Once Upon a Proposal (3 page)

A pain was beginning to form between her eyebrows. “I'm not—” she broke off, lowering her voice again. “I'm not engaged,” she said in a half-whisper.

“Then why is Harry so certain that you are?”

There could be only one reason, Bobbie knew, though she really couldn't fathom why Tim Boering would have immediately trotted out the story for her honorary uncle. Only a few hours had passed since then, for heaven's sake. “It's just a misunderstanding,” she assured. She lifted the roses out of the plastic pitcher that she'd stuck them in, and dumped them in the trash.

“Harry sounded perfectly clear to me, Bobbie. He said you and this Gabriel person were engaged!”

“Honestly, Mom—” her voice rose despite herself “—do you
really
think I would be seriously involved with someone and not tell you?”

Cornelia's silence was telling and Bobbie pressed a finger to that pain over her nose. Yes, over the years, there had been a few things she hadn't told her mother. Mostly because she knew it would just make Cornelia worry. And Bobbie had already caused her mother enough worry to last a lifetime.

“I promise you,” she said more quietly, “I am
not
engaged.” Particularly not to the eminently kissable man who was working on her door not twenty feet away from her, probably overhearing every word, even though she was nearly whispering.

“It's not the idea of you being engaged that alarms me, Bobbie,” Cornelia countered smoothly. “It was the fact that I thought you hadn't
told
me first. I would be delighted to think that one of my daughters is finally settling down.”

The pain went from a dull ache to a sharp throb. “You mean that
I
was finally settling down.” Sticking with something. Anything.

“Don't put words in my mouth, darling. That's not what I meant at all.”

Bobbie paced the confines of the small kitchen. She was twenty-seven years old and kept telling herself that she should be past the need for her mother's approval.

But saying it and feeling it were two very different things.

“I'm not even dating anyone, Mom. I haven't since—” She broke off. There was no need to finish. Her mother knew what she was referring to, and Bobbie had no desire for Gabe to overhear that her love life had as much altitude as Death Valley. A state of reality since the beginning of the year, ever since the man she'd been in love with—Lawrence McKay—had thrown her over for an entirely more suitable woman to stand at his side while he took the political scene by storm. A woman whose hair didn't look like she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket and who didn't need to stand on a stool just to reach the shelves in her own kitchen cabinets. A woman who was cool and elegant and who always had the right words for any situation.

A woman just like Bobbie's mother. Or her sisters, for that matter.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Zeus started whining. She heard her mother sigh again. Faintly.

“All right. I'll just have to call Harry and correct his misinformation.”

“I'll call him if you want me to,” Bobbie offered. Her
honorary uncle was an eccentric one, but she had a soft spot for the man anyway. After Bobbie's father died when she was little, Harrison Hunt had been one of the few males left in her life. Whether it was the fact that he'd been childhood friends with George and Cornelia, or the fact that George had later married Cornelia, or even that George had been in business with Harry, once Bobbie's father had gone, Harry had tried—in his oft-awkward way—to do his best by the Fairchild family. The man was insanely brilliant but had—according to some—a computer chip like those that had made him rich for a heart. And given the way he'd treated his own sons for most of their lives, it wasn't an entirely inaccurate accusation. But to Bobbie, he was just her rather odd-duck Uncle Harry. And being an odd duck herself, maybe that's why she felt a kinship to him.

“I know he enjoys hearing from you,” Cornelia was saying. “Particularly since you sneak him those coffees he loves—and don't bother denying it, darling. I've been onto this collusion between the two of you since you went back to work at that little coffee house after you and Lawrence ended things. But I'm having lunch with Harry tomorrow, anyway, so I'll set him straight. Now. Do you need grocery money? What about gas for the car?”

Bobbie couldn't prevent a groaning laugh. “No, Mom. I don't need grocery money or gas! I do have a job, remember? I can afford to take care of myself.”

“Yes, I know you have a job. And I also can guess just how much of your income you're spending on those dogs of yours. If I came over there right this moment and looked in your pantry, would I actually see food for
you
and not just enormous bags of dog food?”

“Yes, you would.” She childishly crossed her fingers as she envisioned the virtual void behind the pantry door.

Cornelia made a soft sound that Bobbie translated as
disbelief. But her mother didn't pursue the matter. Maybe because she herself was the most independent woman that Bobbie knew. And she'd raised her daughters to be the same.

