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But she didn’t pause to wait for an answer, too busy hurrying inside so she could get a visual on the boy again. Brushing past where I was inadvertently holding the door open for her, she had her arms so full that her elbow barely glanced across the plane of my stomach, causing all my abdominal muscles to tense dramatically.
I sucked in a harsh breath.
She passed by so damn closely, in fact, that I got a vivid picture of her in side-profile, and I knew for certain I’d never forget that face.
She was quite simply stunning.
Her hair was dark and shoulder length, cut in varying lengths so a few tendrils spiked out in a fashionable mess. Her eyes were a chocolate brown fringed with the curliest lashes I’d ever seen. And her pink painted lips were equally as full on the bottom as they were on the top.
Her hair that was tucked behind one ear revealed two earrings, one a black stud just above a green emerald. And three droplets of sweat coasted down her jawline, making me imagine licking the salty flavor away with my tongue.
The neckline of her gray sweater was large enough that it threatened to slip off her shoulder completely. It revealed the black strap of her bra, leaving me filled with the temptation to drift my fingers over that strap, barely grazing smooth flesh as I went.
Then there was her scent. God, she smelled comfortable and cozy, like wood smoke and cinnamon apple pie on a cold day, just after you’d come inside to warm your hands in front of an open fireplace. Everything about her seemed like a haven of heat and security and passion.
Instant craving unfurled inside me. I honestly couldn’t recall ever wanting a complete stranger as much as I wanted to just lean into this one and soak in all the things that felt so strong and tranquil yet exciting about her.
Not once in that brief moment she brushed past me, however, did she even look up into my eyes.
“Miguel!” she shouted, as soon as she was inside, making me blink past the awareness and yearning I’d just experienced. “Get back here now. I’m going to skin your hide for taking off on me like that.”
But the kid who had raced on ahead of her was long gone. Only his laugher floated back to taunt, “Hurry up, Gabby. Last one home’s a rotten egg.”
Gabby.
So, her name was Gabby, huh?
I liked that. It fit her.
“Oh, you are so dead,” Gabby muttered, shuffling after him as fast as she could with her arms full of groceries. “You’ll think rotten egg for scaring me like that.”
Having completely forgotten about me, she hurried after him, disappearing as quickly as Miguel had.
She’d been somewhere between ten to twenty years older than the kid, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she’d been his mother, but he’d called her Gabby, which made me think not-the-mom, even though I referred to my own mother by her given name. I had the sense those two didn’t have the same kind of cold, distant relationship Lana and I did.
Sister was my first guess, then maybe aunt. Probably not a babysitter, as their connection had felt more familial.
Not that it mattered what their relationship was. I doubted I would ever see them again. Which made me realize I’d been standing there in the open entrance, my back still pressed against the door, gazing at the spot I’d last seen her like a lovestruck idiot.
Annoyed by my own reaction, I shook my head and stepped outside, grasping the lapels of my jacket before jerking it to rights again, straight and wrinkle-free. Then I strode toward my car.
I didn’t have time to daydream about pretty girls. I had a job to get to. And a mystery to solve.
Chapter 2
Hayden
Judge Fashions Industry sat in the heart of the city’s downtown. If legend could be believed, Marcella and Arthur Judge had started the business in a crumbling building that once stood in this very lot, on the second floor above a laundromat with a single Singer sewing machine Arthur had given Marcella on their wedding day and bits of material neighbors had cast off from their own darning endeavors.
Marcella had been the art and creation—or what her husband had termed the soul—behind the clothes they made, while Arthur was the businessman. With his animated and persuasive personality, he could’ve sold sand to people on a beach. He could’ve been anything. But what he was most proud of was his wife, so he put his life’s work into selling the designs she made.
And within ten years, they were millionaires with three dozen employees and business ventures around the globe. They bought the entire block around that deteriorating laundromat, razed all the buildings, and built up JFI as it stood today.
But as I glanced up at the three-story building in front of me after I parked my car, I wondered if the Judges would’ve changed anything in their climb to the top if they’d had any inkling how their futures would play out.
The world had been at their fingertips. It might’ve taken them years of trying until they finally had the child they so yearned for, but once Kaitlynn had come along, their life had been made on every front, a veritable fairy tale.
But then Marcella had died of cancer when her daughter was six, and Arthur—the heartbroken widower—had latched on to the first gold-digging viper—er, woman—who smiled prettily and convinced him she could take care of his sweet daughter.
