AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I can’t, Gabe,” she said, sounding far surer of herself than she felt. “We have to think of Ruby. It’s not fair to put her in the middle just so we can scratch this… this itch.”
Gabe’s eyes narrowed. The look in his green eyes told her that her words had replaced the sizzle with anger and—even worse—hurt, too. He stepped into her space as he confronted her, and she tried not to cower under his cold glare.
“You think that I’m not thinking about Ruby?” He bent to meet her now faltering gaze. “You think I want to scratch anitch?” His voice was low and lethal. Angry.
She’d never heard him speak to anyone like this before. Shame crept up her neck and across her face. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did you mean?” The rumble of barely contained fury in his voice kept her silent.
“Let me tell you two things about me, Hope Morgan, since you haven’t already figured them out on your own. One, everything I do, every move I make, I do with Ruby’s best interest in mind. Always. And two, this.” He surprised her by grabbing her shoulders, hauling her up to her toes, and pressing his mouth to hers in a kiss that devoured and devastated her at the same time.
It was hot, and wet, and hard. It was all frustrated, pent-up need.
She must have been insane, given his level of anger with her, but she melted against him instantly, her body responding with a will of its own. Her nipples pebbled against his chest, and he groaned as she rubbed them against his pecs. He slanted his head, taking her mouth in a deeper kiss, his hands fisted in her hair, holding her close so she couldn’t move or feel anything but the glorious heat of his mouth moving over hers.
Finally, he pulled away, his chest heaving. “This,” he repeated, “is not a fucking itch.” He let go of her as abruptly as he’d drawn her in, and she staggered at the loss of his touch.
Gabe ran a hand through his hair roughly, and she watched as his usual control slid back into place. “I’m going to tuck Ruby in,” he said finally, then he turned to face his apartment.
“Gabe,” she called after him, but her voice didn’t carry any weight. She didn’t know what to say, could only feel an incredible loss and emptiness as he walked away from her.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Afucking itch. That’s all he was to her. Gabe rolled over in his bed and tucked his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he had been for the last hour.
He should have known. A woman like her wouldn’t want to get mixed up with the likes of him for anything more than a fling. He felt stupid for thinking it could be more. She might be adopted, but she was a Morgan through and through. Cultured, affluent, well-bred. All the things he was not and never would be.
Women like Hope didn’t have relationships with single fathers who ran bars and got by on grit alone. No, if and when Hope Morgan decided on a relationship, it was going to be with some Harvard educated suit, with a big brain, bigger mouth, and a massive bank account.
Gabe’s body burned with anger, frustration, and goddammit, unsated lust. But even as the bitterness twisted his gut, the notion that she was the vain aristocrat that he’d originally thought her to be had shattered over the last couple of months. He had seen a side of Hope that was the opposite of that.
He’d watched her interact with his daughter, unnerved by how effortlessly she had slipped into his life, filling it with a peace and fulfillment he hadn’t known in years. Since she’d arrived, she’d created a routine for Ruby where none had been, leaving pieces of her calming presence all over his home.
Art—Hope’s and Ruby’s—hung on the walls. Delicious and nutritious food sat in his refrigerator. Laundry was getting done on a regular basis for the first time in years. There was even a goddamn lavender-scented candle in the bathroom.
To help settle Ruby before bed, she’d said. But that was Hope. She saw what needed doing and got it done, whether it was in someone’s home or in someone’s heart. She was a fixer. A helper. A healer.
Without them asking for it, Hope had begun to spin a web of healing and love in their lonely little world. She’d come into their orbit, bringing lightness and laughter. Ruby was sleeping and eating better and channeling all her six-year-old energy into creative, meaningful outlets.
Gabe had never known more peace. He trusted Hope with his daughter and knew Ruby couldn’t be in better hands. In the last few weeks, he’d found more contentment than he’d had in years and he’d be damned if he wasn’t so surprised by it all.
After losing two of the most important women in his life, he had convinced himself choosing to love someone else was too risky. He was terrified enough of losing Ruby. Willingly opening himself up to loving another person he could lose just seemed stupid.
He’d been there. It sucked. Both times.
But he couldn’t stop his feelings for Hope from growing into something beyond attraction, and the fact that she’d just reduced it to nothing more than a basic physical need grated on him.
Throwing off the covers, he donned a pair of jeans and stalked out of his bedroom. He halted in the darkened hall of his apartment, not sure what the hell he planned on doing exactly, when he heard a soft thump. Cocking his head toward his entryway, he heard it again. A quiet knock on his front door.
Knowing it could only be one person, he lunged for the door, yanking it open in time to see Hope turning to go.
She froze like a deer caught in headlights, then turned slowly to face him. She wore tiny sleep shorts that showed off her milelong legs and a silk camisole that hugged her curves, emphasizing clearly that she was not wearing a bra. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders in loose tantalizing waves.
His whole body responded. She looked like all his fantasies come to life, even if she was staring at him as if unsure whether to turn and run or stay and jump him. He was voting for the latter. She looked nervous as hell, so nervous she shook. It was only then, as his gaze traveled down her bare arms, that he saw a string of glow-in-the-dark condoms dangling from her fingers. The same ones he’d seen dumped from her purse on the floor in front of her apartment on that rainy day weeks ago.
Christ, he was a dead man.
* * *