“Besides,” Bobbie added, “I'm helping Tommi out this week at the bistro.” She smiled, thinking of her older sister's pen chant for feeding the world through her charming Corner Bistro in downtown Seattle. “So you know I'll be eating well there, at least.” As far as Bobbie was concerned, Tommi was the best chef in town. What her sister could do in the kitchen was simply magical.

“That's something, I suppose,” Cornelia allowed. “All right, then. You're
certain
there isn't anything going on in your life that I should know about?”

The sound of a hammer filled the small cottage, a needless reminder of the man on the other side of the very thin kitchen wall. “Positive.” She had no intention of informing her mother that she'd practically accosted Gabriel Gannon in order to avoid her uncle's young friend. “Tell Uncle Harry hello for me when you see him tomorrow. Love you.”

She barely waited to hear her mother return the sentiment before she hung up the phone.

Alongside his sleeping companion, Zeus cocked his golden head, watching her as if he knew exactly how many times she'd skirted the facts with her mother. She rubbed her hand over his silky head and tossed him the hard rubber bone he liked to chew. Then she ran her hands over her hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down, straightened the hem of her long-sleeved T-shirt around her hips, and went back out into the living room.

Gabriel was crouched down next to the open door, working on the latch and the lock, his muscular thighs bulging against his worn jeans. She sucked in a careful breath and managed a smile when his vivid gaze turned toward her. “Your mother, I take it?”

Feeling more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman, she nodded and willed herself not to blush.

“Sounds like news traveled fast.”

Forget staving off the blush. She felt heat plow up her neck into her face. “Yeah.” She rubbed her palms down her thighs. “Guess you heard.”

“I tried not to.” He looked amused as he focused again on the new lock he was installing. “But it's kind of a small space.”

And feeling smaller by the second. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Getting your name involved in all this.”

“Like you said, it's just a misunderstanding. No sweat.” He finished tightening a screw, twisted the door latch a few times and pushed to his feet. “And I know how mothers can be.” He shut the door and turned the lock. It latched with a soft, decisive click. He looked down at her. “Ought to keep you snug as a bug in here now.”

She was feeling quite snug, with the door shutting out the world and shutting
him
in. “I, um, should pay you for the lock.”

“Not necessary.” He shook his head and smoothly unlocked and opened the door again, letting in a rush of cool, damp air. “Fiona has a long list of things she wants fixed or replaced over here. One lock set isn't going to make a difference.” He leaned over to fit his tools back into the tool box and his shirt stretched tightly across his back.

She quickly looked past the tantalizing play of muscles beneath white cotton, through the open door, grateful for the waft of fresh air. “I told Fiona she didn't have to fix anything. Except for the door sticking, everything is fine over here.” And the rent was ridiculously low.

“Don't say that,” he drawled. “Business down the way it is, I need all the work I can get.”

Horrified, she opened her mouth, not certain what to say.

But he was giving her that crooked grin again. The one that sent strange little squiggles of excitement through her belly. “I'm kidding. Playing Mr. Fix-it for my grandmother isn't exactly a hardship and after all the hours I'm spending in the office these days, it helps keep me from forgetting where I started.” He lifted the toolbox. “If it stays dry enough tomorrow, I'll get new shingles up on your roof. Otherwise it'll be the floor in your bathroom.”

She was almost afraid that he'd ask to see it, and considering the lingerie that was hanging over the shower rod to dry, she really wanted to avoid that. “When Fiona said she'd send someone to fix the door, I didn't expect it to be you.” In fact, her elderly friend had implied it would be someone
employed
by her grandson's construction firm. Not her grandson himself. From what she'd heard over the years from Fiona about her wealthy family, very few of them were the hands-on type. Doctors and lawyers. Administrators.

Only her grandson had bucked the old money and professional tradition and gone into construction. And now he had branches in Colorado and Texas as well as Washington State. All details courtesy of Fiona, of course. The woman didn't try to hide how proud she was of him.

“Afraid you're stuck with me,” he said. “I've got everyone on my payroll working at the moment.”

“That's good, though, right?” She knew how construction had taken a terrible hit in this economy. “A sign of better things?”

He looked out the door. “I'm hoping so.”

Something in his voice caught at her, but she didn't have time to examine it, because footsteps pounded on the walkway
outside and a moment later, two kids—a boy and a girl—practically skidded to a stop on her porch.

“We picked the movie,” the tousle-haired boy said. “But it starts in twenty minutes.”

