Most of All You: A Love Story(39)

He just hummed, turning the piece around on the lazy-Susan-type thing it was on. His brow furrowed as he took it in from all sides, seeming suddenly distracted and slightly antsy, his eyes darting to the tools sitting next to what would supposedly be a cherub at some point. “Do you need to get to work?”

He raised his eyes and blinked at me and then shook his head slightly, a smile appearing on his lips. “Sorry. Sometimes when I start on a project, it feels almost as if it’s trapped inside waiting to be …” He ran his hand through his hair, looking suddenly embarrassed.

“Set free?” I supplied.

He tilted his head slightly. “Yeah. I guess.” He ran his hands over the rock, his fingertips exploring small divots and raised sections. I was struck again by the beauty of his hands, how strong yet gentle they appeared, how long and slender his fingers were, how tanned his skin was against the snowy white marble. It reminded me of the fever dream I’d had where I touched them, exploring their lines, and a small shiver moved through me despite the mild temperature of the garage.

He moved his hands almost lovingly over the stone as if he were reading a type of Braille that didn’t spell out letters but perhaps … potential. “You have hands for creating beauty,” I murmured. The words had fallen from my lips before I’d considered them. And yet, I realized how true they were.

Gabriel’s gaze rose to mine, those warm hazel eyes soft and full of some type of knowing. “I don’t create beauty, Eloise, I just reveal what’s already there.”

I stared at him for a moment, and that connection we seemed to have vibrated with an elusive energy. Is that what he was trying to do with me? Reveal some sort of imagined beauty? Chip away at all the sharp edges and rough spots until I was what he pictured me to be deep down inside? What he hoped I was?

I turned away. It was all too overwhelming. I didn’t want him to try to see something in me that wasn’t there. It was too much pressure, and he was wrong anyway. I was nothing more than what he saw. There was no beauty to be revealed. My sharp edges were there for a reason—I liked them. They protected me, and I’d be damned if anyone was going to try to take them away. “Gabriel—”

The sound of a vehicle approaching the house caused me to turn toward the open garage door. There was a red truck pulling up in front, next to where Gabriel had left his own truck. I looked back to Gabriel questioningly, and he was smiling.

An older man with a head full of salt-and-pepper hair stepped out of the truck and walked toward us.

“Hey, George,” Gabriel called, walking to where I was standing.

“Hey,” he said, a warm smile on his face. “I’m heading to the quarry. Thought I’d stop in and see how everything was going.” He turned his smile on me. “And this must be Eloise.” He held out his hand.

I hesitated briefly before taking his large, callused hand in mine. He squeezed it lightly before letting it go. “Ellie,” I murmured. “You can call me Ellie.” I wondered what Gabriel had told this man about me, who he might be. I felt self-conscious in front of him, standing there in a small pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, my face battered, my hair ratty, leaning on a pair of crutches.

“Okay then, Ellie. I’m George, and any friend of Gabriel’s is a friend of mine.” He glanced at my casted leg. “How are you feeling? Heard you had a nasty run-in with a group of wild animals.”

I let out a half laugh/half huff. Despite myself, I liked this man already. “You could say that.”

“Truth is, Ellie, I’d like to say more than that, but I try to watch my language in the presence of a lady.” He smiled again. A lady. That was one I hadn’t heard before.

George moved his attention to the piece of stone behind us. “How’s she coming along?”

Gabriel grinned. “How do you know it’s a she?”

George laughed. “I guess I don’t. I guess that’s your call.” They moved over to the piece of stone and I remained behind, watching them as they discussed it for another moment. George. The news article I’d read about Gabriel had mentioned a business partner that had taken Gabriel and his brother in after their parents died. This must be that man.

“When’s Dom back?” George asked. There was a worried look in his eye that I wondered about, something under the surface of his words.

“I don’t know exactly. End of the week maybe. He took off two weeks from work, right?”

“Yeah. I just wasn’t sure if he was going to stay gone that whole time.”

Gabriel shrugged, his attention still on the piece of rock in front of him.

George sighed. “I better be heading to work myself.”

Gabriel looked up. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll call you tomorrow.” George nodded and started to turn away, when Gabriel said, “Oh, hey, have you heard any news in town about that missing boy, Wyatt Geller?”

George frowned. “No, not a word.”

A look of deep sadness—almost grief—passed over Gabriel’s expression, and he put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head. That stance. I’d heard about the missing boy on the news when I was in the hospital. It had barely registered—it was on in the background when a nurse had been taking my blood pressure, but I remembered now. Did thinking about him fill Gabriel with memories of when he was the boy in the papers? It must. How could it not?