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He pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. The minute it’s open, he unhooks Dexter, who bounds forward again with panting glee. He’s home and that dog knows it. I feel oddly good about being at home here, too, but that’s all the more reason for me to worry about Gabe. To worry about his family. It’s my turn to bound into the hallway and I do so, but leave out the panting. I rotate to face Gabe, and he’s shut the door, already right in front of me, his hands settling possessively at my waist.
“You need to stop worrying,” he says. “I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I’ve got us.” He turns me around and pulls off my coat.
“He’s going to smear you in the press,” I say, turning as he hangs up my coat on the coatrack, and shrugs out of his own. “He’s going to make you look like a killer.”
“He’s not going to slander me,” he replies. “That would land him in court. He’s trying to intimidate us into talking. I don’t intimidate.”
“I’m worried about you, Gabe, even if you aren’t.”
“That’s the point. He wants you to worry. He wants you to talk. He wants a story.” He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
He’s clearly not listening. He’s leading me through the living room, towards his obvious solution to our problems: the bar. Dexter is now sitting by the couch with a bone in his mouth, watching us pass by. I wave to him and he turns away as if he thinks I’m about to take his bone.
“Drink time,” Gabe says lifting me and sitting me on a barstool.
“We’ve done this before. I don’t drink well.”
He steps behind the bar and pours me a whiskey. “Try it,” he says, setting the glass in front of me. “Honey-sweet perfection, baby, like you on my tongue. We’ll get that asshole off your mind, one way or another.”
My cheeks heat. “Did you really just say that to me?”
He leans on the bar in front of me. “Would you rather me say it to someone else?”
There’s a push between us with that question that is so much more than it appears on the surface. It’s about commitment, about reassurance. “No,” I say. “I do not want you to say anything even remotely like that to another woman.”
“Did it bother you when I said it to you? Did it offend you?”
“No,” I say easily. “No, it just took me off guard.”
“Your ex didn’t talk dirty to you?”
“Was that talking dirty?”
“That was a warm-up.” He winks. “It gets better.” He points at the glass. “Drink up, baby. You’re wound as tight as a rubber band ball.”
I accept the drink and decide he’s right. I need to relax. I down the liquid, warmth spreading down my throat and settling low in my belly. “I felt that,” I say, touching my throat.
“What do you feel?”
“Warm,” I say. “Really warm.”
He fills my glass again. “Drink a little more. Don’t down it.” He lifts a finger. “Not yet.” He rounds the bar and walks into the kitchen, grabs something from the fridge and returns. He sets a can down next to me.
I inspect it. “Diet Sprite?”
“A man has to watch his waistline.” He winks. “It’s nice and smooth with the whiskey, or so my sister tells me. Before she got pregnant, of course.” He mixes the drink for me.
I take a sip and the whiskey goes down smoother. “I approve. I like it.”
He pours a glass for himself and then claims the stool next to mine, both of us facing each other, both of us sipping our drinks. His hand settles on my leg and I set my glass down. The whiskey wasn’t what made me warm. It’s him, all him.
“You,” I whisper.
“You,” he whispers. “Stay with me until this is over. And if that’s three days from now, stay longer. I don’t want you to leave any time soon. Hell, I might not want you to leave at all.”
My heart swells with so many emotions, too many emotions. “We’re moving fast, Gabe. So very fast.”
“I know what I want,” he says. “And that’s you.”
