Chelsea grabbed the hammer. “I don’t need, nor did I ask for your help.”
Gabe cocked his head and kicked up his wicked smile. Gabe had that whole don’t-give-a-damn attitude down pat; nothing ever bothered him. He seduced and charmed everyone in his path...but not her. And she wasn’t going to think of that kiss, either. She wasn’t.
“Brandee texted me and asked me to come help you with the arch for the ceremony,” he informed her.
Chelsea glanced at the piles of wood, flowers, tulle and wire all spread out in the old barn at Hope Springs, Brandee’s ranch. Brandee could’ve hired a company to take over the decorating and organizing of the big day, but Chelsea had wanted to make things special for her friend. She’d wanted to be hands-on since she knew Brandee better than any stranger would.
But Chelsea would rather have worked her fingers to the bone than ask Gabe for any help. Now that the Maverick had been revealed as his uncle, Chelsea felt utterly betrayed.
“I wasn’t sure how Dusty managed to get those images of me and splash them around, but now it’s pretty clear he had help.” Chelsea continued to stare at the man who was too sexy to be legal. The tattoos, the scruff along his jawline, the arrogant stance. “You were his errand boy.”
“What?” Gabe said, jerking back. “I—”
“Anything for the family,” she went on, dropping the hammer to the concrete floor at her side instead of hurling it at his head next. “You were trained to take over the family business. Taking orders from your dying uncle just came naturally.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gabe countered, an edge to his voice. “You might want to have evidence before making such claims—evidence you will never find because I had nothing to do with the pictures or the blackmail.”
He may have been a former special agent, he may have put the fear of God in many suspects in his time, but Chelsea wasn’t afraid. The only thing she worried about was how he managed to infuriate and turn her on at the same time. She hated how her body responded to just the sight of him when her mind told her she knew better. Why did lust have to cloud her judgment?
“I’m not arguing.” She turned her attention back to the mess before her. “I have too much to do here. If Brandee doesn’t see some progress, she’ll worry it won’t be done in time, and I won’t have my best friend stressed for her special day.”
“Then it sounds like you need an extra pair of hands.”
Chelsea shuddered. Gabe had used those hands to grip her shoulders and haul her against his hard body as he’d kissed her so fast, so fierce—
“I say we call a truce.”
Chelsea swallowed and finally nodded. He was right. They had to work together and she had to believe the sheriff when he’d said Gabe was in the clear. She just wanted someone to blame, someone to take her anger out on.
“A truce,” she said. “I think I can handle that.”
Gabe flashed that smile again. “So what are we doing here?”
“Brandee wants a large arch for her and Shane to stand beneath to exchange their vows. She wants it to be elegant and Christmassy, not tacky. Everything will be done in whites and golds and clear lights. She told me to order one, but I wanted to make it so she had something special and meaningful.”
Chelsea couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at her friend’s upcoming nuptials. Chelsea may be hard, she may be independent and run the tech side of Hunt & Co. like a boss, but she was still a woman with dreams. She didn’t want a man to take care of her, but she certainly wouldn’t mind a man to hold her at night, to appreciate her Italian-lace lingerie collection, to laugh with her and share stories about their days. Was it too much to ask to meet just one man who wasn’t a jerk?
“Is there a blueprint for this or are we just winging it?” Gabe asked.
Chelsea came to her feet, dusting her hands against her holey jeans. “No blueprint, but Shane had everything cut and ready to assemble once I told him my ideas. I told Brandee I’d take care of it since it’s my idea. I have a picture on my phone of what it should look like. But it’s just a mock-up of the picture in my head.”
She slid her phone from her pocket and pulled up the image.
Gabe came to stand beside her, having the nerve to brush his shoulder against hers.
She shouldn’t be attracted to such a...a...wolfish man. He was a hell of a kisser, but he was also related to the enemy. That was reason enough for her to be leery. Wasn’t it? There was only so far a hot bod and toe-curling kiss could take Gabe Walsh. So what if she’d had vivid, detailed dreams of the infamous kiss and all the delicious things her mind conjured up without her permission?
“Subtle,” she said as she took a half step to the side. “Don’t try using this opportunity to kiss or seduce me or whatever else you’re thinking.”
Gabe came around and stood directly in front of her. She still held her phone out, her hands frozen in the narrow space between them. His deep eyes held her in place, and Chelsea trembled as if he’d touched her bare skin.
“Darlin’, when you were kissing me, you weren’t exactly shy about it.”
Chelsea opened her mouth to object, but Gabe leaned forward, coming to within a breath of her lips.
“So don’t try to deny that you’re attracted to me,” he murmured. “And I won’t deny it, either. But right now, we have more pressing things to do than worry about who is seducing whom.”
Keeping his eyes on hers, he eased back and slid the phone from her grip. Damn the man for making her entire body heat up like he’d lit a match from within. The broad shoulders, the scruff along his jawline, the ink peeking from beneath his fitted T-shirt...and the way he’d drawled out “darlin’” had her ready to ignore those red flags and kiss him again. Maybe it hadn’t been that good and she’d remembered all wrong. Had her toes actually curled? Had her body tightened with arousal?
Stifling a groan, Chelsea stepped over the supplies and went to the pile of wood. As much as she liked to think she could do everything on her own, she was going to need Gabe’s help here.
“This is some setup they’re wanting,” Gabe said behind her. “I guess we better get started. The wedding is only a couple weeks away and this isn’t our only task.”
Gabe again came up beside her, this time not touching, and handed over her phone. “Tell me we’ve decided on the florist. I really don’t want to look at one more plant or bloom or branch or anything else that I know nothing about.”
“The florist has been nailed down and contacted. Now, we need to finalize the appetizers and beer and wine list for the combined bachelor/bachelorette party,” she told him. “I have the final numbers for those who sent in their RSVP.”
Gabe blew out a sigh. “I’ll handle all the menus if you promise I don’t have to pick out tablecloths or do little calligraphy place cards.”
Chelsea crossed her arms and turned to fully face him. “Well, Gabriel Walsh, I’m disappointed in your knowledge of contemporary weddings. Calligraphy cards are definitely a thing of the past. I actually already ordered name cards in the same design and font as Brandee’s invitations. You really should update your wedding magazine subscriptions if you’re ever going to do this yourself.”
“If I ever lose my mind and marry, I’ll let my bride handle everything.” He raked a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Food and alcohol are easy. Especially since we’re having the party at the TCC. What else do you want me to do that doesn’t involve something frilly or flowery?”
“Someone is grouchy,” she muttered. “Is it because I threw the screwdriver at your head or because I’m not throwing myself at you after the kiss?”
Gabe shoved his hands in his pockets and tipped his head sideways to look her in the eyes. “Are we going to be able to get along to get through this together?”
Chelsea shrugged. �
��Depends. You keep your hands and lips to yourself and we might just. And just so you know, I tend to believe you when you say you didn’t know what your uncle was up to. Shane and Brandee wouldn’t put their trust in you if you were involved. But you better hope like hell there isn’t a connection, because if I find out there is, I won’t miss the next time I throw a screwdriver at your head.”
Copyright © 2017 by Harlequin Books S.A.
ISBN-13: 9781488011993
His Secret Son
Copyright © 2017 by Brenda Streater Jackson
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