With a huff, I pull my feet up to my chest and tip into his side. “Sometimes, I hate being in my head.”
“Yeah.” He takes my hand and holds it, giving me the silent support he always has.
All through my childhood.
The perfect older brother type until the year before I ran away.
Because he came back from college on that winter break, and I saw him without his shirt on.
Tattoos covered his left shoulder and pec, a tight line art that I couldn’t make out from the glance.
Besides, I was distracted by his lean muscles, the peppering of hair across his chest and in a trail below his belly button into his jeans, how strong he looked, how grown up.
I had the dirtiest dream about him that night. My mind making up images of his tattoos and the heat that came from tracing those lines with my fingers.
He has more tattoos now.
I got awkward for the rest of his break, but he pretended not to notice.
It’s different now, charged with something more. I don’t mind. Gabe’s the constant I need to keep myself sane.
His fingers squeeze my palm, and I squeeze back, letting the warmth take me to a drowsy comfort.
And I’m suspended in a hazy heat, bordering on uncomfortable.
My body squirms under phantom hands, but I wish they’d move in, over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs.
I start awake on the Kincaid couch, tucked under a plush blanket.
Coffee fills my nostrils, and I peer up into Gabe’s golden-brown eyes.
He’s holding a mug up for me, steam wafting into the cold morning air.
“Come eat and get ready, and I’ll take you to work.”
I take the mug and slurp the contents with easy satisfaction, settling against the back cushion.
I make quick work of the caffeine, and the smell of butter and toast gets me to my feet.
Gabe slides a plate across the counter as I settle on a stool. Something so simple, but it hits the spot. I finish everything up and wash my dishes as he eats, then I go home to change, meeting him at his 4x4.
The ride is tense and quiet, but not awkward.
Gabe’s silences are second nature to me by now, as familiar as the way he keeps one hand steady on the wheel.
But this time it feels different.
Maybe it’s the memory of his shoulder under my cheek, his hand gripping mine, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me to sleep.
The silence between us isn’t empty—it’s full, crowded with the reminder that I don’t just know him. I want him.
We park around back, and he walks me through the back offices, passing Adam’s and his own to see me to mine.
That overprotective tendency of his rearing its head.
Gabe gives me a nod before he stalks toward the front desk, probably to check in on whoever’s manning it.
I open my door to see Adam sitting behind my desk, smiling. My heart works a little harder to keep oxygen pumping to my brain.
