He was all buff and beautiful and vital and well rested due to probably having the elusive talent of balancing work and life, and definitely not having a leech of a partner put him in a financial bind he had to work his ass off to extricate himself from.
And I obviously looked as tired as I felt.
“No way you should be behind the wheel of a car,” he finished.
“I’m not sure a man who looks like an action hero should deliver my cake,” I told him truthfully. “Word might get around. People might expect that. Especially since it’s always, but always, the moms who order the cakes. It’s also usually them who answers the door. Besides, she’s going to open the door to you, likely have an orgasm, and first, that’s highly inappropriate right before her five-year-old’s birthday party, and second, she’s probably partnered up, and I don’t need Willow’s Good Stuff getting the reputation of wrecking happy homes.”
I finally shut up, but when I did, Gabe stood perfectly still.
Okay, did I just say all of that?
Out loud?
You sure did, Dreamer purred.
Totally did, Logic sniped.
Right, how tired was I?
I wasn’t so tired I didn’t notice something changed in him. And that change was no good because it was absolutely spectacular.
“Get in. I’ll drive, you can deliver,” Gabe said, and his voice had changed too. It was usually deep and fabulously rumbly, but now it was even deeper and sinfully rumbly.
I stiffened my spine that, not but a few months ago, he’d alluded I did not have.
“I can drive myself.”
“I can also kidnap your cake so that kid doesn’t have one for their birthday, or their parents have to run to Costco to get one.”
I gasped in affront.
No shade on Costco or their decorators, but would they meticulously cut seven wee pendants out of fondant and fold them over thread to adorn an Encanto cake?
No!
“Are you seriously holding my cake hostage?” I asked, just to see if there was the slightest chink in his armor, and he might give in.
“I am seriously holding your cake hostage.” He enunciated every word crystal clear.
I mean, you couldn’t blame me.
But…
I lost it.
I did because I was tired, because he was gorgeous and I couldn’t have him, and because he was holding my cake prisoner to get me to bend to his whim.
“You are such a dick,” I snapped.
“I have one, but I’m not one,” he replied easily. “Now get in. Let’s go. Figure you don’t want to be late.”
No, I didn’t. I never, ever missed my fifteen-minute window.
With no choice, I stomped around the hood of the Jeep, hit the passenger side, opened the door and saw that Gabe was holding the cake, waiting for me to get in.
I pulled myself up into that American-made symbol of grit, resilience, durability and might (a vehicle that was perfect for him), buckled up, and only then did Gabe hand me my cake.
Once I had it secured in my lap, he started the Jeep and pulled out.
