“Idiot,” he repeated with more force, his face getting hot all over again.
He’d hoped in that second when he’d felt his cheeks flaming—always a dead giveaway he hated with a passion—that Texas would be struck with an unlikely earthquake and the ground would simply open up and swallow him. No joy, unfortunately, leaving him standing there wishing he could go back in time and make a half-decent impression on the hottest guy he’d ever met. Not that it probably would have made much difference. If not for the flat tire, he doubted someone who looked like Gabe would have given him the time of day.
Oh, he’d never considered himself bad-looking. Just easily overlooked. His shyness and social awkwardness as a teen hadn’t helped matters. It’d taken a college degree, the raucous influence his best friend and business partner, Sammie, had brought into his life, and their successful gluten-free bakery and coffeehouse—a little corner shop that’d quickly cemented itself as one of the best low-key hangouts in South Market—to finally get him to a place where he was comfortable in his own skin. One encounter with Gabe and he felt like he’d been sucked back ten years.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed his best friend without lifting his head from the steering wheel.
“Hey, I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you so soon,” Sammie answered cheerfully. “Did the rental company come to your rescue, or did you sacrifice your wardrobe and change it yourself?”
He’d been texting Sammie for tire-changing assistance before Gabe had stopped to help him. But Sammie’s sum total advice had pretty much been to wait for the rental company to send someone out. Which would have been fine if he wasn’t stuck on some backwater road in the butt-crack of nowhere, Texas, and the rental company hadn’t told him it’d be nearly three hours before anyone could get to him.
This was supposedly the main road to a tiny-ass town called Everness, but he’d spent the last thirty miles constantly reloading his GPS and stressing over whether Siri was glitching, which would no doubt result in him lost and killed in the wilds of Texas. Hence the tire iron when Gabe had pulled up. By then he’d been sure the guy was a serial killer ready to fulfill his prediction.
“In my six-hundred-dollar Saint Laurent jeans? I don’t think so,” he finally replied.
“You could have always taken them off.” Sammie managed to suggest that in a completely serious voice.
He rolled his eyes, because Sammie was exactly the type of person who would change a tire in his underwear. And actually, there was a pretty good chance Sammie would have decided to go commando that day.
Though he never hesitated to tell his best friend anything, he just knew the ribbing he was going to get over his fumbling with Gabe. “It got fixed. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Oh, I know that mumble. What did you do?” There was a hint of amusement in Sammie’s voice, even though he was clearly trying to be empathetic. In the background, Matt could hear familiar clinking, chatter, and tasteful indie music playing, and could practically feel the relaxing, cozy ambience of their bakery and coffee shop flowing down the line to him.
“This guy pulled over to help me with the tire. He was an FBI agent.”
“An FBI agent?” Sammie repeated. “A hot FBI agent?”
“So hot.” He pushed up from the steering wheel to slouch against the seat.
Sammie chortled in his ear and relayed his words to Krissy, Matt’s apprentice baker. He’d taken her on about eighteen months ago when demand for their gluten-free breads, cakes, and biscuits had far exceeded his predictions.
This was the first time he’d left the business for any extended period since he and Sammie had opened it three years ago. While his business partner was all about the coffee side of things, Matt’s passion lay in baking. Going gluten-free had added an extra element of challenge to it, because baking with the gluten-free flours was a whole different ball game compared to regular wheat flour. He’d actually gone through four trainees before finding Krissy, who—besides being an all-around awesome person—fit in seamlessly with the little family they’d created.
“Please tell me he got FBI Hottie’s digits!” Krissy yelled from somewhere in the background.
“Are you kidding?” Sammie snorted his disbelief. “Poor Matt probably couldn’t string two words together, let alone ask for his number.”
“I’ll have you know we had an actual conversation. There was no stuttering whatsoever.” He huffed indignantly as Sammie laughed again.
