Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (25 page)

“There wasn’t anybody else,” Gabe said. “He never married. No kids. Just Ma and me.”

“Even one person who’s there for you can make all the difference,” Jane quoted softly.

He stared at her, shaken. He’d said those words to Aidan. “Yes.”

But who do you have now?

He wanted to show her that he could be worthy of her, that she could trust in him, that he had something to offer her and Aidan in return for everything she had given him. But he didn’t want to make it about the money, either.

Money wouldn’t buy her love.

He had to earn that.

Although, shit, who was he kidding? He’d use pretty much any argument that would convince her to give him—to give them—a chance.

The chef came to their table, a tall man built like a bear
in a white chef’s jacket unbuttoned at the collar. “Jane. How was your dinner?”

“Wonderful.” Jane smiled. “Which you know.”

“I’m glad you approve.” A bright blue, assessing glance at Gabe.

“Gabe Murphy.” He introduced himself. “Great meal.”

The chef nodded, accepting his due. “Adam Reeves.”

They shook hands, a short, invisible contest that ended in a draw.

Jane glanced between them, her brow puckering slightly.

The server reappeared with miniature scoops of something that looked like ice cream and probably wasn’t.

“Merlot and watermelon granitas.” The chef bestowed a smile on Jane. “I took your suggestion about the cardamom.”

“It’s delicious.”

“Your desserts will be out shortly. Also delicious. Jane is quite amazing,” Reeves said to Gabe. “I would hate to lose her.”

“I feel the same way,” Gabe said evenly.

Dessert came, hummingbird cake with cream cheese frosting for Gabe, Tiramisu dusted with cocoa powder for Jane.

“You’re a rock star,” Gabe said when he and Jane were alone again.

She smiled, shaking her head. “Adam was just being polite. Plus, he would hate getting stuck making his own desserts. Pastry isn’t really his thing.”

“He was more than polite.” There had been both professional respect and a subtle masculine challenge in the chef’s visit. “You ever think about going back to work for him?”

“I do work for him. I mean, I sell my desserts to him. But the bakery is my dream. Mine. That’s important to me.” She poked at her dessert with a spoon, not quite meeting his eyes. “After Aidan was born, after Travis left us, I had to move home. It felt like such a big step back. I felt like a failure. I need to know I can stand on my own two feet, that I can provide for myself and my son.”

“Seems to me you’ve proved you can do both,” Gabe said quietly.

“Thanks.” A quick glance. A brief smile. “I’m getting there. Maybe when Aidan is older . . . I don’t want to live with Dad forever. I know I’m lucky to have his support, and I’m thankful for everything he’s done. But I guess it’s just natural for a woman my age to want her own space. There are nights I would love to turn off that TV. Or get a cat. Or let Aidan invite over as many friends as he wants for a sleepover one weekend.”

He took her hand across the table, playing with her fingers, tracing the little nicks, the scar at the base of her thumb. There were so many things he wanted to ask her, so much he wanted to say, that he didn’t know where to start. “You want a cat?”

“Maybe.” She grinned suddenly. “Or a dog.”

He raised his head and met her gaze. “I’ve got a dog. I need a yard to put him in.”

Her eyes were soft and warm. “So you said.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of buying a house. I was talking to Sam about a rent-to-own kind of deal, figuring I’d have the housing allowance from the GI Bill to help me save up. But now I can afford the down payment outright.”

“You’re buying a house.” She made this sound sort of like a laugh. “Just like that?”

“If something’s right, it’s right.”

“But you have money now. You don’t have to stay on the island. You’re free to go anywhere, do anything. Be anything.”

Not exactly the response he was hoping for. “That’s the plan.”

“You have a plan.”

He nodded. “There’s this one house . . . cottage, I guess you’d call it. On the Sound side. Nice-sized yard, quiet street. Built back in the fifties, so it needs a lot of work, but that puts it in my price range.”

“Well, you’re good at work.” Her hand squeezed his in
encouragement. “Maybe Aidan and I can help you paint. We have experience.”

Hope opened like a pit beneath his feet, a chasm in his chest. Because, yeah, that sounded like . . . “I was thinking you could come look at it with me tomorrow. When you’re done at the bakery.”

