I don’t mean to let out a groan, but I can’t keep it in. The thought of Gabi wearing my T-shirt then—and now—has me fucking hard in an instant. I know I told her to keep the clothes, but I figured because she was so adamant about giving them back that they were sitting in a drawer. Never in my wildest dreams did I think she was wearing them regularly.
Great. Now I’m jealous of a piece of fabric.
“Maddox…”
“Gabrielle…”
Normally our little standoff comes when Gabi is trying to make a point. But this is different.
My name on her lips was breathy. A plea. She’s telling me to kiss her. Or to back away. I don’t know which. I don’t think she does either.
Fuck I want to. I want to take those lips and fuse them with mine. I want to taste her sweet mouth. I want to hold her face in my hands and kiss her until neither of us can breathe. I want to take her back to her place and have her put my T-shirt on only so I can take it back off—but not before I lick that sweet pussy while she wears it.
But I can’t. I won’t. She might want it, I for sure want it, but I want something more than that—I don’t want her to regret it when it’s over. She’s been adamant about being not ready to move on, and I need to respect that.
Which is why I’m going to pull away. I’m going to swallow my want—and tell my cock to calm the fuck down—and walk away.
And I’m going to hate every second of it.
I tap my forehead to hers and hold it there for the longest second of my life before I slowly pull away.
“I need to go grab my phone.” My voice cracks at my clear lie. "I left it in the back.”
She knows it’s a weak excuse, but she doesn’t call me on it. “Okay.”
That one word is barely a sad whisper as I start to walk away, my head hanging, before I hear Gabi call my name.
“Maddox?”
I turn back around before I push through the door to the kitchen. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
I slowly nod in acknowledgment, glad I made the right decision, but don’t say anything else as I walk back into the kitchen and immediately press my hands into one of the prep tables.
Fuck!
I want to scream it out but I don’t. I don’t want to freak her out more than she probably already is, and really, that shout would be at myself, not her.
Because what in the actual fuck was I thinking when I said that I could be friends with this woman? What? Did I think because I was admitting that I still had feelings that I was beating the psychology of all of this? I mean for fuck’s sake… the first thing I ever thought about her when she walked up on stagewith me was that I loved her. She’s still in my phone as “future wife.”
All I know is that I need to get a hold of myself. Figure out how to either bide my time until she’s ready for the next step or navigate how to be around Gabi while respecting that we can only be friends. All of this while also not dying from a combination of confusion, stupidity, heartbreak, and blue balls.
My head is down as I take a few deep breaths to try and calm myself down, when I hear the back door of the bakery open.
“Hello? Who’s here? Why are the fucking lights on?”
My guard immediately goes up when the sound of a booming male voice echoes off the walls. As soon as he’s done screaming, I hear the back door slam shut. I don’t say anything—you don’t tell the murderer where you’re at for him to come and get you—but my eyes are wide and my breathing picks up. I want to warn Gabi that someone’s here, but I also don’t want to lead the would-be burglar and/or murderer straight to her. So I do the next best thing I can think of—I look for a weapon to protect myself and the woman I’m mildly obsessed with.
I’m scrambling as the stranger keeps yelling out warnings for me to come out and show myself. Does he think I’m the intruder? He’s the one breaking in after hours, likely to either rob or murder me. Which is why I need something to protect myself with.
Yes. There it is. The biggest wooden dough roller I’ve ever seen in my life. I joked with Gabi earlier that she could knock someone out with this when she asked me to hand it to her. Little did I know I was foreshadowing the future.
I use both hands to pick it up by one of the ends, positioning it above my head so I’m ready to strike down whoever's about to come around the corner. I’m in a baseball stance, staring at the hallway when I see the figure slowly walking toward me.
“Maddox Gallagher? What the fuck are you doing here?”
It takes me a second to register who's looking at me. Because what the hell is one of the best golfers in the world doing walking into Gabi’s bakery?
