Page 6 of Good Guy Gabe

Huh.

“Gabe,” I offer, stretching my hand out.

Rose takes it and giggles like a schoolgirl when I grip hers just right to show I’m a strong man but I won’t hurt her. “I know who you are, young man. My Carl has season tickets to the Jugs. He thinks you boys are making it to the playoffs this year.”

“I certainly hope so, ma’am.” And I can’t wait to tell the guys that old people are calling us the Jugs now, too. PR has been hating it, but it’s not our fault they gave the team a stupid name. “But I’m actually here to see Joss. Can you point me in her direction?”

“Ooh,” Iris murmurs, and they share a pointed look at my left ring finger.

Oh dear. This is not the first time a little old lady has attempted to match me with her recently widowed daughter who’s still plenty old enough to be my mother, but I put a big smile on my face and head through the door they pointed at.

It opens into a short, narrow hallway with a room a few feet ahead that seems to be oriented sideways. Fabric cubbies toppedwith framed pictures of orchids line the walls. When I step closer to see if I’m right about there not being glass in the frames, I realize they’re not pictures at all. They’re tiny quilts made from hundreds of slivers of fabric. I get now why there were so many shades of solid fabrics in the shop.

They’re for painting with fabric.

I glance the other way and find half a dozen lights pointed roughly in my direction. They share a wall with a spider web of cables, multiple mounted cameras, and a big screen TV currently occupied with a petite, dark-haired woman stitching a jacket on a mannequin. There’s a picture-in-picture at the top corner of the screen, and although the image is smaller, it’s perfectly lit to show every detail of the big blue eyes, button nose, and pink cheeks of the blonde woman on camera.

Oh, and she’s seated right in front of me but distracted by both the conversation and the small quilt in her lap. Visible on the screen is a simple V-neck tee with the logo of the Quilted Flower, but behind her workbench, I can see she’s paired it with a patchwork skirt with enough length and volume that she’s tucked it between her legs.

“So one of us has to be banged, one of us married, and one of us killed,” she’s saying, her voice soft and sweet and just a little bit Southern. Exotic for a guy originally from Minnesota. “So which one am I?”

“Marry, definitely,” I blurt out.

She lets out a squeaky yelp and spins around too quickly in her swivel chair, going an extra ninety degrees before I catch her and spin her back to face me.

Our eyes meet, and my breath is stolen. She is, quite literally, breathtaking. She’s startled by me, understandably so,but something in those gentle blue eyes makes me want to take her in my arms and keep her there forever.

To hold and to protect,is that the line? No, it’s to have and to hold, but I would hold and protect her whether Ihaveher or not.

“Are you Joss?” I ask.

She nods silently.

“I’ve been looking for you all day.”

Chapter 4

Joss

IDON’T KNOWthat I’ve ever seen such a big man in my life. It doesn’t help that I’m sitting and he’s leaning over me, but it’s like he’s eclipsed my world in one move.

I should be frightened of him. His bushy copper beard and undercut, the gleam in his hazel eyes, even the bulk of his shoulders exude a menacing aura. But his casual smile looks genuine, and he’s in a baby pink hoodie with a juvenile screen print on it and athletic shorts. That undercut is messy and overgrown enough that it invites my fingers to run through it. I don’t think I need to be frightened of him.

Besides, Rose and Iris are like ancient pit bulls. Iris has mace in her bag. I’m pretty sure Rose could do some damage with her arthritis-friendly rotary blade.

So, no, I don’t have to fear him. But my heart is pounding harder than it has in a long time.

“I’m Gabe,” he says, his smile widening when his eyes drop to my hands in my lap.

“Your sweatshirt is ripped,” I squeak out, pointing down near the hem. “Just there.”

He looks down and frowns, but even that is incredibly inviting. His mustache covers his upper lip, but his bottom lip is as welcoming to my fingertips as his hair is. “Blaise did that when he rolled off the exercise ball,” he explains.

I have no idea what to say. I have no idea who Blaise is. “Oh.”

“He didn’t break the record.”

“I can fix it for you,” I whisper, unsure if I’m breathless or just dumbfounded. He’s all mass and harsh lines, but my god, those eyes.

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