“I’d like that.”

“Don’t expect too much,” he warned. “The third bedroom’s more like a closet. But I can build on later. Unless you need a home office now or something.”

Her hand stilled in his. “No. No, I don’t need a home office.”

“Then we’re set. One bedroom for Aidan, one for us.”

“Gabe, are you . . . are you talking about me moving in with you?”

“That was the plan.” Not the entire plan. Fuck it. He was going for it.
When something is right
 . . . “First I was going to ask you to marry me.”

*   *   *

J
ANE
’
S
HEART
SOARED
. Her stomach plummeted. Like she was on some crazy carnival ride, the slow climb to the top, the breathless anticipation, and then . . .
Swoosh
. The bottom dropped out.

Somehow her no-strings hookup on the kitchen prep table had turned into this—this emotional roller coaster.

She should have known better. She wasn’t any good at casual sex. There were
feelings
involved, hers and his, and now her stupid heart was careening off the tracks.

She stared across the table into Gabe’s deep, warm hazel eyes. Tempted. Terrified. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘yes’?”

She gave a little laugh, breathless and giddy and disbelieving. “It’s not that simple. We’ve known each other
three weeks
.”

“Four.” His gaze held hers. “Long enough for me to figure out that I’m in love with you.”

Oh.
There it was again, that incredible high, that rattling, dizzying descent.

But marriage . . .

“I’ve been married,” she blurted. “I don’t want to be married again.”

His lashes flickered. “So, we don’t get married. You move in, we’ll see how things go.”

She was shaking. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to grab him and never let go.

Wasn’t it just like a man, wasn’t it just like Gabe, to think that action would solve everything?

Or anything.

“It’s too soon,” she said.

She wasn’t nineteen anymore, free to throw her heart and her future away, ready to risk everything for love.

Oh, God. She loved him. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

His grip tightened on her hand before he very gently, very carefully loosened his hold on her fingers. “I don’t expect the two of you to pack up tomorrow. I haven’t even made an offer on the house yet. Hell, it’ll take a month to close. That will be
eight
weeks.”

She opened her mouth. Shut it.

“You said yourself, you don’t want to live with Hank forever,” Gabe said.

She found her voice. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to move in with you.”

He didn’t move. She couldn’t read his body language at all. But his eyes seared into hers.

Jane faltered. “I’m sorry. I have feelings for you, too. And they scare me. Because feeling isn’t enough. I have to be sure. I have to do what’s best for Aidan.”

“Aidan and I are fine. I like Aidan. If you’re worried about having somebody to watch him, I can do that. I don’t mind getting him off to school. Whatever he needs.”

It was the perfect answer. It was no answer at all.

“He needs stability,” Jane said. “He needs security. He needs somebody who will always, always be there.”

“He needs? Or you need?”

“It’s the same thing. I’m responsible for his happiness. Please try to understand.”

Their server hovered at Gabe’s elbow. “Is everything all right here?”

Not all right. Not all right at all.

“Fine, thanks,” Gabe said. “You can bring the check anytime.”

“I’m sorry,” Jane said again when their waiter was out of earshot. “I wish I had the courage to give you the answer you want. But I don’t.”

“Bullshit,” he said, the first time he’d ever sworn at her, and she flinched. “You have plenty of courage. What you need is a little faith in yourself. In me.”

“I need time.” She hated the sound of her voice. Weak. Pleading. Like the echo of her years with Travis.
Please don’t be angry. Please don’t leave me. I’m sorry. Please. Please. Don’t.

Gabe drew an unsteady breath. “Okay. I get that you’re not where I am. Not yet. Just tell me what I have to do to make you trust me.”

Guilt flayed her. He was hurt. She was hurting him. She hated that. “You don’t have to do anything. I trust you. I do. It’s myself I don’t trust.”

“‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” He shook his head. “That’s the oldest cliché in the book.”

“It’s true. I have baggage. I need time to . . . to unpack.”

“You’ve had six years. How much longer are you going to let that asshole control your life?”

She winced. Her first infatuation had gone down in defeat and humiliation, in bruises and heartache. She had worked hard to protect her heart, to strengthen her defenses, to rebuild her life since then. Maybe it wasn’t a perfect life behind her fragile barriers, but it was safe.

