Page 80 of Good Guy Gabe

I’m not lost. Not any more lost than usual. The only difference is most times I’m wandering the aisles, I’m looking to jury-rig something. Expanding shelves or repairing tables, the unending fight between filming equipment and necessary quilting space. This time, I don’t have anything I need to get done.

I stare at one of the display doors. It’s pretty. A nice shade of light green with a big oval window, etched with a floral pattern. Jeff just kicked me out of the apartment so he could get to work taking out that section of wall in my kitchen, so I’m betting there’s already a door for that spot, but I wonder if I could trade out the one at the bottom of the stairs with this. Or put this at the top of the stairs. I have no idea how doors are installed, but I bet Gabe could do this.

I just have to text him.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, realizing my mistake of slowing down to consider this. It’s not even a good option; the door is almost $2000 and I didn’t bring dimensions with me.

I turn to shoo the employee off, but then I have a second thought. I’m expecting a geriatric or a pimply teen, what I’m used to at this particular store, but the man behind me isn’t much older than me, with enough gray in his dark hair to be intriguing, an inviting twinkle in his brown eyes, and lines cut in his face from smiling.

What a smile, too. He’s darker skinned, and his perfect white teeth glow.

Handsome. Aging well. In great shape, that’s clear from his snug gray sweater and slacks. No rings on meaningful fingers, no apron. He doesn’t work here, he was just offering to help because he’s kind or I looked desperate.

Or he likes how I look.

“I’m . . . just browsing,” I tell him, my voice uncertain. I don’t mean it to be a test, but I can’t deny that it isn’t.

He lifts an eyebrow. “I could help you.”

Heishitting on me.

I’m single.

I don’t need Gabe to come over and . . . do some undefined task. I don’t need Gabe at all. I’m just a hormone disaster, and any man can help with that. I’m not good at dating or casual stuff, but I bet if I showed this random guy who’s at the hardware store at 11 a.m. on the Monday after Super Bowl even the slightest interest, it would be next to no effort to convince him to take me to lunch and then have sex with me.

He could be a nice guy. He could be my casual stuff guy. I don’t need Gabe for that.

“If I’m not imposing,” he adds with a far more obvious look at my ring fingers than the glance I stole at his.

This could be so easy. I should do it. Worst case scenario, I’m misreading the situation and I never have to see him again or he’s a jerk but I get laid.

He’s not super tall or super big. I’m not super tall or super big, either, so that seems well matched. I don’tneedsuper tall and super big. And he called mema’am, so that’s a perk.

Except it isn’t. It didn’t hit right. It didn’t hit at all.

I rub my belly casually, like I’m not trying to draw his attention to the bump, and laugh politely, “Oh no, but thank you. I’m just figuring out some nonsense for my boyfriend to do because he’s in the dog house right now.”

I wink and continue down the aisle at a faster pace this time, making half a lap around the store before I cave and find a shelving unit that looks like a pain in the ass to put together. Visions of Gabe fighting it for a couple hours, working up a sweat and a mad before he burns off his frustration with some absolutely punishing sex that leaves me limping fills my head as I take a photo of the box once it’s loaded into my car. While an employee ties my lift gate down and sticks a plastic red flag to the shelf, I send it and a text to Gabe.

JOSS

You need to come put this together.

I don’t know where it’s going, but he wasn’t on Jeff’s crew this morning, so I figure I’ve got time to find a home for it.

GABE

i’ll let jeff know.

JOSS

Let him know what?

GABE

that you need it put together. he can do it.

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