Page 1 of Officer Gabriel

1

GABRIEL

Reliable childcare is abitch.

"Hannah, you're my last resort." I swear, I will throttle her. I’ll go to prison with a clear conscience, too; at this point, it feels worth it.

She groans into the receiver, a sound that suggests I'm torturing her with my desperate plea. "Gabriel, you know I would if I could..." Her voice is strained, laced with the frustration of someone who’s been asked to work miracles on short notice.

When her words trail off, I can almost hear the gears turning in her head as she conjures yet another excuse for why she can't help me this time. It’s always the same with her and the other harem of girls I have on-call for my son, Damon. "Don't bother." With a resigned sigh, I click off the line, the action far less satisfying than it would have been fifteen years ago when I could have slammed the receiver down in anger. Back then, life was simple, carefree, and I certainly didn’t have a six-year-old demanding my attention.

"Daddy?" Damon walks into the room, his small frame precariously balancing a cup filled to the brim with milk. One wrong move and the carpet will be ruined forever. Who let him into the fridge, anyway? "I think Joey is sick. His nose is all wet." His innocent observation pulls me momentarily from my irritation, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of chaos lies ahead.

Joey is the kitten we just adopted from the animal shelter, a fluffy gray little creature with a playful spirit that never fails to charm Damon. He has a knack for finding my toes, delighting in the way they squirm beneath his tiny, sharp teeth. On more than one occasion, I’ve pondered the idea of punting him across the room when Damon isn’t looking, but the guilt that would settle in my chest afterward would surely eat me alive. "Sometimes kittens have wet noses, bud," I tell my son, my voice softening as I watch him navigate the delicate act of setting the glass of milk down on the table. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding when he manages to let go without spilling a single drop. I guess Damon inherited his old man's sense of balance after all.

"Do you have to go to work tonight?" Damon asks, his small face peering over the rim of the glass as he begins to lap at the milk. The sound drives me up the wall, but I can’t help but smile, knowing he learned this peculiar habit from Joey, who drinks his milk in exactly the same way with an adorable fervor.

I should have been at work half an hour ago, but when the sitter didn’t show up an hour before that, a wave of panic set in. I started calling through the list of names I had, my heart sinking with each unanswered ring until I finally reached Hannah. Now here we are, caught in this unexpected moment together. "Yeah, buddy. It's okay though." I offer him a reassuring smile, even though my mind races with thoughts of my teammates and theinevitable frustration waiting for me at the station. None of them were single dads, not a single one. In fact, the only guy on the force who wasn’t married and had a kid made a point of splitting his time with the kid’s mom. The difference between him and me? Damon’s mom had vanished from our lives when he was just two years old, leaving me to figure out this wild journey alone.

I heard through the grapevine that a new woman had moved onto our street, and she was apparently offering babysitting services for some of the local kids. I hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach her myself, but the older women in the neighborhood were more than eager to sing her praises. It was as if they all felt a twinge of sympathy for my chaotic situation, with a constant parade of women coming in and out of my home in an effort to help. They often volunteered to watch Damon whenever they had a chance, but with my unpredictable work schedule, things rarely aligned with their kids' sports activities.

As I rifled through my text messages, searching for one of the ladies' names and numbers, I decided to take a shot in the dark and reach out to this new potential babysitter. After just two rings, she answered, and I could hear a little spring in her voice as she greeted me. "Hello?"

"Is this Luna?" I asked, hoping I had the right person.

"Speaking!" she replied cheerfully. Her voice carried a maturity that set her apart from the college girls I had been hiring to look after Damon thus far, but that was to be expected. According to the neighborhood mothers, she was around twenty-six years old, give or take a year or two, providing a reassuring sense of stability that I could definitely use in my life right now.

"Hi, Luna. This is Gabriel Livingston. I live a few doors down from you, and I have a son, Damon, who's six years old. The ladies in the neighborhood have all recommended you as a babysitter, and, well," I pause, carefully weighing the next few words, knowing they could very well make or break the entire conversation. "Well, ma'am, I'm a police officer, and I was supposed to be on duty half an hour ago. I understand this is short notice and that you don't know me or my son, but I'm in a bit of a bind here. I'm desperate for help. I pay well, you can eat all my food—seriously, there's more than enough to go around—and Damon is a pretty cool kid, if I do say so myself. If you're not busy tonight, would you have some availability to watch him for about ten hours or so?"