“And I still have to change,” the girl said. She was wearing a black leotard with a short, filmy skirt over pale-pink tights, her hair fastened in a classic knot at the back of her blond head.

“Right.” Gabriel looked back at Bobbie. “But first say hello to Ms. Fairchild. This is my daughter, Lisette. And my son, Todd.”

Of course. He had children. Fiona had mentioned them. As well as the fact that their father was doing his best to regain partial custody of them. “It's nice to meet you,” she greeted. “But call me Bobbie. Please.”

Both of the youngsters had their father's brilliant blue eyes, but that was all. His hair was as dark a brown as theirs was pale blond. Even their features were different, not as sharply drawn, though she supposed that could just be the difference between youth and maturity.

“Hi.” Todd was the first to speak. “You have the curliest hair I ever seen.”

“Todd,” Lisette groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Well she
does,
” he defended innocently.

Bobbie laughed. “It is pretty curly,” she admitted. “I always wanted smooth, blond hair, just like your sister's.”

Lisette's hand flew up to her bun, looking away shyly. “Mother won't let me cut it,” she said.

“All right,” Gabe inserted. “Enough talk of hair. Go get in the truck. I'll be there in a sec.” He gave Bobbie that smile again. “A movie awaits.”

“Enjoy.” She reached for the door. “Wait. Is there a new key for the lock?”

He shook his head. “It's already keyed to match the old one.”

She realized she was staring at his lips again. “Thanks. Yet again.” She smiled, feeling strangely awkward. As if he could read her mind.

And maybe he could, because his smile widened slightly. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Then he turned and went after his kids.

And for the second time that day, Gabriel Gannon left Bobbie with a racing heart.

“I
'll have a medium iced mocha with extra cream and a large iced tea.”

Bobbie's head whipped up from the inventory sheet she was completing when she recognized the voice on the other side of the counter. She left the paperwork on the tiny desk in the minuscule office and peered around the doorway. Yes. It
was
Gabriel, looking much more polished and no less devastating in a white button-down shirt and black trousers than when he'd been wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt while muscling her front door out of its frame. Before he could spot her, she pulled her head back into the office like some nervous turtle retreating into its shell.

What was he doing here?

She saw herself in the little mirror that Holly, the manager of Between the Bean, kept hanging on the wall in her office. At least her hair was contained in a ponytail. More or less.
And she'd put on some makeup that morning before leaving the house.

Then she rolled her eyes at herself. It wasn't as if he'd come to the coffee shop to see
her
. All he'd done was order a drink for himself and his son.

Chewing the inside of her lip, she tilted her head again, sliding centimeters forward until she could see once more around the doorway.

“Bobbie?”

She straightened like a shot when his gaze fastened on her across the array of pastries and oversized cookies displayed above the counter. “Gabriel.” She stepped out of the office, moving to the counter beside Doreen, who was preparing his order. “What a surprise.” She smiled at the boy standing at his side who was avidly eyeing an enormous chocolate-chip cookie. “Hello, Todd.” The boy was dressed in tan pants and a navy-blue polo shirt—clearly a school uniform.

The boy grunted a greeting in return. “Can I have a cookie?” he asked his father.

“Your mother will have enough of a fit when she finds out we stopped and got you a mocha.” Gabe handed the boy the change that Doreen had given him and pointed at the arrangement of chairs around a vintage video game in one corner of the small coffee shop. “You can play that game over there, though.”

Evidently it was a satisfactory substitution, because Todd scooped up the coins and ambled over to the empty corner. Within seconds, the electronic beeps and chimes of the game began accompanying the funky music that was already playing through the sound system. Bobbie watched Doreen squirt a generous helping of whipped cream on top of the iced mocha drink. “For the boy?” Doreen asked and when Gabe nodded, she slid his tall glass of tea toward him then carried the mocha around the counter to deliver it to Todd.

Bobbie's curiosity couldn't be contained, no matter how it made her look. And she couldn't imagine what had brought him to this area of downtown. “What are you doing here?”

Doctoring his tea with sugar—the real stuff—he slanted a glance at her through lashes that were ridiculously thick. “Getting a drink?”

“Obviously.” She toyed with the narrow tie of her dark-brown apron. Since the day that he'd worked on her door, she hadn't seen him again, though she'd come home last night after working a late shift for Tommi at the bistro to find that the cracked linoleum in her minuscule bathroom had been replaced by silky-smooth travertine. He'd left a note tucked against the mirror that he'd be back soon to finish it up. “I've just never seen you in here before.” She would have definitely remembered him, even
before
the kissing attack.

