The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(53)

Was that really weeks ago?

I long for Marley with an ache that makes my entire body hurt.

Loneliness is usually a weight, but today, it feels like something sharper.

I was foolish to say “yes.” How short-sighted, how rash, to say “yes” to her crazy plan, to fuck her, try to make a baby with her.

Why do I do these things? Why, why, why—but I know why.

Because I want her.

I want something. I want Marley.

And the punishment for that is feet that must be bleeding by the time I reach the house. Where I find Marley on the front porch, on a white swing that wasn’t there when I departed.



*

Marley





I can’t help the grin I’m flashing Gabe as he and Cora come up the front walkway.

“Hey.” I’m beaming like a kid, even as Gabe looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. His puzzled face softens as he looks me over. His mouth curves into a little smile.

“Well, hey.” He’s sweaty and breathing hard, so I’m surprised to find he isn’t wearing running gear.

“I thought I’d put a swing up so we can be like those other old, ex couples. Swinging on the front porch swing.” I give him a silly smile, and Gabe laughs as he lets Cora inside.

“Do you mind?” He nods, and I scoot over slightly. “Be my guest.”

He sits down and winces.

“What’s wrong? You look sweaty.”

He looks at his feet. “Blisters.”

“Oh no. Boo.”

He nods once, then looks up at the porch ceiling, where the swing’s chains hang from hooks. “How’d you get this up so fast?” he asks.

I shrug. “Magic.” Then I stretch my arm behind him, resting it atop the swing. “I’m pretty handy when I want to be.”

He glances at me. “You did this yourself?”

“Little ole me.” I shoot him a withering glare, and Gabe makes an uh-oh face. “That’s what I thought. Did you know we ladies can do math and big men like yourself can even…wait for it…”

He smiles, his features cast in gold light from a street lamp.

“WRITE!”

His jaw drops.

“I know, right? English and humanities are for just for girls, but sometimes, maybe once a century or so, boys like you are good at those things, too. I know it blows your mind.”

“Touché.” He laughs, then winces.

“What’s wrong?” I look down at his feet, clad in leather hiking boots. “How’d you get the blisters?”

His mouth tightens, and I watch as he pulls one boot off, then glances up at me, to see if I mind.

“Go for it.”

And then he pulls the boot off, peels his sock back, and my stomach does a barrel roll.

“Oh—Gabe.” His foot is bleeding. He looks slightly gray-faced as he blinks down at it.

“I should get a first aid kit. Or we can go inside. Do you have first aid stuff at your house?”

He shakes his head. When his gaze rises to meet mine, his blue eyes are just a hint too round.

“I’ll go grab mine, so you don’t have to do the stairs to my place.”

He blinks, losing that vulnerable look. “I can walk up,” he says, sounding normal.

I’m not sure if that means he doesn’t want me in his place, so I say, “Okay. That works. But I don’t mind going to get it.”

He looks at his foot again, then shrugs. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be right back.”

My heart is pounding double-time as I hurry upstairs and pull the first aid kit from underneath the bathroom sink.

When I get back downstairs, I find the swing empty and the front door slightly ajar.

“Hi there,” I call softly as I walk in.

I look down the long, dim hallway, dotted on each side by doors to various parlors and libraries. This house was empty for most of my childhood, its regal doors opened for holiday or Pilgrimage tours, all the furniture and décor kept as close to period as possible. So I wonder what area Gabe lives in. I find out when he appears in a doorway toward the end of the hall.

“Got this first aid kit…” I hold it up.

“Thanks.” I follow him into a beautifully appointed bedroom done in mostly pink and olive green.

The bed, freshly made and clearly never used by him, is lacy and pillow-laden. I wink as he hoists himself up on the mattress. “Like your style.”

“Real men love lace.” He grins.

“Especially a certain kind,” I murmur, as I drop down on my knees in front of him.

“Shame to see you there for this,” he says, and my chest tightens so much, I can barely speak to whisper, “You should take care of yourself.”

Both his socks are off now, exposing quarter-sized raw spots on both sides of each foot, at the widest point, up by the base of his toes. And still, Gabe’s feet are beautiful. When we were living out in Vegas, someone asked him to be a foot model. I drag my eyes away from them and flick my gaze up toward him.

“Did you wash them, by chance? Like with soap?”

“I did.”

Another flicker of my eyes toward him reveals a Gabe who’s looking unexpectedly delicious, with his curls and flannel button-up and long-lashed blue eyes peering down at me. His lips curve in a panty-melting smile as he wiggles his toes.