***
Maddox
A week afterI told Gabby she could stay, I sit at my desk, staring at an inventory sheet. It’s late, and numbers blur before my eyes so I rub them with my palms. I don’t have to wonder what’s on my mind. It’s the same thing always in my head. My houseguest, who continues to surprise me, and not in a bad way.
Last week, after Gabby left the bar, I spent a couple of hours overseeing things at work and taking the time to convince myself I was prepared to have her living under my roof. The house isn’t large, and I knew we were going to be in close quarters, so I needed to remind myself of all the reasons I should keep my hands to myself.
I thought I prepared myself to have Gabby in my home. At least that’s what I told myself by the time I left work a few hours after she took her car home.Myhome,nothers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as I convinced myself it would be.
Gabby is everywhere. Not only has she purchased new towels for her bathroom, she bought some for mine, too. Not that she was in my bedroom or the primary bath, but she said she assumed mine were as old as hers. Which is true. I haven’t updated them for years. I never even thought about it. Now I have plush, comfortable towels when I get out of the shower. It might be a small thing to someone else, but to me, it showed athoughtful side even if she used the money she took from the bank and refused my offer to pay her back.
A part of me wants to fault the rich girl for using her money to give herself more luxury than I have in my fixer-upper home, but she doesn’t seem to be all about indulgence. She just seems to want to contribute in some way while she stays here. Her hours are shorter than mine, and when I come home, often between the day and night shift, there is dinner on the table or in the fridge waiting for me. Good meals she cooks herself, not ordered in or picked up. With groceries she purchases despite me leaving cash on the counter with a note to use it for house necessities.
Felicia didn’t cook. She didn’t know how, and she gave me a hard time over not hiring a chef when, at the time, I made the money to afford it. But Gabby is different, and I’m not enough of an asshole not to admit the difference. So I won’t allow myself to fall back on the rich girl cliché. I have to give credit where it’s due.
Gabby cooks, she cleans, she does laundry…and she paints. In the family room where I haven’t finished priming the walls, she’s set up an easel and canvas she apparently keeps in her car. And when she isn’t working at the gallery, which she says she loves, I often find her with AirPods in her ears and a paint brush in her hand. From the little I see of her work, because she often covers her paintings with a sheet, she works with acrylics.
In essence, over the last week, she’s taken over my house. And though I ought to mind and be annoyed by her presence, I like having her around. None of which convinces me that seducing a twenty-two-year-old woman is in my best interest. I still have plenty of reservations, which include not just her age and our life experience differences, but my uncertainty of where she’ll live when the summer ends. I’m still guarding myemotions, but with every day that passes, Gabby makes that more difficult.
Shouting sounds from outside my office. Pushing back my chair, I rise to my feet. I’m not in the mood for a fight, but I’m grateful for the distraction from my thoughts. I walk out and stride down the hall, following the loud voices.
As I step foot in the bar, my gaze comes to rest on Cal who is in an argument with a familiar-looking man. I stride over to the douche in the pressed pants and a sport jacket, looking out of place in The Back Door where guys wear cargo shorts or jeans and T-shirts.
“Okay, Preston, what’s the problem?” I shove my hands into my front pockets and glare.
The other man meets my gaze, clearly not surprised to see him. “James. I heard you were managing this dump.” He scowls as he looks around the bar, which appears new and in great shape as far as I’m concerned. It just isn’t the country club bar.
I ignore the dig. I don’t give a shit what Preston the Third thinks of me or my occupation. “Why are you hassling my bartenders?”
I glance at Cal and tip my head toward the bar, indicating he can go back to work.
“Seems he’s looking for his girlfriend.” Cal shoots me a pointed look, one I accept with a nod.
After Cal returns to his place behind the bar and begins helping customers, I turn to Preston. “I wasn’t aware you had agirlfriend. Women you touch without permission, on the other hand, I could count those, but it would take me all night.”
“I’m not here to verbally spar with you. Where is she?”
“Where is who?” I deliberately play dumb. No way will I reveal Gabby’s whereabouts. She is safely tucked away at my house and this prick won’t find her.
Preston lets out a prolonged sigh, as if I’m wasting his time. “Gabriella, my girlfriend. Soon to be fiancée.”
“No idea who you’re talking about.” Though it’s interesting to see how certain Preston appears that Gabby is his girlfriend and will bow to her family’s demands.
“Gabriella has been missing for a week. Her parents and I were willing to give her time to get this little rebellion out of her system, but they’ve had enough. And so have I.” He straightens his shoulders, posturing as if he has a leg to stand on.
Holding back a snort of amusement isn’t easy, but I do it and remain silent.
“Do not make me call the police,” Preston says, stepping closer. “My father has pull with the chief, and we both know who he’ll believe. He’ll come search your home, and no doubt he’ll find my wayward fiancée.”
I raise my eyebrows but still don’t give the other man the satisfaction of a reply.
A growl of frustration escapes Preston’s throat. “Gabriella’s friends were here a few nights ago and saw her helping out behind the bar, talking to you and your workers. Or should I say slumming? You couldn’t hack it in the world of finance so you tucked tail and came here.”
Nothing the man says fazes me. Gabby’s so-called friends betrayed her. Then again, on the first night we met, she told me she didn’t have any friends she trusted. This just proves her instincts are solid.
And Preston is deluded in thinking she’s his fiancée…or anything else. “You just said she was your girlfriend. Now you’re claiming she’s your fiancée. Even if you got your lies straight, we both know she’s neither.”
Preston’s lips lift in a smug smile. “So you admit you know where she is?”
