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“April—”

“You heard me?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

He hesitates. That is not reassuring.

“Gabriel.”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me talking about Derek?”

“Your former boyfriend?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh, God.”

“The one who apparently lacks the ability to prepare frozen poultry?”

I groan.

“And whose infidelity involved a personal trainer?”

“Stop.”

“And who has made an unreasonable claim upon something to which fries air?”

“STOP!”

He does. But there’s a definite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I stare at him.

“You heard everything.”

“More than I ever wished to know.”

I cover my face. This cannot be happening. It simply cannot. I have spent an entire week telling my deepest, darkest secrets to a gargoyle. I’ve cried and laughed and schemed. I’ve complained about Derek’s bedroom skills or lack thereof.

A gargoyle who is apparently a hot, naked man.

A hot, naked man who knows about my cheating ex-boyfriend, my bank account, my plumbing problems, and the fact that I once accidentally sent a very inappropriate text message to my former boss.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus. “I need more wine.”

“I don’t think that’s advisable.”

I drop my hands. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve already consumed a considerable amount.”

I stare at him. “Have you been counting?”

“Three glasses.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re a judgmental statue.”