“I’m not letting him control anything. Or you. I’m telling you I need time to think. We need to take a step back.”

“I say we move forward. I love you.”

Her heart ripped in two. She was so dangerously, so hopelessly, in love with him.

But once she told him so, once she admitted how much she wanted him, needed him, what then?

I love you
wasn’t simply a statement.

It was a demand. A call to action. And she was paralyzed by doubt.

Maybe he did love her—now. But how could she judge? He could leave, like her mother had left, like Travis had left, like her father had withdrawn into his recliner and the TV.

And then what would she have left? Not even her pride.

“I made the mistake of jumping into a relationship once before,” she said painfully. “I can’t do it again.”

A muscle knotted in his jaw. “We are not a mistake. I am not that guy.”

She threw up her hands, badgered, driven on the defensive. “How do I know that?”

Gabe went still. “I do not hit women,” he said between his teeth.

Oh, God. Oh, God. She met his burning eyes. She might as well have thrown her wine in his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

Of course he wouldn’t
hit
her. But he could hurt her in other ways. He could break her heart.

“Here we are, Mr. Murphy.” Shawn Prescott presented the black check holder with a flourish. “You’ll see that there is no charge this evening for your beverages or, of course, for your des—”

“Shawn,” Jane said through her teeth. “Go away.”

He threw her a startled look. “Excuse me?”

Gabe pulled some bills out of his wallet and handed the folder to the manager. “Thanks. It’s been a . . . swell evening.”

He was furious. Hurt. She couldn’t blame him.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said as soon as the manager was gone. “I was upset.”

She was terrified. Of loving him. Of losing him. Of making a mistake.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please. Don’t.

“When people are upset, that’s generally when they say what they do mean.” Gabe stood. “Why don’t you take the car and go on home.”

Not a question.

She sat there, miserably aware that she had ruined everything. “But what about you?”

“I’ll walk.” His mouth set in a hard line. “I need some fresh air.”

T
HE
MOON
WAS
a thin dime in a pocket of clouds, its edges corroded by soft gray shadows. The trees were black and solid.

No street lights.

Gabe trudged along the side of the road, his dress shoes slipping in the sand, making his way by the reflected light of the sky and the occasional beam of a porch light. The headlights of a passing car blinded him.

If he were in his truck, the darkness wouldn’t be a problem, but . . .

Shit. His truck was at Jane’s.

He almost turned around right there.

Except he really didn’t want to see Jane again tonight. She’d made it pretty damn clear the date was over. He kept walking. Maybe he’d call Luke, ask his buddy to bring Lucky back to the motel. Gabe could pick up his truck in the morning, after Jane left for the bakery.

Of course, that would leave his truck parked outside her father’s house all night. That would make the neighbors talk.

Hank
would know Gabe hadn’t spent the night. As long
as Jane’s father wasn’t coming after Gabe with a gun, who gave a shit about the neighbors?

Jane would care.

And Gabe cared about Jane.

He loved her. He’d never said those words to a woman before. He wanted her to move in with him. He’d asked her to marry him, for God’s sake.

She needed time to think, she said.

She wanted to take a step back, she said.

He reminded her of her ex.

Jesus.

He raised his head. Breathed deep. But the wind off the sea didn’t do a damn thing to ease the hot lump in his chest, to cool the burning sting of her rejection.

She accused him of being controlling when all he wanted was to take the next natural step forward in their relationship. To take care of her, to be there for Aidan. To let him be part of their lives.

After three weeks.

He shook his head. Okay, maybe that was a little . . . Not controlling. But quick. She had warned him she had baggage. He probably could have been a little more sensitive.

Or she could have been more trusting.

She might have trusted him if he hadn’t pushed.

Hell.

He could at least have tried to see things from her point of view. Could have taken more time to listen, to reassure.

Maybe he was more like her ex than he wanted to admit. The admission didn’t sit well with him at all.

The blue-and-white sign of the Fishermen’s Motel stuttered over the parking lot. Most of the spaces were taken by SUVs and pickup trucks, weekend fishermen sleeping four and eight to a room. Gabe dug in his pocket for his room key.

A car door opened behind him.

