So Irresistible (8 page)

“Judging by your apartment, you did
more
than get by.”

Gabby’s tone was still surprisingly sympathetic. Shane didn’t know what he’d expected her to do. Or say. He’d never revealed so much to anyone. Not even Lizzy. The only person who really knew what he’d been through was his friend Casey Jackson—and that was only because Casey had been there with him, another “hard-to-place” teenager in an overwhelmed system.

He missed Casey. They were both fixers. But unlike Shane, Casey hadn’t found a home. Casey hadn’t gone over to the dark side, either—and he didn’t much like the fact that Shane had.

“I’d say you thrived,” Gabby was saying. “I admire that.”

For whatever reason, Shane didn’t want to crush her admiration. It felt too rare. Too precious. Too limited.

“Well, if I did, it wasn’t by following the rules,” he hedged, forking up more poutine. It tasted salty and greasy and cheesy, and if this was what he’d been missing by avoiding Bridgetown’s food carts . . . well, he was sorry he only had tonight to cut loose from his usual ways. Tomorrow, he was back to being hard-core. Ruthless “fixers” didn’t frequent struggling start-up businesses housed in renovated trailers and parked higgledy-piggledy on lots full of other struggling start-up businesses.

Shane tossed Gabby a serious look. “What’s with your mania for coloring inside the lines, anyway? You seem so . . . free.”

“It’s a new theory I’ve got. Rules don’t hem you in. They give you space.” Gabby pointed with her plastic fork, elucidating for him. “Once you know what the boundaries are, you’re free to do what you want inside them. No distractions. No wasted time. No regrets.”

No regrets
. Shane wondered what that would be like.

“Okay. Now I
know
you’re crazy.” He peered at her nearly demolished paper container of late-night junk food. “I think they might have put something funny in your poutine. Because—”

“My poutine’s fine. And so is my outlook on life,” Gabby informed him unhesitatingly. “It’s just that other people don’t always see it that way. They see bossiness, I see passion. They see stubbornness, I see dedication. They see toughness—”

“I see sweetness.” Across the table, Shane clasped her hand in his. Above them, white Christmas lights shined, strung—in overt defiance of the non-holiday season—across the awning that shielded food-cart customers from the Pacific Northwest’s sometimes rainy weather. They were tacky, sure. But their glow made Gabby look even more gorgeous to him. “I’m glad I met you tonight,” he told her. “I’ll never be the same after this.”

For a breath, she seemed touched by that. Then . . . “Don’t change
too
much. I like you the way you are.” Blithely, Gabby added, “Supersize cock and all. That’s pretty nice, too.”

“
Pretty
nice?”

She shrugged, almost pulling off an air of indifference.

“Your come-hither look is spoiling your nonchalance,” Shane informed her, squeezing her hand. “Are you done eating?”

She studied her leftover poutine. “Got a better option?”

Shane offered one.
Explicitly
. It involved him, her, his still unexplored oversize bed . . . and a whole lot of passion.

In response, Gabby blushed. “That would probably take us until dawn to accomplish.” She eyed him. “Sounds
great
.”

And just like that, Shane was on his way back to his temporary apartment with his temporary girl . . . wishing beyond all reason that Gabby, at least, could stay in his life forever.

Late to work for the first time since
forever
, Gabriella parked her bike in the alleyway behind Campania, locked it to a drainage pipe, then squinted up at the vivid sunshine overhead.

Geez. Somebody had turned up that sun
way
too high today.

With her head fuzzy and her inner thighs achy from last night’s sexcapades, Gabriella unlocked the pizzeria’s back door. She hustled inside. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor, which had been in place “since 1959!” (just like the rest of the restaurant) and was in dire need of refurbishment. It was only one of several things that had pushed Gabriella into her falling out with her dad. Seeing its worn surface still bugged her now. On the brighter side, the aromas of yeasty pizza dough, garlic, and fresh oregano still lingered in the air, underlaid with a faint hot-metal smell. Even after the industrial double-decker ovens were turned off, they made their presence known.

Here, everything was as it should be. But in her heart . . .

Well, that was another story, Gabriella acknowledged to herself as she reached the employee break room and wrenched open her locker. Bleary-eyed, she surveyed its contents. Yesterday’s civvies still lay neatly on her shelf, right where she’d left them after changing into her black dress and heels. Diligently, Gabriella stuffed yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt into her tote bag, then slung the whole thing back into her locker.

She wished she’d had more time with Shane.

That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? That was what came of
not
being a one-night-stand woman . . . and then indulging in a superhot, ultraerotic, one-time-only encounter anyway. She couldn’t just switch off her feelings now that the A.M. was here.

Too late, Gabriella had realized that she wanted more.

But who was she kidding? She’d wanted more when she’d awakened from a drowsy, afterglow-filled doze in Shane’s arms, sometime around dawn this morning. She’d wanted to go for another round. She’d wanted to learn more about his past, about his childhood, about his hopes and dreams for the future.

She’d wanted to incorporate him into her life, right where it truly felt he belonged . . . even though that sounded crazy.