“Not even any blushing?” Asked as if Sammie already knew the answer. Bastard…. “Maybe you’ll finally end the dry streak you’ve been on for the past few years.”
“I’m not on a dry streak. I’ve been busy getting the shop off the ground.” There was no hiding the defensive note in his voice, and he could just imagine his best friend and business partner smirking on the other end of the call. “The hot FBI guy was an aberration. There’s no way I’m going to find anyone else worth looking at twice in the repressed conservative heart of America.”
“Not with that attitude you won’t, sunshine.”
Good thing Sammie was safe a thousand miles away or he might have given in to the urge to bitch-slap him for that.
“So, did today’s delivery arrive?” he asked, desperately trying to rescue the conversation from the drain it seemed intent on going down.
“Oh yeah, no problem. And Krissy has everything ready for tomorrow morning’s baking. She’s not worried at all about flying solo.”
“I’m sure she’ll do great. I wouldn’t have left otherwise.”
It was a relief to be able to say that and mean it. Between the business and his family, he felt like he’d been running nonstop for years on end. Despite this importune trip being for unfortunate reasons and still related to his family obligations—and the fact that the conservative states were probably the last place he would have chosen to vacay—he was still mostly happy to have gotten away for a few days.
“Yes, we’re all aware of your control issues,” Sammie replied in a flat voice.
“Why did I call you again?” He reached down and turned the key in the ignition to get the AC blasting—he was sweating worse now, and it wasn’t for the fun reason.
“I don’t know. Why did you call me?” Sammie’s voice switched from the phone in his ear to the speakers as the hands-free system connected.
“Because I stupidly thought I might get some sympathy.” He put the phone in its cradle and then pulled his seat belt over his chest before checking the way was clear—of course it was—as he pulled back onto the road.
“Oh, I can give you all the sympathy you want, buddy. I’ll just be laughing at you while I do it.”
Well, he didn’t ever need to worry he wouldn’t stay grounded with Sammie as his best friend.
“Thank you so much. Don’t let the shop go out of business while I’m gone.” Despite the teasing, talking to Sammie had made him feel marginally better. Besides, it didn’t matter; he wouldn’t see Gabriel Lopez ever again.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Sammie drawled. It was his favorite comeback whenever they disagreed over any aspect of running the business, which luckily didn’t happen all that often. Their last disagreement had been over what brand of recycled cardboard coffee cups they should order. A minor detail.
“Lucky, ’cause otherwise I would have fired your ass ten times over by now.”
“Uh-huh,” Sammie replied, heavy on the skepticism. “Try not to fall over any more hot FBI agents before you find Thomas.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Catch you later.”
Sammie told him goodbye and Matt thumbed the button on the steering wheel to end the call. He checked the GPS for the millionth time, but it was still telling him to drive straight ahead, then put on some Panic! At the Disco and forced himself to forget about Gabe and those stupidly sexy forearms of his.
The next forty minutes was spent alternating between singing to the deafening music, worrying Siri was st
ill trying to lead him astray, and trying not to cringe at himself over the whole flat-tire incident. When the small township came into view in the distance, he breathed a sigh of relief. He blew by a sign reading Welcome to Everness—Gateway to Lake Conroe that looked like it’d been put up in the sixties and never updated. The town was like something off a postcard—wide open green grassy spaces, tree-lined streets, and neat houses with yards ten times bigger than anything he’d ever seen at home in San Fran. Pretty much every vehicle he passed was a pickup truck or SUV. A lot of the streets didn’t even have sidewalks, just tracks worn in the grass where people obviously walked often. There was a single main street that wrapped around a large town square. Mature trees strategically shaded the square, while a huge white wooden gazebo took up the center. So far he’d seen one gas station, one bakery, one diner, one bar, one convenience-type store, one church—the list went on. One of everything and no mall or superstores to be seen. Was the town really that small? He didn’t think places like this actually existed any longer.
