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CHAPTER TWELVE
ALICE
It’s crazy how fast life can get flipped upside down and inside out—in a good way.
A month ago, if you’d asked me what I’d be doing on a random Thursday morning, I’d have said, “Same old, same old routine. Go to work, come home, eat alone, and watch TV alone. Get up the next day to do it all over again.” Now? I wake up in a king-sized bed with the world’s hottest man wrapped around me like a weighted blanket, and if I’m very lucky, he wakes me up with some inventive combination of his mouth and his hands before our alarm even goes off.
My alarm buzzes at six-thirty, and I groan, trying to burrow deeper into the crook of Gabe’s arm. He’s always awake before me, even on days when we stay up way too late watching trash TV or doing things that are much better than watching reality TV. He’s lying there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with a look that is somehow both intense and completely at peace. I wiggle closer, press my nose to his chest, and inhale that perfect blend of aftershave, laundry detergent, and something that is just pure Gabe.
“Good morning,” he rumbles, not moving, but his arms tighten just a little.
“Morning,” I mumble with my voice muffled against his skin. “Why didn’t you go for your run this morning?”
Three or four days a week, he gets up at the ass crack of dawn to run five miles with his security crew. Personally, I think he does it just to torture them, but I keep my theory to myself.
“You were wrapped around me like a fucking anaconda.” He smirks down at me. “I didn’t want to move and wake you up.” Melted. Right there on the spot.
“That was very considerate of you, Mr. Mercer.” My hand drifts down under the covers to cup his rapidly hardening cock. Just because I can.
Gabe groans and rolls on top of me, pinning my arms above my head. “Considerate is my middle name.” He winks at me. When I roll my eyes, he tickles me until I squirm and pretend to fight him off, but he always wins. Always. And the way he looks down at me—like he can’t decide whether to devour me or worship me—makes my heart do stupid things every single day.
Eventually, we make it out of bed, mostly because we don’t want to be late for work. We have a morning routine that we rush through most days because we “hit” our version of snooze way too many times.
Every morning, Gabe drives us to work instead of using the limo because I asked him to. Each day, he helps me into the big black SUV while his security crew gets into another SUV and follows us to The Mercer Group.
Gabe parks at the curb a block away from the office and lets me get out so our coworkers don’t see me getting out of his vehicle. Of course, one of his bodyguards also hops out and follows close behind me. I’ve kinda gotten used to my mostly invisible shadow, but the situation still feels crazy.
The days go by in a blur. I bury myself in admin work and spreadsheets and endless meetings, but it’s not the same as it used to be. The highlight of every day is getting a text from Gabe reminding me it’s time to escape for the day.
After work, we head home together. Sometimes we pick up takeout, and sometimes we cook together in his absurdly fancy kitchen. I never realized how sexy chopping vegetables could be until I watched Gabe Mercer manhandle a chef’s knife and then feed me slivers of red bell pepper straight from the cutting board.
Most nights, we eat dinner in front of the giant TV, sprawled on his couch with our legs tangled together. He makes fun of my obsession with reality TV, but I catch him getting weirdly invested in the shows. When he glances down at me, runs his fingers through my hair, and kisses the top of my head like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him, I thank my lucky stars for the day I spilled my coffee all over him.
Weekends are my favorite. Saturdays are for sleeping in. Gabe plays on his phone or just stares at the ceiling while I cuddle up next to him until I’m ready to get out of bed.
On Sunday mornings, he’s up before the sun, going for his run, making coffee, and reading business news on his phone, while I slowly wake up by drinking coffee from Gobble Me Up and preparing myself for the day ahead.
We do laundry together. We go grocery shopping and come back to his apartment to meal prep for the week. It’s all so normal and routine.
By the time Sunday night rolls around, I’m already dreading Monday—not because I hate my job, but because every weekend brings me a little closer to something terrifying and wonderful.
I’m so in love with Gabe that I barely know what to do with myself.
The only problem is, I have no idea how to tell him.
It’s a dumb fear. If I’m being honest, Gabe is the most all-in, go-big-or-go-home man I’ve ever met. When he wants something, he doesn’t just go after it—he devours it. He’s already woven me into every part of his life. My toothbrush is in his bathroom. My favorite brand of yogurt is in his fridge. There’s a copy of my apartment key on his key ring, even though I only go back to my own place to grab clothes for the week and to water the half-dead succulent on my windowsill.
Still, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to move in with him, but because I’m a big ol’ chicken.
I want him to make the first big move.
So, I wait.
And in the meantime, I live for the little moments.
After a month, it’s like my old life never existed. Gabe is my home base now. I don’t know how I ever managed without him.
One night, we’re making dinner together. I’m at the stove, stirring risotto, and Gabe is hovering behind me, arms wrapped around my waist. He keeps nuzzling the back of my neck, distracting me so badly that I keep forgetting to stir. The risotto is on the verge of burning, but I can’t bring myself to care.
