Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Since he wasn’t stopping, I grabbed his arm.
When I did, he stopped dead and turned his cobalt-blue eyes, first, to my hand on his arm, then to me.
Kill me.
Kill me dead.
The bright, vivid blue of his eyes in that gorgeous, tanned face with that head of black, black hair, that thick, well-kept beard and the fringe of spiky black lashes making the blue almost impossible, and all that aimed at me while my fingers were curled around the bulge of his steely bicep?
Jump him! Dreamer screamed.
Retreat! Retreat! RETREAT! Logic shouted.
“Text me the address, Willow,” Gabe said, pulling from my touch.
He kept walking toward the driver’s side.
I kept following.
“Why are you making my delivery?” I asked.
He opened his door, kept his hand on it and turned to look down at me.
“You look ready to drop,” he answered.
Fantastic.
He was all buff and beautiful and vital and well rested due to probably having the elusive talent of balancing work and life, and definitely not having a leech of a partner put him in a financial bind he had to work his ass off to extricate himself from.
And I obviously looked as tired as I felt.
“No way you should be behind the wheel of a car,” he finished.
“I’m not sure a man who looks like an action hero should deliver my cake,” I told him truthfully. “Word might get around. People might expect that. Especially since it’s always, but always, the moms who order the cakes. It’s also usually them who answers the door. Besides, she’s going to open the door to you, likely have an orgasm, and first, that’s highly inappropriate right before her five-year-old’s birthday party, and second, she’s probably partnered up, and I don’t need Willow’s Good Stuff getting the reputation of wrecking happy homes.”
I finally shut up, but when I did, Gabe stood perfectly still.
Okay, did I just say all of that?
Out loud?
You sure did, Dreamer purred.
Totally did, Logic sniped.
Right, how tired was I?
I wasn’t so tired I didn’t notice something changed in him. And that change was no good because it was absolutely spectacular.
“Get in. I’ll drive, you can deliver,” Gabe said, and his voice had changed too. It was usually deep and fabulously rumbly, but now it was even deeper and sinfully rumbly.
I stiffened my spine that, not but a few months ago, he’d alluded I did not have.
“I can drive myself.”
“I can also kidnap your cake so that kid doesn’t have one for their birthday, or their parents have to run to Costco to get one.”
I gasped in affront.
No shade on Costco or their decorators, but would they meticulously cut seven wee pendants out of fondant and fold them over thread to adorn an Encanto cake?
No!
“Are you seriously holding my cake hostage?” I asked, just to see if there was the slightest chink in his armor, and he might give in.
“I am seriously holding your cake hostage.” He enunciated every word crystal clear.
I mean, you couldn’t blame me.
But…
I lost it.
I did because I was tired, because he was gorgeous and I couldn’t have him, and because he was holding my cake prisoner to get me to bend to his whim.
“You are such a dick,” I snapped.
“I have one, but I’m not one,” he replied easily. “Now get in. Let’s go. Figure you don’t want to be late.”
No, I didn’t. I never, ever missed my fifteen-minute window.
With no choice, I stomped around the hood of the Jeep, hit the passenger side, opened the door and saw that Gabe was holding the cake, waiting for me to get in.
I pulled myself up into that American-made symbol of grit, resilience, durability and might (a vehicle that was perfect for him), buckled up, and only then did Gabe hand me my cake.
Once I had it secured in my lap, he started the Jeep and pulled out.
“The house is in Arcadia,” I told him coldly as we idled at the exit of the complex.
“Gotcha,” he replied, then turned right when he had an opening.
“For the record, I’m perfectly fine to drive,” I declared.
“For the record, that’s total bullshit,” he replied.
“You have no idea how I feel,” I bit.
“You get what I do for a living, right?” he asked.
I clenched my teeth.
He didn’t take my hint of no response to let it go.
“You get that I deal with a lot of different people from a lot of different walks of life. I observe them. I investigate them. I question them. Sometimes, I interrogate them. And I’d be shit at my job if I couldn’t read them. And, babe, I am not shit at my job.”
I knew he wasn’t.
The Nightingale team was the best of the best.
It wasn’t me saying this.
They had testimonials on their website. A lot of them.
(Duh, Gabe kissed me! Of course, in my self-flagellation, I looked up his company’s website hoping they had a picture of him on it (they did not).)