by Tawna Fenske
I laugh, both at the story and the fact that we’ve gone from farts to f-bombs already. Clearly the dinner conversation is loosening up.
Sipping my wine, I comb my brain for another family story. “My mother used to keep a beta fish in a bowl on the kitchen counter. It would die, and she’d get a new one, and she’d always name it the same thing.”
Gabe looks intrigued. “Which was?”
“Master.”
I wait for that to sink in. For him to nod politely or look appalled or not get it at all.
He busts out laughing. “Your mother named a fish Master Beta?”
“Multiple fish.” I roll my eyes and take a sip of water. “My father was gone a lot with the Coast Guard, so she said the fish was good company. I never got it until one of my friends started snickering in high school. Suffice it to say, I was mortified.”
“I think I’d like your mom.”
“I think you would, too.” I consider that, wondering if it’s weird to be envisioning meet-the-parents scenarios when we probably won’t see each other again after his chowder bowl is empty.
Speaking of which—
“Want more chowder?” I offer. “Or ice cream?”
“Ice cream?” He looks so sweetly hopeful that I’m tempted to hand him a whole gallon and a soup spoon and let him go to town.
“It’s chocolate chip mint,” I tell him. “My personal fave.”
“Yes, please.” He stands up and starts clearing the table without being asked, another point for Gabe—Gabe—crap, what’s his last name?
I stand up and clear the rest of the dishes. “What did you say your last name was?”
His back is turned, and I watch him stiffen. Or maybe I’m imagining things, because he’s moving toward the sink a second later. “I didn’t,” he says simply. “Actually, I—oh, shit.”
A bowl slips from his hand and crashes onto the wood floor. The white ceramic dome splits in two, with one half shattering into a dozen sharp bits.
“Dammit, I’m so sorry.” He sets the rest of the dishes on the counter and whirls around. “Is there a broom somewhere?”
“The closet behind you.” My brain flashes on his expression the instant before the bowl hit the ground. It was almost like—relief?
But that can’t be right.
“Let me give you cash for the bowl,” he says as he drags the broom across the floor. He’s not meeting my eyes, intent on scraping every last shard into the long-handled dustpan. “I know you’re house sitting, and it’s tough to find single bowls. They’ll need a whole new set of dishes and—”
“Gabe, it’s okay.” I touch his arm and smile to let him know it really is. “Jon keeps a whole stash of Dollar Store dishes for when Libby comes to dinner. Or his clumsy sister, who also has a habit of breaking things.” I pat his arm, conscious of the muscles under his sweater. “It’s really okay; I promise.”
His dubious look turns hopeful. There’s something soft in his eyes, something almost…heated.
Maybe it’s that I’m touching his arm. And standing close, way closer than I realized. I should step back. Or stop touching him. Or—
“Thank you,” he says and covers my hand with his. “For everything.”
I nod, not entirely sure what that encompasses, but knowing I like his touch. I like it way more than I should. “Don’t mention it.”
I look down at his hand, intrigued all over again by the size of it. “Are you a carpenter or doctor or something?” Too late, I realize those professions have little to do with one another. “Or a set builder,” I add, remembering the LA reference back at James’s house.
He blinks, and there’s that hint of wariness again. “Why are those your guesses?”
I swallow hard, realizing how hot it is in this kitchen. Ice cream. I should definitely get the ice cream.
But I don’t move. “You seem like someone who works with his hands.”
He smiles, and the invisible ice cream blob in my belly becomes a puddle of melted goo. “Something like that.” He squeezes my hand, which is still curled around his bicep.
Then he steps back. I drop my hand to my side, conscious of my heart skittering against the thin bones of my ribs.
“I should get that ice cream.” I whirl around and contemplate sticking my head in the freezer to cool my flaming cheeks. “Three scoops or four?”
He laughs, and I hear the clatter of broken dishware hitting the trash bin. “I love that those are the options,” he says. “Four, please.”
“Done.”
I pull the bucket out of the freezer by the handle and locate my ice cream scoop on the counter. Yes, I travel with my own. “Sadly, I don’t have Dave here.”
“Dave?”
“My electric ice cream scoop.”
Gabe frowns, puzzling it out. “I give up. Why Dave?”
“Dave Matthews Band has a song called ‘Spoon.’ It’s a stretch, I know.”
He laughs and settles back on the barstool he occupied when he first arrived. “I can’t decide if I’m more charmed by your naming conventions or that you have an actual electric ice cream scoop.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s definitely one of my favorite appliances.”
“What’s your absolute favorite?”
A flood of naughty thoughts seeps into my brain. If I were Lily, I’d own it. Name the make and model of my vibrator and dare anyone to shame me for it.
If I were Jon’s fiancée, Blanka, I’d launch into a scientific explanation of human arousal or pleasure aids through the centuries.
But I’m me, so I set a bowl of chocolate chip mint in front of Gabe and pick up my spoon. “It’s a toss-up between my ice cream maker and my chainsaw.”
“You own a chainsaw?”
“Sally.” I grin a little sheepishly. “My dad came up with that one.”
