Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
The reminder of how Preston cornered her has my own hands curling into fists. I’m not frustrated, I’m furious. Given the chance, I’d introduce the man’s face to a wall and remind him what happens when he touches someone without consent.
I step forward and brace my hands on her shoulders. “Breathe, Gabby.” I unintentionally hit a nerve with my question, and I want to calm her. “Hey. Be proud of what you did accomplish, okay? Forget about the past and concentrate on the present and the good things happening for you.”
She nods, and when she glances up, I notice her eyes are wet. Shit. I hate when women cry. I grew up with a mom who never showed her sadness; she kept it hidden. I have a brother, not a sister. And the women I’ve dated specialized more in fake tears than real ones.
Something about Gabby gets to me, though. Her genuine personality and the vulnerability she doesn’t hide shine through. I sense she’s real.
And to a jaded guy like me, that trait is extremely appealing.
* * *
Maddox
A week after I told Gabby she could stay, I sit at my desk, staring at an inventory sheet. It’s late, and numbers blur before my eyes so I rub them with my palms. I don’t have to wonder what’s on my mind. It’s the same thing always in my head. My houseguest, who continues to surprise me, and not in a bad way.
Last week, after Gabby left the bar, I spent a couple of hours overseeing things at work and taking the time to convince myself I was prepared to have her living under my roof. The house isn’t large, and I knew we were going to be in close quarters, so I needed to remind myself of all the reasons I should keep my hands to myself.
I thought I prepared myself to have Gabby in my home. At least that’s what I told myself by the time I left work a few hours after she took her car home. My home, not hers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as I convinced myself it would be.
Gabby is everywhere. Not only has she purchased new towels for her bathroom, she bought some for mine, too. Not that she was in my bedroom or the primary bath, but she said she assumed mine were as old as hers. Which is true. I haven’t updated them for years. I never even thought about it. Now I have plush, comfortable towels when I get out of the shower. It might be a small thing to someone else, but to me, it showed a thoughtful side even if she used the money she took from the bank and refused my offer to pay her back.
A part of me wants to fault the rich girl for using her money to give herself more luxury than I have in my fixer-upper home, but she doesn’t seem to be all about indulgence. She just seems to want to contribute in some way while she stays here. Her hours are shorter than mine, and when I come home, often between the day and night shift, there is dinner on the table or in the fridge waiting for me. Good meals she cooks herself, not ordered in or picked up. With groceries she purchases despite me leaving cash on the counter with a note to use it for house necessities.
Felicia didn’t cook. She didn’t know how, and she gave me a hard time over not hiring a chef when, at the time, I made the money to afford it. But Gabby is different, and I’m not enough of an asshole not to admit the difference. So I won’t allow myself to fall back on the rich girl cliché. I have to give credit where it’s due.
Gabby cooks, she cleans, she does laundry…and she paints. In the family room where I haven’t finished priming the walls, she’s set up an easel and canvas she apparently keeps in her car. And when she isn’t working at the gallery, which she says she loves, I often find her with AirPods in her ears and a paint brush in her hand. From the little I see of her work, because she often covers her paintings with a sheet, she works with acrylics.
In essence, over the last week, she’s taken over my house. And though I ought to mind and be annoyed by her presence, I like having her around. None of which convinces me that seducing a twenty-two-year-old woman is in my best interest. I still have plenty of reservations, which include not just her age and our life experience differences, but my uncertainty of where she’ll live when the summer ends. I’m still guarding my emotions, but with every day that passes, Gabby makes that more difficult.