“I had to pick up Todd from school. He attends Brandlebury Academy.”

It was a prestigious private school. She drove by its ivy-covered walls every day on her way to the coffee shop. And
it
most certainly was in the area.

Which meant that Gabe hadn't been seeking her out, after all.

She didn't like acknowledging the disappointment that swept through her, so she smiled more brightly than ever. “Some of Uncle Harry's older grandchildren attend Brandlebury,” she said. “I hear it's an excellent school.”

Gabe's dark brows pulled together for a moment. “For the cost, it ought to be. Wouldn't those grandchildren be your cousins?”

“Yes, I guess they would be. But Harry's not really my uncle. He's a family friend.”

Doreen snorted softly as she returned to the counter and picked up the rag she'd been using to polish the glass counters.
“And wouldn't we all like to have Harrison Hunt as a family friend?”

Gabe gave Bobbie a startled look. “Harrison
Hunt
is your Uncle Harry?”

Bobbie gave Doreen an annoyed glare that didn't faze her coworker in the least, though she fortunately moved out from behind the counter and over to the windows that overlooked the sidewalk and began polishing them. Doreen knew about Harry only because of the coffee that Bobbie delivered to him several times a week. She also knew that the relationship wasn't one that Bobbie necessarily wanted to advertise.

People expected things from you—things you couldn't provide—when they learned you were all but family to one of the wealthiest men in the country. Even people you thought you could trust.

She blocked off the thought and focused on Gabe, who was still staring at her with surprise. “Yes,” she admitted shortly. “Harrison Hunt is my uncle Harry.”

“Fiona never mentioned that,” Gabe murmured.

“Why would she? It's not as if Uncle Harry—or HuntCom—has anything to do with Fiona's agency.”

Gabe still looked a little bemused. “Considering how often Fiona
does
talk about you, I'm surprised it didn't come up even just in passing.”

“Fiona talks to you about me?” Now it was her turn to be surprised.

“You're one of her favorite people,” Gabe said. “Yeah, she talks about you quite a bit.” He didn't use a straw to drink his tea, but lifted the cup to his lips instead. “It's good.”

They sold gallons of the brew every day, so she'd assumed it was passably drinkable. “Fiona is one of my favorite people, too,” she said truthfully.

He looked at her over the cup, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then we have something in common.”

She suddenly felt a little breathless and she quickly began reorganizing the collection of stirrers and coffee cup lids sitting on the counter. “Do you always pick up your son from school?”

The smile lines around his eyes disappeared so instantly that she almost wondered if she'd imagined them in the first place. “No.”

That was all. Just
no
. Which left her feeling like she'd awkwardly put her foot in her mouth, without even knowing why. Nothing new there. Saying the wrong thing was her specialty. Always had been.

She moistened her lips and pulled a fresh sleeve of small coffee lids from beneath the counter. “Thanks for the work you did in the bathroom. The tile looks great.”

“I still need to grout it. I'll come by Saturday morning if that works for you.”

“Sure.”

“Dad.” Todd had left the video game and stopped next to Gabe. “Can I get more whipped cream?” He held up his cup.

“One helping was enough.”

The boy's brows drew together, and Bobbie realized that Gabe's son did share more than just the color of his father's eyes. He had the same expressions. “It's, um, no big deal,” Bobbie offered softly. She pulled the can from its refrigerated slot behind her and held it up.

Gabe's gaze went from Bobbie to his son and back again. “Okay.” He took Todd's cup and handed it over to Bobbie. “But just this once.”

Todd's expression went straight to shock, giving Bobbie the sense that Gabe didn't often give in once he'd made a decision. She added the extra helping of cream and slid the drink back to Gabe, wishing that her interest in the man wasn't increasing with every encounter they had. She had no desire
to change the zero status of her love life. Not when she still felt the bruises from Lawrence's defection.

“What do you say?” Gabe prompted his son and the boy gave Bobbie a brilliant, grinning “thanks,” before carrying his drink with him back to the video game.

Doreen had disappeared into the back storeroom and the rest of the shop was still unoccupied. Yet there was no earthly reason for Bobbie to feel as if she and Gabe were suddenly the last two people on earth. Alone, together.

She couldn't help but smile a little at her own nonsensical thought.