He half turned, his instincts on alert. Even in this sleepy coastal town, a parking lot encounter could be anything. A belligerent local, a drunk Marine . . .

Jane.

His heart leaped, choking him. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

She stopped a few yards away, like she didn’t want to get too close. “I wanted to talk with you. To explain.”

He was still raw from their last discussion. “Cupcake, a woman shows up at a guy’s motel room, it’s usually not for conversation. Unless sex is your idea of an apology.”

God, he was such an asshole.

Her chin came up. She looked him straight in the eye. “Not anymore.”

Did that mean there was a time when she . . . ? Had her ex ever . . . ?

“Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.”

Jane shrugged, as if she didn’t count on any better from him. Which made him, of course, feel worse. “I suppose I expected that. You’re angry.”

He was. Or he had been—his usual knee-jerk response to rejection.

It was hard as hell to figure out what he was feeling now. Harder still to put those feelings into words.

But by some miracle, Jane was giving him another chance. All he had to do was not screw up.

He took a deep breath. Exhaled hard. And tried, really tried this time, to think before he opened his big mouth. “I’m disappointed you don’t feel the way I do, sure. I’m mad at myself for pushing you before you were ready.” He attempted a smile. “Mostly I’m trying to figure out what to do next. Just like you.”

Those big gray eyes regarded him steadily. He forced himself to hold her gaze.

“I know what I want to happen next,” Jane said softly. “And it doesn’t involve us standing out here in the parking lot where anyone can see.”

*   *   *

N
OT
AN
APOLOGY
, Jane thought. Her heart beat like crazy.

It was important he understand that she wasn’t offering
sex as a sort of amends, a way to make things right between them.

It was vital that she did.

Because with Travis, sex had too often been a matter of obligation.
You owe me. For my dead-end job and this crappy apartment, for getting pregnant, for leaving for work. For forgetting to buy beer or buying the wrong mustard.

After a while the reasons all blended together in a dreary chorus of coercion and compliance.

“Whatever you want,” Gabe said.

His hoarse admission was somehow louder than all the voices in her head.

“I want you.”

Those eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes, widened. He looked stunned. Confused. “Now?”

She smiled. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I want to. I mean, I want more than sex in a cheap motel room. But we both know I’ll take whatever I can get. Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

That was just so . . . hot. Him wanting her. On her terms. On any terms at all.

I’ll take whatever I can get.

She melted all over. “Then maybe you should invite me in.”

His gaze burned into hers. “Right.”

He unlocked the door.

Inside the cramped, low-ceilinged room, she was struck all over again by Gabe’s height, by the discrepancy reflected in the mirror. She was so much smaller than he was. Rounder, softer, defenseless.

But his eyes, meeting hers, were deep and vulnerable. He leaned against the bureau. Despite the casual pose, there was no relaxation in him at all. His body was taut with tension, his strength tightly leashed and controlled. For her.

Arousal flooded her. Arousal and tenderness. She wanted to touch him, to communicate without words the things she
couldn’t trust herself to say:
I love you. I care about you. You are important to me.

She reached for the buttons on his shirt. One by one, she undid them, her fingers brushing his skin. His breath lifted his chest and shuddered out of him, but he did not reach for her. Not yet. She smoothed his shirt from his shoulders, revealing his hard, lean body, the hair that was darker than the hair on his head, his velvet skin, his sobering tattoo. Her arms weren’t long enough to push his shirt all the way off. For a moment they stood trapped, tangled, his arms at his sides, her breasts brushing his chest, before he helped her, shrugging and tugging at the constrictive fabric, leaving himself open to her, exposing his heart. She kissed his chest, licked his nipple. His groan reverberated through them both.

She loved it. How beautiful he was, how powerful she felt.

She undid his buckle with shaking fingers, tugged down his jeans and his dark briefs with them, kneeling with the movement. His erection sprang free, warm against her cheek.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “Jane . . . you don’t need to . . .”

“I want to,” she said fiercely. She gripped him firmly, owning her desire, owning him, taking control.

She kissed him, tasting, exploring, a conqueror mapping new territory, taking it for her own. His hands moved to the dresser behind him, curled around the edge with white-knuckled strength as she nuzzled him. She lapped at him like a cat before fitting her lips around him, taking as much of him as she could into her mouth, into herself. Trying to swallow him, to possess him, the heat and the hardness, the pulse, the life, the sweet-salty taste of him.
Mine. All mine.

