The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(14)

Oh. My. God.

I suck a deep breath in, fortifying myself. I am thirty-two, I’m almost thirty-three.

“I can do what I want in my own space,” I manage.

“Sure,” he says smoothly. “And I can do what I want in mine.”

“Not if it’s this loud. I could call the cops! I’m sure there’s a…some kind of ordinance or something. Do they know you’re here?”

His eyes narrow. “Who?”

“Does anyone know you live here?”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you been staying hidden? I haven’t seen a newspaper article reporting you’ve moved back. Have you been wearing shades and funny hats?”

“There hasn’t been an article,” he says, sounding defensive.

“If you want to keep it that way, I’d turn down that music.”

Gabe smirks. “Would you, now?”

My face burns under his gaze. “I would.”

“You got a friend up there who’s not getting his beauty sleep?”

“Um…what?”

“Maybe a cop?”

My jaw drops slowly as I realize: “You think I’m…I have someone over?”

Gabe folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe. He raises his brows and tilts his head leftward. “You drive a big, green truck?”

“I do, today. It’s my brother’s.”

His face stills for a long second.

“Yeah.”

I lift my own brows before sauntering away.

Gabe waits a full half-hour before turning off his music.





7





Gabe





“I don’t know. It’s weird.” Her voice is soft and quiet—almost hesitant. Then it’s swallowed up by silence. I stand behind a door that leads into her living room, blinking at its fresh coat of white paint and trying not to swallow too loudly.

It’s wrong, this is. I know. And still, I stand here with my breath held.

“I guess this just isn’t what I wanted, you know? Not what I was hoping for. In life,” she adds. The word sounds like a sigh. It’s followed by a pause, during which I ask myself what’s wrong with me.

“Being single, I guess,” she says. “Childless.”

Fuck.

“I don’t know,” she says, a little contemplative. “Honestly? Not really. And I think that’s what bothers me,” she confides—presumably to someone on the other end of her phone call. “I really don’t miss him at all. Isn’t that strange?”

I inhale, slow and quiet.

“I guess we were that way. How the hell did I not know? Was I that desperate? Or more just fucked up?” She gives a wry laugh. “We were engaged!”

I knew this. I knew Marley was engaged: another doctor, someone much older than her. In the official picture that the Fate Tribune ran last year, he looked old enough to be her father.

“He did,” she goes on quietly, causing me to smirk. “And that’s what’s just sad, Carla. I think the bar’s just really low.”

My stomach feels as if it’s being folded into a square.

“You’re right. You’re right,” she says, reluctantly. “I just have to trust the plan, you know? The universe’s plan. Or my eventuality, or fate, or whatever. Har, har. Yes, I know,” she says, and it sounds like she’s smiling. “Something’s coming for me. And if not—I’m coming by myself.” She laughs. “Oh my goodness, speaking of—”

And that’s my cue to go: the realization that she’s probably about to tell her friend about me and my music. I hurry into my work room, where I was heading when I heard her laugh and veered off-course.

There I sink into a wing-backed chair and hold my head in the dark. I haven’t seen her since the night I acted like a fucking idiot, but I’ve been lingering outside the door that leads into her space. Like some kind of stalker. I’m surprised how much this depresses me. With everything else I’ve got going…

I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I must have, because when I wake up, my phone tells me it’s 2:03 a.m.

I blink around the room, stifled by a thick feeling of dread. The feeling that I’m somewhere wrong. That someone needs me. It’s such a powerful sensation, tears prickle the corners of my eyes.

I go quietly down the stairs and to the house’s front door—past the closet, which I finally cleaned up—onto the porch, where I lean against the rail and tell myself, don’t do it, man.

I can’t stop myself from dialing, though. I lean against one of the house’s columns and stare out at the dark-draped lawn.

“Hey there, buddy. How’s it going?” Damnit if my PI doesn’t answer in a Mr. Nice guy tone, even though I’ve called in the middle of the goddamn night.

I rub my forehead. “Going fine, Hugh.”

“What can I help you with, Gabe?”

I grit my teeth, irrationally angry that I have to spell it out. Angry that I’m asking in the first place. “How’s she doing?” I ask darkly.

“Have you been getting—”

“Yes, I got the pictures. Thank you.”