He switched off the GPS, instead leaning sideways to pull a set of handwritten directions out of his jeans pocket. He glanced over them even though he’d read them so many times, he pretty much had them memorized. Getting his bearings, he worked out where he needed to turn and found himself on yet another mostly deserted road, though at least this time he saw the occasional house.
When he reached his destination, he slowed as he spotted the high razor wire fences. Oh, damn. This was not what he’d been expecting. The razor wire fence ran for nearly a mile. He followed slowly along, a cold lump forming in his stomach, especially when the signs came into view. Most of them were the classic trespassers will be shot and private property keep out, but some of them got real specific and real racist and rather disturbing, to be honest. When he reached the gate and saw four men standing around with bigass guns and a couple of mean-looking Dobermans, he kept on driving, even putting his foot down to get by a little quicker instead of pulling in like he’d planned.
Jesus H Christ. What had Thomas gotten himself into? And how the hell was he supposed to talk his cousin into coming home to San Francisco like he’d promised Aunt Katie when he was too scared to even drive past the place, let alone actually go inside and ask to see their newest recruit?
“Tommy, you moron,” he muttered as he turned around on the road and sped back along the fence, hoping the men at the gates didn’t take any notice of his car going by twice within a few minutes. Maybe they’d just think he was some lost tourist.
At least his anger and frustration at his cousin had distracted him from his own cringe factor over the hot FBI agent.
Dammit, this was going to be so much more complicated than he’d thought. He’d known Thomas would be stubborn and had allowed for two weeks’ worth of cajoling, reasoning, and outright threats to get his younger cousin home. If Thomas really was holed up behind all those razor wire fences, rednecks with guns, and nastyass dogs, then he had no damned idea how he was going to fix this. He’d promised Aunt Katie he’d bring Thomas home, and if he went back empty-handed, it’d undoubtedly break her heart.
Calling and email hadn’t worked. The emails had started bouncing, and after ignoring all the calls from him, his mom, and Aunt Katie for the first two weeks, Thomas had apparently disconnected the phone he’d had in San Francisco and presumably gotten a new one. Or maybe he was going without while living in the cultlike compound. Who knew what the hell went on in there? Matt sure as damned heck didn’t want to find out firsthand.
Still swearing under his breath at the unexpected wrench in his works, he found his way to the only accommodation in town: a Motel 6. God save him. He was expecting bad. He was expecting stained carpets, musty mattresses, questionably clean linen, and window-mounted air conditioners that blasted out hot air.
When he pulled up outside the main office, the premises at least looked somewhat well-kept on the outside, if outdated. It was like this whole town was in a 1960s time warp. Last time he’d seen so many white picket fences, he’d been watching some kitschy housewife movie Krissy had dragged him to at the indie film theater down the block from their shop.
The owners were a couple in their fifties who were way too jolly about having him as a guest. They asked all sorts of enthusiastic questions when they found out he was from San Francisco, before confirming he was staying two weeks. He almost felt bad when he told them he wasn’t actually sure; their faces fell that dramatically. Did they really have so few guests that this was the most exciting thing that’d happen to them this year?
He took his key, promising he’d keep them in the loop about his travel plans, and then escaped back out to his rental car. He carefully drove through the portico to the motel’s interior, finding only one other car in the lot. Turned out his room was right there, so he parked next to the sedan. As he got out and went around to the trunk, the little FBI sticker on the back caught his attention and he suddenly realized the vehicle looked concerningly familiar.
“Oh no,” he uttered, freezing up on the spot. “No way.”
He could not be that unlucky. Please tell him he had not just been given a room next to the hottest guy he’d ever met and made a huge ass of himself in front of a mere hour ago.
One of the doors opened and for a second, he scrabbled with the wild urge to duck behind his car and hide. But, come on, he did have some self-respect. Mostly, though, his not moving all came down to the fact he was still rooted to the spot with disbelief.