She was drunk with power, dizzy with arousal, her lower body clenching on nothing, wet with wanting him.

His hands moved to her hair. “My God. Jane.”

She laughed, smug and joyful, and stood, yanking her dress over her head. He ran his rough hands all over her.
Together they turned and stumbled to the bed. She pushed him down and crawled over his naked body, delighting in his warm, dense skin, the delicious abrasion of his body hair.

He stretched out one arm, reaching for the bedside table, and almost knocked over a lamp. She lunged to steady it.

“Condom,” he said. “In the drawer.”

She fumbled and grabbed, straddling his thighs as she rolled the condom in place. And then—
oh, yes
—she took him hard inside her, rocking on him, sliding with him, slow and steady. Riding to her own rhythm, absorbed in her own pleasure, until the vibrations started deep inside her, until the tremors spread, lengthened and strengthened and quaked through them both. His grip tightened as he moved her up and down, driving deeply inside her, taking his own release.

She collapsed, both of them breathing hard, dissolved in bone-deep pleasure.

She turned her head and kissed his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

His puff of laughter stirred her hair. “Honey, after the best sex of my life, I should be thanking you.”

She raised her head, seeking . . . What? “Was it really?”
The best sex of his life?

He stroked her hair from her face, his eyes deep, his touch gentle, that tiny groove at the corner of his mouth. “You destroyed me,” he assured her solemnly.

She snuggled back against him, but her mind refused to settle.

It wasn’t only sex, she thought. What they shared was raw and real, tender and more honest than any words she had said to him tonight.

She just didn’t know if it was enough.

For either of them.

*   *   *

“T
HA
NKS
FOR
WATCHING
my dog,” Gabe said.

“No problem,” Luke said. His blue eyes narrowed in the porch light. “Beer?”

Gabe hesitated. It was ten thirty when Jane left the motel, almost eleven o’clock now. “I should let you get to bed.”

Luke was a family man now. Lucky bastard.

“I wish.” Luke grinned. “Taylor’s having a sleepover tonight. I go in there now, I’ll be watching
Pitch Perfect
for the fourteenth time. Anna Kendrick’s hot, but a man can only hear ‘Titanium’ so many times before his balls drop off.”

Gabe dragged up a smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

Luke returned with two long-necked bottles and Lucky, who jumped all over Gabe and then rolled over, begging for a belly rub. Gabe obliged.

Luke sat on the steps beside him. “How was dinner?”

Gabe stared out at the darkened yard. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, that’s good,” Luke said. “Otherwise, we’ll be braiding our hair and painting our nails in no time. I might as well go back inside.”

Gabe managed another smile. They drank beer in male solidarity.

“Sam says you’re looking at a house tomorrow,” Luke said after a pause.

Gabe frowned down at the bottle in his hands. Jane hadn’t said “no” to looking at the house with him. Just to living in it. “That’s the plan.”

“Kind of rushing into things, aren’t you,” Luke observed.

“Don’t you start. I know what I’m doing.” Even if things didn’t work out with Jane, he was here. He was home. He was staying.

There was some comfort in that.

“Easy, pal. I’m just saying, you won’t be seeing any money from the GI Bill until you start classes. August, right?”

“Yeah. But I’ve got the down payment now. I’m making good money working for Sam. I don’t need the housing allowance.”

“You did six tours,” Luke said. “You earned it.”

“Yeah.”

There was satisfaction in that, too, in knowing that even
without Uncle Chuck’s money, he could have, he would have, gotten into the house eventually.
Improvise, adapt, overcome.

Luke took another pull on his beer. “So, what’s your long-term strategy?”

“I’m working on it.”

A sidelong look. “Winning hearts and minds?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said dryly. “Because that worked so well for us in Sangin.”

Luke chuckled. “So we’re better at fighting than talking.”

Gabe flinched.
That’s what Jane’s worried about.

But he couldn’t say that, even to his oldest friend. He turned the bottle around in his hands. “She doesn’t want to move in with me.”

“Jane?”