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” She pushed the sleeve of lids back beneath the counter—the holders were already full. She pushed her hands into the patch pockets of her apron to keep from fidgeting. He had his iced tea. His son had his mo cha with extra,
extra
cream. So why wasn't he going on his way? “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

It wasn't often that Gabe found himself struggling for words. Unfortunately, that day, it had happened twice. The first time had been when he'd heard his attorney's thoroughly crazy and unwelcome advice that he find himself a wife—and fast. And the second time—now—when he was faced with the young woman he realized could possibly help him get around the attorney.

He glanced over his shoulder. Todd was completely occupied with the game in the corner. He looked back at Bobbie, who was watching him with those changeable gray eyes of hers. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

Her lips parted softly. “I…can't. I'm sorry.” Her silky lashes swept down for a moment. “I'm helping to cover a shift at my sister's bistro this week.” She looked up at him again and a hint of pink crept into her cheeks. “Maybe another time?”

He couldn't afford to wait a week. “What time are you finished at the bistro?”

“Between ten and eleven, usually.”

“Where's it located? I could give you a lift home.”

Her eyes narrowed a little. Her voice cooled—entering the same territory it had been in when she was dealing with her wannabe suitor, Tim. “I have a car.”

“This is coming out wrong,” he admitted, exhaling. “I'm not trying to sound like a stalker.”

She shifted and placed her palms flat on the gleaming glass countertop. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails cut short and unvarnished. The only jewelry she wore was a narrow watch with an equally narrow leather band. “Why don't you tell me what
this
is, then?”

“There's something I'd like to talk to you about. Somewhere a little more private.”

“Is Fiona all right?”

“Yeah,” he assured quickly. “Fine as always. This doesn't concern her at all.” He lowered his voice. “It's about my children, actually.”

The wariness didn't entirely leave her face. She looked over at Todd. “What about them? I suppose Fiona told you that I had a job as a nanny a few years ago, but—”

“No, actually, she hasn't. But child care's not the kind of help I'm looking for.”

“Then what—”

“I'll tell you everything, just not here. Not now.”

Her gaze dropped to the counter, to his hand, which had covered hers. Then she looked up again, her shoulder moving in a faint shrug beneath the gleaming brown ringlets spilling over it. “All right.” She slipped her hands from beneath his and tucked them back in her apron pockets. “If it can't wait until you come to work on the floor this weekend, you can meet me at Tommi's place. The Corner Bistro.” She told him
where it was located. “If you want the best meal you've ever had, then come early before she shuts down the kitchen.”

He wasn't worried about finding a good meal. He was worried about losing his children for good. “Thanks. I'll see you tonight.”

Then, before he could second-guess what he was even contemplating, he peeled Todd away from the game, and quickly left.

 

“You wanted a private place to talk.” Bobbie untied the red apron from her hips and neatly folded it before sitting down across from Gabe. “You've got it.”

All of the other tables in her sister's small bistro had been emptied. The other servers had finished their duties and departed for the evening. Even Tommi—after sending ping-ponging looks of concern between Bobbie and the lone man occupying a table near the wine bar—had finished her tasks in the kitchen and gone to her apartment upstairs, leaving Bobbie the responsibility of locking the back door after herself when she left.

“Want a glass?” He held up the wine bottle that was sitting in the center of the table.

Drinking one of her sister's very excellent wines was one thing. Drinking that wine while alone with the man she couldn't seem to stop thinking about was another. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He refilled his own glass. His dishes had been cleared away—by Bobbie herself, who'd prayed all evening that she wouldn't do something stupid, like spill his entree in his lap. It was one prayer that she'd been granted, at least. “Only thing better than a good wine is a cold beer. And you're right about the food,” he offered now. “Your sister is a remarkable chef.”

“I'll tell her you said so.” She was immensely proud of her
sister's accomplishment where the Bistro was concerned. But she didn't want to talk about Tommi. “So, what is it, exactly, that you wanted to talk to me about?”

He took a sip of his wine. He'd abandoned the fine slacks and shirt of that afternoon and replaced them with black jeans and a thickly woven black sweater with the sleeves shoved up his forearms. The sturdy watch circling his sinewy wrist gleamed in the soft light coming from the wine bar as he set the glass down again, and she had to swallow a little. He was
so
incredibly masculine.

“My ex-wife's husband is a corporate lawyer,” he said, managing to jerk her from the entranced haze she was in danger of slipping into. “He's been offered a prestigious contract in Europe that will run for at least the next five years.”