Page 69 of Brewbies
“I mean, whose brain doesn’t?” Darby asked, having wondered for some time if she might have been part of the legion of women in their early thirties who had escaped the attention of professionals handing out the diagnosis.
“The trouble is, Gemma will actuallysaythem sometimes,” Myrtle reported before pausing to slurp the last of her drink from the coconut husk. “Usually when some stud muffin short-circuits her ability to mask.”
Well, that was one box Darby couldn’t tick.
She had never much bothered with masks. Had never had much patience for arbitrary social rituals or pointless niceties.
Which, she supposed, had greatly contributed to her current mess.
A simple “what do you do?” as a preamble to her leap into Ethan Townsend’s lap could have saved them both an assload of pain.
Woulda, shoulda, coulda.
Darby glanced up just in time to see Gabe approach them, his hands tucked into the pockets of his low-slung jeans, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Upon closer investigation, she could almost understand Cady’s vigilance.
Gabe Kellylookedlike trouble.
The chiseled features, the wild shock of dark hair stuck to his forehead in boyish tufts and closely cropped into aPeaky Blinders-esque fade. The full tattoo sleeves and intricate Celtic spirals climbing up his neck.
Good thing Gemma hadn’t been close enough to see the dimples, lest she go into apoplectic shock.
“Looking pretty good, kiddo.”
Gabe accepted the towel Darby tossed to him and mopped the sweat from his bare chest.
“You think?” he asked in a voice several octaves deeper than she remembered. “I’m rustier than an Oldsmobile 324.”
“You’rerusty?” Darby laughed. “I haven’t hung upside down like that since—”Last Saturday?her brain helpfully filled in.Probably Ethan’s swimmers are just as duty dedicated as he is, and gravity gave them a perfect conveyor belt straight to the—
“Since?” Gabe prodded.
“Since…um, forever.” A hot wave of nausea rolled through her, redoubling her panic.
Please, please, please, don’t let that be a symptom,she begged the universe at large.
“Seemed like you did pretty okay to me.” Gabe’s amber-brown gaze shifted to the ladies, Darby’s official cue to make the introductions.
“Gabe Kelly, meet Cady Bloomquist, Myrtle LeGrande, and Vee Prescott. They’re the ones who helped me put all this together. Along with Gemma McKendrick, who owns the yarn shop I was telling you about? She wanted to be here, but—”
“Decided to hide behind your camper instead?” Gabe finished for her with a devastatingly mischievous sideways smirk.
Darby glanced toward the end of the camper just in time to see a flash of pink skirt disappear.
Poor Gemma.
“She wasn’t feeling so hot earlier,” Darby quickly cut in. “Didn’t want to risk infecting our star performer and all.”
A quick glance at Cady confirmed that Darby hadn’t overstepped, to her infinite relief.
“Star performer,” Gabe scoffed. “We both know you invited me because you knew I needed the work. Nice to meet you, ladies,” he said, offering his hand to each of them in turn. “Darby here has told me all about you, and I just want you to know that if you need anything at all while I’m in town, I’m happy to be of service.”
The ghost of a distinctive Southie accent haunted his words, blindsiding Darby with a wave of unexpected homesickness.
Since when had that been a thing?
Boston hadn’t even been her home.