“From Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”
“Bingo.” I shove a big heap of chocolate chip mint in my mouth. “I’ve never actually seen the movie, but I’ve had Sally since I was sixteen.”
“You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head and spoon up more ice cream. “Not like I take it grocery shopping or anything, but yeah. I spent my teen years in Alaska. You learn to cut firewood young when you’ve only got a woodstove for heat.”
I spoon another bite of ice cream into my mouth and watch Gabe for a reaction. He stares at me for a long time, then shakes his head. “You’re something else,” he says. “You know, earlier I was wondering what it’d be like to date you.”
“Oh?” I’m trying to keep my voice casual, not to let on that this piques my interest way more than it should.
“You’re not into visual media, so there’d be no dinner-and-a-movie dates,” he says. “No Netflix-and-chill.”
I laugh and take another bite of ice cream. “I do know what that means,” I tell him. “But only because Lily explained it to Izzy last week.”
“Izzy?”
“The newest Bracelyn sister. I’m guessing you haven’t met her. They just found her a few months ago. She’s from this tiny country in Southern Europe, and there’s some serious culture shock happening.”
He laughs and spoons up a generous dip of ice cream. “I take it she didn’t know Netflix and chill was a euphemism for sex?”
“Nope.” I laugh around my spoon. “Which made it awkward when she invited Libby the seven-year-old to do it with her. I was all for it, thinking we’d do this fun cartoon marathon or something. Lily had to take us aside and explain.”
Gabe laughs and scrapes the bottom of his ice cream bowl. I’m surprised to discover how bummed I am that we’re reaching the end. Of this meal, this conversation…everything.
He stands up and rinses his bowl. “Once my grandmother caught my sister Lana flipping off my other sister Lauren.”
“Your sisters are named Lana and Lauren?”
He nods, not meeting my eyes. “And Marilyn, but she goes by Mari.”
I chew on that t
idbit, pretty sure those are all movie star names from the forties and fifties. “Your parents must have liked old movies.”
He looks at me, then nods once. “Yeah. They do.” He looks down to load his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. “Anyway, Lana flipped Lauren the bird this one time. When Grandma saw it, Lana convinced her it was sign language for ‘I love you.’”
“No way.”
Gabe puts a hand over his heart. “Swear to God. For almost a year, Grandma said goodbye at the door by flashing her middle finger at us.”
I bust out laughing, delighted with this sliver of information about his life. “That’s fabulous,” I tell him. “Your family sounds like a kick.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “They are.”
Something’s shifted between us. I’m not sure what it is, but it feels like intimacy mixed with melancholy. His brown eyes meet mine and hold for a good long time. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t want it to stop.
When he speaks, his voice is velvet soft. “I should go.”
“All right.” I try not to sound disappointed. “It’s been nice having you here.”
“This was amazing.” He pushes away from the counter, putting space between us. “One of the best nights of my life.”
I study his face and wonder if he’s teasing. He doesn’t look like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he’s as sad as I am about saying goodbye.
“Drive safely.” I comb my brain for something else to say. For some excuse to keep him here in this warm kitchen talking about families and work and childhood memories.
There’s a look in his eyes that tells me I’m not alone. That if I asked, he might just stay.
Knock it off.
I shake my head, forcing the thought from my brain. That’s insane. I’ve known him a few hours, and I’m just getting over an ugly breakup.
Wriggling myself out of the lust-haze, I extend a hand. “It’s been great meeting you, Gabe.”
He nods, his fingers warm and big around mine. “Likewise.”
I don’t volunteer my phone number. He doesn’t ask for it. I know this is how it has to be. He’s only passing through, and I’m still a mess from how badly things ended with Alastair.
That doesn’t mean it feels great to let go of his hand.
Gabe steps back. “Better hit the road.”
He stares at me for another long moment. Then he turns and heads for the door. I watch as he drapes the red scarf around his neck and sets to work buttoning and zipping. I stand there twisting a dish towel in my hands, not sure if I should go hug him or wave goodbye from here.
“Drive carefully.” I already said that, didn’t I?
“I will.” He holds my gaze from across the room. It feels like five inches separating us, maybe less. “Thanks again for dinner. And for the great company.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Again, he hesitates. I consider channeling my inner Lily. Offering my number or maybe flashing my boobs.
“Take care,” Gabe says.
Then he twists the knob and slips out.
I stare at the door as it closes, surprised to feel a sinking in my gut. It was just dinner. It was fun, it was friendly, and that’s all. The last thing I need right now is another romantic entanglement with a guy I know nothing about. Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt.
Pushing off the counter, I stride toward the door to lock the deadbolt. As my fingertips touch cold metal, the door flies open.
“I’m sorry.” Gabe steps through with icy air swirling in behind him. His brown eyes are bright and clear.
“You forgot something?” I glance around for a missing glove, but Gabe grabs my hand.
“This was the nicest evening I’ve had in years, and I’ll probably regret kissing you, but I’d regret it more if I didn’t.” He pauses, still gripping my hand. “And now I regret saying that out loud.”