I'd be lying if I said my fingers weren't crossed. My toes, too. If Luna couldn't do it, I'd have to call my Sergeant and explain that I couldn't find childcare on such short notice. This wasn't a common occurrence for me, but I could easily imagine a note winding up in my file about it. That would inevitably come back to haunt me when I went to the boards for a promotion down the line, and I couldn't afford any blemishes on my record.

Luna's soft laughter on the other end of the phone sounded angelic, like a gentle melody that brightened my day. "I can eat all your food, huh?" she says, her voice laced with a playful drawl. "Well count me in, Officer Livingston. What's your address, honey? I'll be there in five."

When I say my heart exploded with excitement, I'm not kidding; it felt like fireworks were bursting in my chest. I quickly rattle off my address to this savior of a woman, my voice slightly breathless with relief, and then I hang up, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me. Damon is engrossed in an episode ofBill Nye the Science Guy on the television when I turn around to share the thrilling news.

"Who's Luna?" he asks, his little face scrunched up in adorable confusion, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide with curiosity.

That's a good question. I just know she's new to the neighborhood, her southern drawl wrapping around her words like a warm hug, and she might just be an angel sent to rescue me from this childcare bind. What more do I need to know? The thought of her bright presence in our home fills me with an unexpected sense of hope.

"You really are a police officer," she greets with a warm smile when I open the door, fully decked out in my uniform. "I'm Luna, nice to meet you, Gabriel."

Before me stands a stunning woman, the kind that leaves my throat parched as if I’ve just wandered through a desert. She wears a fitted white tank top that clings to her curves in a way that should probably be against the law. The jeans resting on her hips are just as revealing, leaving little to the imagination and making my heart race. Over it all, she sports a maroon cardigan adorned with a striking teal and black tribal pattern, a thin layer that shields her from the sudden chill of the summer breeze that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Her blonde curls spiral playfully in every direction, framing her face, while her baby blue eyes pierce through me, rendering me momentarily speechless.

"Are you gonna invite me in or what?" she prompts after a brief pause, arching an eyebrow and glancing around expectantly.

"Oh, yeah," I stammer, shaking myself from my reverie. "Sorry about that." I step aside, gesturing for her to enter.Sorry, Iwas taken off guard by how beautiful you are, I chastise myself internally. None of the ladies in the neighborhood mentioned that a certified southern beauty queen had moved in, and here she is, standing right in front of me.

Luna steps inside, taking a moment to survey her surroundings. She nods her head approvingly, a smile playing on her lips. "It looks nice in here. Did your wife decorate?"

Is she fishing for my marital status? I can't help but wonder. "My sister, actually," I respond, leading her toward the living room where Damon is happily hanging out, engrossed in his toys. "I'm not married. I like to think I would have picked complementary home decor, but if you peek inside my bathroom when you get the chance, you'll see that I’m sadly mistaken."

She chuckles softly, a warm sound that puts me at ease, as she sidles up to the couch where my six-year-old is perched, his eyes wide with curiosity. "You must be the man of the hour," she says, her smile brightening the room.

I make the obligatory introductions, feeling a bit like a proud parent. "There's also a kitten running around here somewhere named Joey. He's pretty much in charge of things until I get back," I add, trying to sound nonchalant. This makes Damon giggle, his laughter bubbling over like a fizzy drink.

Luna squats down beside Damon, her vibrant energy contagious. She wrinkles her nose at the plush toy of Bill Nye that sits nearby. "What if we did our own science experiment?" she suggests, her eyes sparkling with excitement. I can see I’ve piqued his curiosity immediately. "When your dad leaves, I can show you how to make a volcano," she continues, her voice filled with playful enthusiasm.

"Hm, this sounds messy," I narrow my eyes at them, a playful seriousness in my tone. "Make sure you clean it up when you're done. I don’t want any leftover lava in the living room."

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