Instead, Gabriella had slipped out of his comfy bed, sneaked on her clothes, and tiptoed past Shane’s artwork and books and fancy furniture. She’d savored one final glimpse of the Portland skyline from Shane’s floor-to-ceiling windows, done some tidying up, then let herself out. She’d expected a few hours’ sleep to rejuvenate herself. Instead, she’d dreamed of Shane.

She’d dreamed of them together. She’d dreamed of telling him who she really was, what she was up against, and how scared she was that she’d fail. She dreamed of having a future with him. She woke up smiling like a Powerball winner who’d forgotten to buy a lottery ticket but had somehow won big anyway.

Remembering those dreams now, Gabriella wished twice as hard that she hadn’t had to leave Shane’s top-floor apartment. But she knew beyond a doubt it was the right thing to do. She had a lot on her plate. She couldn’t afford to add more.

Besides, part of the magic of last night had been because it was fleeting. Right? Part of the magic had been illusory, stoked by a porter-fueled sense of camaraderie and freedom.

There was no way they could have sustained that.

No matter how much Gabriella liked Shane’s take-charge attitude, talented hands, and winning smiles, she needed to keep her eye on the prize: saving Campania and the other pizzerias.

With that thought in mind, she made herself reach into the nearby cubbies full of laundered chef’s coats and baggy chef’s pants. She pulled out some gear and clambered in.

But even as she did, her gaze wandered to her cell phone, waiting there on the employees’ changing bench. She frowned.

Her phone was conspicuously silent. “Gabby Vivaldi” hadn’t even earned a morning-after phone call. That proved she’d been right to leave Shane behind. It proved she was being smart.

Too bad Gabriella didn’t
feel
smart as she put on an apron, tucked in the bib, then wrapped the strings around her waist twice. With a decisive tug, she knotted them, then inhaled.

It was time to go back to her daily grind—and all the pressures and tension that awaited her there. Summoning up the bravest, boldest smile she could, Gabriella headed off. To win.

 

 

The first thing Shane noticed was the silence.

Without Gabby’s laughter in it, his apartment felt twice as silent, twice as cold, and twice as austere. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed before exactly how Spartan his life was.

Lizzy had done her best to lend his temporary digs a sense of hominess and personality. But as Shane woke up, found himself unwantedly alone, and padded barefoot and naked through the place, he realized for the first time how fake it all was.

His artwork had been chosen for its worth and significance, not its beauty. His furnishings had been selected for their ability to relax and disarm any visitors who might require manipulation. His books had been placed for their connotations with the person Shane needed to be to accomplish his latest fix. His view of the city had been designed to distract and impress.

Like all those things, Shane felt empty. His luxurious surroundings meant nothing. His wardrobe of suits, wallet full of cash, cache of credit cards, and houses all over the world could not compensate for the soul-sucking job he excelled at.

I’m counting on you, Shane
, he remembered his dad saying on the phone.
I need your skills for this one. I need
you.

Then there was that. For more than half his life, Shane had been striving, unsuccessfully, to show his adopted father that
he
meant something. He’d been striving to show his dad that he deserved respect and admiration and (okay, fine)
love
from him. Shane had been striving to prove that he was more than just an overgrown delinquent with a bad attitude and an “I got lucky” trust fund. But no matter what Shane did, it hadn’t worked.

At least it hadn’t yet. This time, he knew he could make it happen. Bringing in this job would be a big win for him. Nailing it could mean the difference between the status quo and the brass ring. Shane Maresca wasn’t a quitter. If he was doing all this for a good cause—for his own well-being and whatever came close to happiness for him—then wasn’t “fixing” things okay?

Shane sure as hell hoped it was. Because he had no other options. He wasn’t good at anything else. No one had ever expected him to succeed. He’d never deserved to. This time . . .

This time would be business as usual. No matter how distracted Shane felt by memories of a pixie-haired girl with laughing eyes, bossy ways, and a filthy, kissable mouth. He’d gotten all that sappiness out of his system last night.

He couldn’t possibly have squeezed any more
feeling
out of a single stretch of time than he had over the past hours. He would have gotten even more out of them, too, except Gabby had felt
so
good snuggled up beside him after their third acrobatic round of lovemaking that Shane hadn’t been able to resist her. Feeling warm and safe and unfamiliarly happy, he’d dozed off.

That had been his first mistake. His second had been hearing Gabby tiptoe around the place at dawn and
not
getting up to stop her. Shane had known damn well what she was up to. He hadn’t gotten good at his work by being unobservant or unaware of how people operated. He knew Gabby wasn’t the kind of woman who typically went home with men like him—he knew she probably would have liked some reassurance and kindness—but he also knew he had to snap back into “fixer” mode at dawn, like a mean macho Cinderella. So he hadn’t stopped her. But he’d regretted it.

Last night, with Gabby, Shane had felt . . .
everything
, though. Just as he’d set out to do. It had been more remarkable and more affecting than he’d counted on, but it had also been temporary.

It
had
to be temporary. It couldn’t be any other way.