My heart thuds in my ears as the cold makes my nipples tighten. Or maybe it’s not the cold. I grip Gabe’s hand in mine. “You seem to have a lot of regrets.”
“You have no idea.” He lets go of my hand and slides his arms around my waist. “Can I kiss you?”
I nod and lick my lips. “Wouldn’t want you leaving with regrets.”
And then his lips are on mine. He’s slow at first, soft and gentle. A gust of cold air blasts us from the side, and I lift my slipper to kick the door closed. Gabe deepens the kiss, fingers sliding into my hair. He unfurls my messy bun, his mouth tasting like mint and snowfall and no trace of regret.
When he draws back, my heart’s drumming so hard I’m sure he hears it. The smile he gives me could melt the frost off a windshield.
“Take care, Gretchen.”
This time when he leaves, I know it’s for good. I watch his shadow move down the pathway, across the lawn toward James’s cabin. It’s too dark to see his car, but I watch the headlights flick on, watch the shadowy shape back out in a perfect three-point turn. Tiny ice flecks dance through yellow beams as his taillights drift down the driveway.
I watch until the lights vanish, waiting for my heart to stop pounding.
It’s another hour before that happens.
Chapter 3
GABLE
I think about Gretchen for the whole ninety-minute drive to the cabin. The roads aren’t bad, so it’s safe to let my mind wander.
God, that felt amazing.
Not just the kiss, though yeah…that was incredible.
But more amazing was the conversation with someone who didn’t know me. Not from television or movies or from fiery, furious headlines.
Hollywood icon embroiled in scandal.
I wonder if Gretchen knows about it. Even if she didn’t connect the dots to me, she must have seen a newspaper headline or something. Some tidbit of gossip passed like dirty candy on the internet.
Grieving families file suit against Gable Judson.
I look down to see my knuckles have gone white on the steering wheel. I order myself to relax as the GPS guides me off the paved road and onto the rugged gravel leading the final four miles to the cabin. The forest is thick here with shaggy pines hunched so close together their ice-coated needles touch.
As my headlights cut a swath of yellow through the trees, something skitters across the road. A bobcat, maybe? Or one of Gretchen’s foxes.
Everything leads my thoughts back to her. I know I wasn’t imagining the energy between us. She felt it, too, that “hello, there” sense of knowing someone on a bone-deep level even if you’ve just met.
Corny, I know. What can I say? My favorite films have always had threads of romance. Maybe the chemistry with Gretchen was all in my head. Or maybe she was being kind, helping out a friend of the family.
Even if that’s true, it was nice talking to her. To feel like a regular guy having dinner with a regular girl.
She’s no regular girl.
It’s true she’s something special. I loved her cleverness. Her quickness to laugh. All those things made me want to stay in that warm, cedar-scented kitchen forever. I loved her comfy gray sweatpants and the fact that she didn’t rush to put on makeup like my sisters do when someone comes to dinner. I get it, I do—Hollywood’s a bastard to women, and my sisters have to play the game just like the rest of us.
Which I guess is what I love so much about Gretchen. She’s so far removed from my Hollywood life that she may as well exist on another planet. A planet I’d desperately love to visit.
My headlights flash across the small cabin, and I hit the brakes. It’s just like James described it, with a red metal roof and a porch that wraps all the way around the side. In the shadows of the front porch, I spot the pile of neatly stacked firewood.
I step out of the car and stretch the kinks out of my back, breathing in crisp night air that tastes like pine. It’s colder up here than at the resort, with patchy spots of snow covering the ground in places the sun can’t reach. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, but other than
that, it’s silent. Silent and completely, totally isolated.
I feel my shoulders start to relax for the second time in weeks. The first was back in Gretchen’s kitchen, but here I’m practically melting with relief. The cool air draws the darkness out of me, muffling the shouts of headlines and phone calls and cacophony of noises filling my head in recent weeks.
So this is what peace feels like. I could get used to it.
I spend an hour hauling in my clothes and coolers and boxes of food. The cabin’s tiny and every bit as rustic as James warned last week when I called.
“Are you certain you don’t want one of our luxury cabins at the resort?” he asked. “Radiant floor heat, jacuzzi tubs, gas fireplaces that turn on with the flip of a switch.”
“I’ve had enough luxury,” I told him. “I’m looking for rustic.”
Rustic and isolated, which this place is. I run a hand over the knotty wood paneling, then check out the wood stove that serves as the sole source of heat. It’s been cleaned recently, even though I told James I was fine with a little dust.
Shoving my jacket into the coat closet, I wander to the only other interior door in the place. It’s a bathroom the size of a postage stamp with a small shower and vanity and toilet.
Back in the small kitchen, I run a hand over the gnarled juniper countertop and survey the rest of the one-room cabin. There’s a queen-sized bed piled high with crisp patchwork quilts. Probably from the craft market in town, just like the red and white checkered throw pillows plumped at the edges of a worn leather couch. In the breakfast nook off the kitchen, two chairs and a small table wait expectantly by a big window.
It’s perfect.
