Page 23 of Sugar & Shadows

Gabe

Groaning, I fumbled for my phone, desperate to silence the blaring alarm. But it wasn’t on the nightstand. Actually, there was no nightstand. Rather than a solid wood surface, I was met with air. Sleep-addled, I reached out farther and promptly found myself on the ground.

Disoriented and bruised. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the living room ceiling while my phone continued to blare from the kitchen island. But that was so far away.

How had I ended up on the couch?

Oh, right. In a fit of inspiration last night, I’d thrown my sheets into the washer. But then Martha Lahey had called and I’d had to explain the permitting process to her, and I’d forgotten to put them in the dryer. Hours later, I discovered them and had to wash them again. This time they’d made it to the dryer, but by that point it was too late to make the bed.

I inspected my sad couch. It had seen better days. Mainly at my parents’ house, where it had lived the first decade of its life.

Sitting up, I surveyed the disaster that was my living room. The recliner was occupied by a stack of paperwork—the Voights’ estate planning, if memory served—and three empty cereal bowls sat on the counter, judging me.

From the outside, Mayor Gabriel Harding was the kind of man who had his life under control. With a law degree and a nice smile. I held the honor of being the youngest mayor in town history and was the guy who showed up early, shook every hand, and solved problems for anyone who asked.

Inside my house, I was losing a war against adulthood. And laundry. And grocery shopping. But I paid my property taxes and mowed the lawn regularly. That had to count for something.

Dragging my hand across my face, I noted how dark it still was outside. Why the hell was my alarm going off so early?

Ah. Once my brain cleared a little, it came back to me. Because in a couple of hours, I’d be at the Vermont Statehouse, trying to convince a roomful of bureaucrats that Maplewood was worth saving.

And I’d be there with Sabrina Monroe.

Her texts last night had been straightforward and concise.

Sabrina

We’re going to Montpelier tomorrow to try to unfuck this town. Pick you up at six. Wear a suit. Don’t embarrass me. Check your email.

Ten minutes later, a detailed itinerary for several meetings appeared in my inbox, including coffee with the agricultural secretary and a walk and talk, whatever that was, with state senator Tomlinson. Along with details about each person and talking points.

Fuck. She was infuriating.

After a quick and aggressive shower, I pulled out one of my many blue suits and snagged the first tie I found. Then I stepped out into the pale gray morning.

I’d just taken my first sip of coffee from my travel mug when a shiny black Mercedes SUV rolled smoothly into my driveway.

“Get in, loser,” Sabrina said through the open window. “We’re going to save the town.”

I blinked at her and the hundred-thousand-dollar car, stunned.

She groaned. “That reference was entirely wasted on you. Let’s go.”

“I’ll drive,” I said. It would help me reclaim my dignity. At least a little.

Wearing all black, her hair perfectly slicked back and her lips painted that annoyingly enticing shade of red, she looked like she’d been up for hours. Not a single wrinkle, not a trace of sleep.

I ducked, scanning myself. At least I’d picked my clothes up at the dry cleaner this week. Sure, one sock was thicker than the other, but no one would notice.

My mid-thirties were hitting me harder than expected.

Meanwhile, my nemesis looked like a Chanel-clad shark scenting blood in the water.

A Chanel-clad shark who was glaring at me. “Absolutely not. I’m driving.”

“In your G-Wagon?” I scoffed. “This car is a walking middle finger.”

Her face lit up. “I know. Isn’t it great?”