Even if he’d wanted to risk it, Shane didn’t think he had the right stuff for a real relationship. Not if he was honest. He was too guarded, too damaged, too
certain
(with reason) that the people he trusted would abandon him in the end. Even Lizzy knew that. She accepted it. But Lizzy was his platonic assistant, and he paid her to deal with him. Gabby was . . .

More
than that. Much more. Gabby was vivacious and straightforward and sexy as hell. She liked risks (like him), didn’t mind taking charge (like him), and wanted to win (like him). In so many ways, they were ideal for one another.

Except Gabby was in Portland to live her life, by the rules, and Shane was in Portland to get a job done. The sooner he did that, the better. Then he could get out of here. Then he could quit remembering how adorable Gabby had looked when she’d smiled, how wacky she’d sounded when she’d goofily squeaked those poutine cheese curds between her teeth . . . and how she’d cleaned and disinfected his dining room table?

Gawking at the cleaning cloth and disinfectant spray sitting conspicuously on the end of his enormous, glossy table, Shane sighed. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories of him and Gabby, together at that table, getting crazy and getting naked and being close. It was no use. He couldn’t do it.

His gaze dropped to the rug. More memories washed over him, engulfing him like a Technicolor filmstrip of kisses and quaking and coming together, skin on skin, with all the panting and moaning they’d done included on its Dolby-enhanced soundtrack.

Damn it. They should have gone to
her
place last night. But his place had been so close, and Shane hadn’t wanted to wait.

Now he’d have to ask Lizzy to replace that memory-kindling dining table, burn that incriminating freaking rug—and, while she was at it, scrub out his brain somehow, too. Because as much as Shane had wallowed in spontaneity and sentimentality last night, he still didn’t feel as though he’d forced out all of it.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been picking up that cleaning cloth, gathering up that disinfectant, and smiling at both of those objects like a deranged person, just because they reminded him of Gabby. Only she would have tidied up before leaving him.

She was
so
amazing. Kind and funny and unpredictable.

And out of his life. For good, just like his parents were. Just like his innocence was. Just like his hope was.

Well, actually, his hope was alive and well. Now. But that only made things worse. So did the fact that Shane was still stupidly cradling those cleaning supplies, being thrust back into a memory of cleaning up after his addicted parents, trying to make everything right while they slept off whatever binge they’d been on, hoping that
this time
he’d discover the secret formula for making them see him. Care for him. Love him.

No wonder he’d gotten so good at “fixing,” Shane acknowledged to himself with a bitter smile. He’d been on a full-immersion fixer apprentice program since kindergarten.

That couldn’t be Gabby’s issue, though. Last night, she’d told him a lot about herself—but only in the vaguest possible terms. He knew she had two doting parents, no siblings, and a demanding but unspecified job. He knew she liked tradition. He knew she believed in taking responsibility for herself—which easily explained the cleaning cloth and the disinfectant.

Brutally, Shane shoved both items under the kitchen sink. Then he stared, surprised to find other supplies under there. Trash bags. Sponges. Dishwasher detergent. Scouring powder.

Of course. This was Lizzy’s doing. Good thing, too. It would have been tough to explain to Gabby why all his cupboards were bare. Still, Shane had been certain they were empty.

Just like him.

Hell
. Pacing now, he glanced at his cell phone. At some point last night, he’d inveigled a phone number from Gabby. He’d sworn to himself he’d never use it. He’d only wanted . . . a memento.

Sure. That was it. A memento. That was reasonable.

But reason didn’t explain why Shane picked up his phone, dialed that number, and then waited impatiently for an answer.

He was calling Gabby. He
couldn’t
call Gabby. Theirs had been a one-night fling! It had been designed to make him
less
sentimental and sloppy, not
more
. Anguished and defiant, Shane clenched the phone harder. He got voice mail. He smiled.

He left a message, reasoning that that was what he needed to bring closure to this situation. After this, he’d be as hard as nails again. He’d be able to go back to work and conquer all.

Feeling weirdly lighthearted, Shane exhaled. Then he went for a head-clearing shower, got dressed in something totally unlike his usual self (again), rapidly reviewed his secondhand dossier over a breakfast of strawberries and whole-grain toast (he really had to start thanking Lizzy for her attention to detail, like stocking groceries), and headed off to the Campania pizzeria to begin the most crucial must-get “fix” of his life.

 

 

Gabriella was up to her eyeballs in invoices and red-inked past-due notices when the back-door call bell startled her.

Glancing up from her desk, she peered down the corridor and caught Pinkie lingering there questioningly, dressed in whites with her “lucky” pink kitchen clogs and a fresh pink bandanna.

“You want me to get that?” her pastry chef asked.

Gabriella took note of Pinkie’s flour-dusted hands, chocolate-smudged apron, and overall go-to-hell attitude. She shook her head. “No. I’ve gotten as far as I can here anyway.” She pushed up from her chair, then ran her hand over her eyes. Short of a major cash infusion, the Grimanis’ pizzerias weren’t going to be in the black for a while yet. “I’ll get it.”