Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I shake my head and climb inside the cab, turning on the engine. Now that the sun has set, the air has a bite to it, and I left my sweatshirt at home. Gabrielle has my flannel.
Her waist molded in my hands. Her breath warmed my cheek. The memory of my shirt hanging off her body makes me hard.
I’m sure it was the eventful way we met that makes her impossible to forget. After all, not many exciting things happen in Alden, and seeing a naked woman fall off her porch isn’t a daily occurrence.
Especially when they look like Gabrielle.
My heart begins to pound, and my blood runs hot. I grip the steering wheel and imagine the softness of her skin. I think about how her tits hung off her frame in perfect teardrops. The curve of her hip. Her eyes taunted mine like they held the keys to my inner workings.
I didn’t know I was capable of responding to a woman like that.
Not after what happened with Izzy.
My fingers release the wheel, and I blow out a breath.
And that’s why I have to keep myself in check.
It was a moment with Gabrielle. And it will never be anything but that.
CHAPTER FOUR
GABRIELLE
Igather our plates and the empty pizza box off the table, making a mental note to tell Cricket that the boys ate every single crumb.
The news that Alden still doesn’t offer recycling to the community blows my mind. The waste management company dropped off our refuse containers earlier in the day, and the poor man appeared mind-boggled when I asked about the bin for recyclables. I’m pretty certain no one has ever requested one before.
Carter’s footsteps tap against the floor above the kitchen. He wanted the smaller of the two rooms upstairs. He’s convinced the proximity to the router will give him better ping for his video games. Whatever that means. Occasionally, a laugh will trickle through the thin walls and make its way to my ears. I stop in my tracks and appreciate the sound every time I even think I hear him.
I turn toward the sink as Dylan enters the room. He barely acknowledges me with a grunt. Already in his pajama pants and no shirt, he pads his way across the room.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, dropping the plates into the sink. I try not to look at him like he’s a wounded badger, even though that’s exactly his vibe. “What are you up to?”
“Getting food.”
I drop the pizza box in the trash. “Did you not get enough at dinner?”
“I did. But I’m hungry again.”
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. He simply opens the refrigerator and peers inside. I’m not sure he’d acknowledge my existence if I hadn’t spoken to him first.
“We don’t have much to eat,” I say. “I haven’t had a chance to go to the store.”
The door shuts with more force than necessary. I start to say something—to remind him not to be so hard on our things—but think better of it. This isn’t a battle I really want to fight tonight.
“Do we have anything in the pantry?” He spins around and faces me for the first time. “Do we even have a pantry?”
“Yes. We have a pantry.” I point at the tall cabinet beside him. “Again, there’s not much in there.”
“Enough to even look?”
“I don’t know, Dylan. But it would probably be faster for you to take five seconds and have a gander rather than stand here and grill me over it.”
He narrows his eyes, letting them rake over me as he turns away.
“Did you have fun with Kyle?” I ask as he rummages through the few boxes of crackers and cookies we brought from Boston. “You didn’t really say much when you got home.”
“It was fine.”
“Carter seemed to enjoy himself.”
“Well, Carter is seven. Of course he enjoyed himself. He got to hang out with older kids at the rec center.” The pantry door smacks shut. “Must be nice to have that kind of freedom at seven. I barely have it at fourteen.”
I set my jaw in place and remind myself he’s doing this on purpose. He’s poking and prodding, trying to rile me up to prove a point. Reacting won’t help.
“You don’t have anything to say to that?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“I have a lot of things to say to that, Dylan. But I don’t have the energy to rehash a topic we’ve gone over a million times.”
“You mean that you don’t trust me.”
“Dylan . . .”
I look at my son and silently plead with him to stop.
He’s not this kid—this argumentative, sometimes hateful, rule-bending person I’ve lived with over the last year. If he were, I would know. I’ve known him since before he walked this planet.
I know the sound of his breath while he sleeps, the ticklish spot just behind his right knee, and that beneath his hair are two crowns at the top of his head. There are twenty-seven freckles across his nose and a birthmark resembling chocolate milk on his left inner thigh. He likes to build things and take things apart. He hates needles and apples. And somewhere, buried under a lot of anger and frustration, is a little boy who misses his father.