“You’ll be here?”
“I think you should know I’m quite handy, Miss Moore.”
Only he could make me laugh right now, and I do. A giggle slips through without my approval. “Is that right? A regular old Handy Manny?”
“More like jack of all trades and master of all.”
“We’ll see about that.” My dog whines then, his body looking between me and the outside. He’s needing to go out and see for himself that it’s safe. “I’ll see you when you get here. Just come around to the back. I’ll be back there with Mr. Pickles seeing if she left anything else behind—”
“Anything else?” This leaves him on a low growl, and my brows furrow. Why does that upset him? He isn’t aware of our fight a few days ago, just my reservations after the disastrous brunch.
“Elise left a note.” There’s an uncomfortable feeling in my chest, this pressure that comes and goes as it pleases, and no amount of medical test over the years have found anything wrong with me. And yet, when I’m stressed, it makes its presence known like now.
“About?”
“A personal matter. Please leave it at that.”
“As you wish, Miss Moore. I’ll be there soon.” The dial tone greets my ears a minute later, and guilt grows right after. I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do, and I’m left stewing in my emotions while my dog runs around the yard.
And as the seconds on the clock tick by and my restlessness grows, one thing becomes certain while further confusing me: I don’t like him being upset.
“Still have your doubts?” His smug expression makes me roll my eyes a few hours later. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong?
“Never.” I’d never tell him I find the way his large, muscular hands grip the drill sexy. Nor the way he licks his lip, biting the bottom one while concentrating a weakness. Instead, I shrug while pretending to criticize his work. Like I’m secretly not impressed and my thighs didn’t clench a few times. “This is mediocre at best.”
“Liar.” Theodore is quick to call me on it, standing to full height from his hunched position where he’d been drilling in the last two screws to my front door. He’s already done the back, checked the bottom floor’s window locks, and now I’m the owner of some fancy-techy locks that work with my phone and a personal code. His amber orbs traverse my short frame slowly from head to toe while pointing at me with the drill in his hand. “Tell the truth, or I’ll be charging you double.”
“I only pay with treats,” is my cheeky reply, and for a second something flashes in his eyes. They become darker. Hooded. But then it’s gone when he blinks, and I’m left wondering if my mind is playing tricks on me. I saw hunger there. I know I did.
“What kind of treats? You bake?” His voice, though, is a little deeper. Rougher, and I swallow hard, pretending I’m not affected, and fix my messy bun for the third time in fifteen minutes. Pretend that the damn thing isn’t staying in place when what I need is a cold shower and a priest to clear my thoughts.
Because watching him work has been torture. Unmercifully so.
“Not to save my life, but my pantry is always full of candy.” Tilting my head to the side, I tap my lips. A move he follows. “Do you prefer Snickers or Twix as part of our deal?”
Laughter builds in his strong chest and rumbles out, the sound loud and boisterous. And I find myself liking the sound. Liking him more than I should. “You are too precious, Gabriella.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“Please do. You have no idea how endearing I find everything you do.” At once my face heats up, his words making me smile, but before I can respond he’s taking a step back. There’s a low vibration coming from his wrist, his watch signaling an alarm while my amusement dies. What just happened? “Raincheck on this very intriguing topic?”
“I guess.” Because I’ve got nothing else.
“Good.” Bending a bit, he places the drill on the floor and then stands, bringing both hands to my face. The skin is a bit rough, manly, and they feel heavenly as his thumbs rub back and forth across my cheeks. “Has Pickles gone out for the night?” Verbally I can’t respond, too focused on the almost reverent touch, but I do nod. My mind can’t be playing tricks on me. This is real. “Then I want you to head inside and lock the door for me. I want to hear the mechanism engage before I leave. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” Neither of us move after, our stares unwavering. “God, you’re beautiful.” Anything I could’ve said after dies on my tongue because his next action stuns me, completely and utterly leaves me breathless while those lips I’ve been looking at, memorizing the way they enunciate each word, press against my forehead. Their plumpness lingers there, but it’s his deep inhale that sends a shiver down my spine. Theodore Astor is taking my scent into his lungs, his mouth is kissing me, and right before I have to grip onto his shirt for support, the smug man pulls back and grins down at me. “Good night, Gabriella.”
“Good night.”
“Please head inside, sweetheart. I need to make sure you’re safe.”
“Okay.” And true to his word, he doesn’t leave my front porch until I’m locked in and everything works, leaving behind a different mess altogether. I’m a bit shaky as I turn off the lights and walk up the stairs toward my room.
I don’t acknowledge Mr. Pickles, who chooses to sleep in my studio.
I don’t bother slipping into a pair of pajamas after stripping down to just my panties.
I don’t bother taking either of my sleep medications.
All I do know is the feel of his lips followed me the entire time until sleep claimed me.
11
Gabriella
