Page 7 of Good Guy Gabe

“The record?”

“The sweatshirt. I can sew it up for you?”

He lights up like a kid on Christmas who’s just unwrapped tickets to Disney. “Really?”

I nod and say, as stupidly as possible, “I have a sewing machine.”

“I’d like that.”

“Who’s Blaise?” I ask.

“My quarterback.”

I blink a couple times as I process this, as the wheels start to turn and click into place. “Oh!” I cry out, releasing a laugh on the breath that had stilled in my lungs. “You’re with the Juggernauts? That’s why you’re so big.”

“I’m the center.”

I don’t know what a center is. I’ve never had any interest in sports. I lived on a treadmill in high school, and once I retired from competition, I did everything I could to avoid any physical pursuits. Cora drags me on walks just to make sure I don’t get too sedentary.

But he’s here for the quilt, not to . . . sweep me off my feet? Rescue me from my hermitude? Ride off into the sunset with me and the feral raccoon I feed my table scraps to?

“The quilt for the fundraiser, right? It’s not ready yet. I was told they didn’t need it until day of. Did something change?” I start to stand up. “I have to throw it on the longarm, the computerized ones are both running, but I can run it on a manual.” The calculations begin. Today’s show is for subscribers. They’re generally happy with any content, so if I demo some new free motion quilting on the longarm, I can do something simple but fun with the fundraiser quilt. “Tomorrow, I can have it ready—”

Panic must have leaked into my voice because Gabe rests a gigantic hand on my shoulder, its weight alone enough to keep me seated, its warmth calming, its grip reassuring. “No, no, you don’t need to rush it. Emily Hess was worried when you didn’t return her calls and asked me to check in on you.”

“Oh dear. My car broke down last week, and I left my phone in it.”

“See, I told you!” Cora says.

We both snap to her, Gabe with a little wave.“Hey, I’m Gabe.”

“Yeah, I caught that. Gabe the center. Joss, I’m telling Jimmy to fix your car.”

I sigh. “Fine, fine. Sorry for making you drive out here, Gabe. If you’ve got an extra minute, I can fix that sweatshirt now. Won’t take a minute.”

The sweatshirt is suddenly shoved at me, and I catch a light scent off it. Soap, definitely; Gabe must have just showered. There’s also a soft, inviting musk with notes of rosemary and freshly cut wood. Masculine but gentle. I glance back to say something, hopefully not anything insane, but my jaw drops.

Gabe is shirtless.

And he isbig.

Like, okay, we’ve already established this, but there’s a difference between broad-shouldered in a baggy hoodie and seeing it wasn’t actually all that baggy. He’s got wide, well-defined pecs and a round belly that lacks a six-pack but has the vertical divots proving that the undefined layer is the mass needed to support the strongman build. He looks like he could flip tractor tires and drag firetrucks around on ropes. All that covered with skin lightly bronzed, the sort of tan one gets from working outside all summer instead of deliberately tanning, and lightly dusted in coppery curls that match his messy hair and bushy beard.

My former husband, may demons eat his soul for all of eternity, looked like an evening mug of warm milk in comparison.

Gabe frowns. “I shouldn’t have taken that off.”

“You absolutely should have,” Cora pipes up. “That’s just her cocksucker Brian face. She was comparing you to her ex-husband.”

“I wish she’d kept that thought to herself,” I mutter to Gabe. “But yeah, you look great. I mean, not in a creepy way, I’m not like, thirsting, or—oh but I’m not saying you’re not attractive.” I spin right back to my sewing table, distracting myself with matching thread with its coordinating bobbin. I also grab one of my business card magnets. “That’s my shop number. Please give Emily my apologies and this card.”

As he takes the magnet from me, our fingertips brush, and I swear we generate a current. “Yes, ma’am,” he rumbles.

At 30, I don’t very much appreciate being calledma’am, especially when so many of the people I work with are overtwice my age, but that current shoots right up my spine the way Gabe says it, so I don’t correct him. I’m looping the thread into my machine when Cora makes a soft tutting sound. I raise an eyebrow at her, and she says, “I mean, you should really darn that.”

“You can do it however you want,” Gabe assures me. “It’s just a sweatshirt.”

I nearly agree with that. It is just a sweatshirt, and it’s in rough shape beyond the tear. The cuffs are splitting; one of the metal grommets has fallen off. It should be retired.

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