little more comfortable now that their familiar snappy banter had surfaced.

  “Did you get into my super secret stuff?”

  “Yeah. I emailed all your porn to The National Enquirer and ordered myself a whole new summer wardrobe. You ought not stay logged in at Ralph Lauren and Brooks Brothers.”

  “I’ll call the law on you.” Though he would cheerfully buy her a new wardrobe.

  “Go ahead.” She stretched and yawned, clasping her hands above her head.

  “Do that again, and I’ll buy you some more of those fancy shoes with the red soles.”

  “No. I only accept consumables from you. But I wish you had some decent paper. I had to use printer paper to draw on.”

  “So if I had whatever you consider decent
paper—”

  “Acid free, sixty-pound weight sketch books. I prefer spiral bound.”

  “So, if I had this thing, you’d feel comfortable stealing it, not unlike you stole my printer paper, but I couldn’t buy you one?”

  “Yeah.” She yawned and stretched again.

  He was feeling more and more like his old self. His chest loosened and his cock stirred. “Keep it up, woman. I’ll take you right here on the floor.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” She went back to her drawing.

  He laid a hand on her arm. “Hey. Show me. Tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Well!” She laid her paper aside, and her eyes danced. “I was thinking about what you said—about how I could come up with something unique. And you know how I like to base my designs on historic pieces?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.” But it was clever. Very clever. And he felt proud.

  “Yes. Annabelle was inspired by and an Edwardian watch fob, and Catherine—the piece I sold last year—is a bracelet inspired by a Russian tiara. So I was trying to think of something along those lines that could be done in silver without gems. I thought of antique luggage tags, but then I remembered that’s been done. I thought about silver hair pins, buttons, perfume bottles, and vanity sets, but I couldn’t come up with any jewelry that made sense.”

  He had to smile. She was so happy telling the story of how she got to her idea—though he did wonder when she would get to the point.

  “And then, I found this!” She rolled to her knees and brought up the sleeping computer screen. “See?”

  He had to drag his eyes away from her pretty little, black lace-clad backside sticking in the air to look at the computer screen, but he did—though he had no idea what he was looking at. It was some kind of fancy old-fashioned brooch with chains hanging off of it and little gewgaws attached to the chains.

  “Okay,” he said. “Is that some kind of a weapon? Like a cat o’ nine tails?”

  She laughed with delight. “It’s a chatelaine!”

  “Of course. I have five or six of those.”

  She smiled and settled back, clearly happy that she was about to get to deliver a jewelry history lesson.