He glanced up from the sticker on the back of the sedan to find himself being stared at by none other than FBI analyst Gabriel Lopez, looking almost as dumbfounded as he felt.
“Matt?” Gabe stepped forward, sounding somewhere between confused and worried.
“Um, hi…. Again.” Oh God. Lamest-greeting-ever award goes to Matt York.
“Hi.” Gabe smiled, the grin spreading across his face like someone had just told him he could eat the last chocolate cream puff. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah.” He gave a weak laugh, feeling his stupid, stupid cheeks getting warm. “Staying here too, huh?”
“Number eleven.” Gabe hiked his thumb toward the door he’d just stepped out of.
“I’m in twelve.” He held up the key, the shiny plastic tag catching the sunlight with a brief flash.
“Well, how about that.”
Gabe sauntered forward. He’d changed into a new shirt, this one a powder blue, his neat tie navy blue shot through with silver. Gabe leaned casually against the side of the car and crossed his arms with a small, almost secretive smile. The thin material of his shirt stretched over his defined biceps, and Matt had to blink several times to stop himself staring.
“Need a hand with that luggage now?”
Oh crap. Oh damn. Oh shit. He didn’t know whether to melt in a puddle at the tips of Gabe’s shiny black dress shoes or run all the way back to San Francisco with his head in a paper bag to hide his bright red face.
Was the guy really flirting with him, or was he just desperately wanting to see something that wasn’t there? Get some chill, Matt. He forced himself to take a long, slow breath. On the small chance Gabe actually was flirting with him and didn’t think he was a complete blockhead, then he didn’t want to blow this—
Actually, scrap that. God damn, did he want to blow this. He dragged some equilibrium to the fore, reminding himself again that he was a successful guy who owned his own business and could step the hell up when he needed to.
“Sure,” he finally replied, amazed that his voice came out sounding even. “I’ve got two cases, so go ahead and grab one.”
He didn’t wait to see what Gabe would make of that. Instead he busied himself getting the trunk open and hauling out the suitcase on the left. He brushed by Gabe, who’d come over to help himself to the smaller second case. Tugging up the handle, Matt headed to his room, putting all of his concentration into unlocking the door and pushing it open. The interior was dim from the curtains bein
g closed, so he parked the suitcase just inside the door and went over to push back the heavy material.
The inside actually wasn’t too bad. It looked surprisingly clean, anyway. Fake wood paneling, terra-cotta-colored paint on one wall, obligatory print of some Van Gogh painting on another wall, and floral bedspread that looked like a colorblind florist shop had thrown up on it—unsurprisingly matching with the curtains—all about as dated as the rest of the town. At least it didn’t smell musty and there weren’t any obvious or suspicious-looking stains that would leave him fighting the urge to throw up.
“Charming, isn’t it?” Gabe swung the door shut behind himself and set the small case on the laminate table in the corner. “I’ve stayed in worse places, though, so I’m not complaining too much.”
Matt took his wallet and phone out of his pocket and went to put them on the table next to where Gabe was standing. He tried to come up with something to say. Except his brain apparently wasn’t agreeing with the plan of providing him any words, leaving him nothing but an awkward silence. At least, he felt awkward. Gabe seemed relaxed enough as he ambled the short distance across the room and poked his head into the bathroom.
“This room is a mirror to mine.” Gabe pivoted slowly as he slid his hands into his pockets, looking so damn sexy just standing there not even trying. “Which means our beds are against the same wall. Just a heads-up if you were planning on having any guests.”
A slight, irreverent grin flitted over Gabe’s face before he schooled his features into something that could almost have been considered innocent.
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he returned with a hint of exasperation, recalling his conversation with Sammie about his apparent dry streak and the odds of finding someone worth looking at twice in Texas. Seemed like he had to eat humble pie over that one.
A trill sounded from Gabe’s pocket and he pulled his phone out, glancing at the screen. “I have to go. Got a few things to get done this afternoon.”
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