Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(168)

The words were barely out before she caught her breath. What was happening to her? She hadn’t meant to sound so cruel, and she felt a wave of dislike for the sharp-tongued woman she’d become.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he turned away without a word.

Not even desperation was an excuse for the kind of nastiness she’d just administered. She stuck her hands in the front pockets of his robe and followed him into the kitchen. “Gabe, I’m sorry. I should never have lashed out at you like that.”

“Forget it.” He snatched his keys from the counter. “Get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

She came closer. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. You were acting like a nice guy for a change, and I shouldn’t have struck out like that. I really am sorry.”

He didn’t respond.

The dryer buzzer went off, and she knew there wasn’t anything more she could say. He would either accept her apology or reject it.

She returned to the laundry room where she pulled out the pink dress. It was a dismal mass of wrinkles, testifying to its pre–permanent press origins, but since she had nothing else to wear, she pushed the door shut, slipped out of Gabe’s robe, and stepped into it, wrinkles and all.

She had just pulled the dress over her arms when the door opened. She drew the bodice together and turned to him.

He looked hostile and unhappy: furrowed brow, tightly set lips, hands driven into the pockets of his jeans. “I just want to get one thing straight. I don’t need anybody’s pity, especially yours.”

She dropped her gaze to her buttons, because it was easier than meeting his eyes, and began fastening them. “I don’t pity you, exactly. You’re too self-reliant for pity. But knowing that you lost your wife and son makes me feel sick.”

He said nothing for a moment, but as she lifted her gaze, she saw that the tendons in his neck had relaxed. He pulled his hands from his pockets. His eyes drifted to her breasts, and she realized her fingers had stalled on the button there. She finished fastening it.

“What did you mean about Ethan coddling me?”

“Nothing. My mouth got away from me again.”

“For God’s sake, Rachel, could you just try to shoot straight with me for once!” He stalked away.

She frowned. He was as prickly as rusted barbed wire. She finished buttoning her dress as she followed him back to the kitchen, where he’d yanked on a Chicago Stars cap and was shoving on his sunglasses, obviously having forgotten that it was drizzling outside.

She walked over to him. Her full skirt brushed against the legs of his jeans, and she resisted the urge to curl her arm around his waist. “People talk to you as if they’re afraid you’re going to break apart at any minute. I don’t think that’s good for you; it keeps you from moving forward. You’re a strong man. Everyone needs to remember that, including you.”

“Strong!” He ripped off the sunglasses and sent them skittering across the counter. “You don’t know anything about it.” His cap hit the counter, then bounced to the floor.

She didn’t back away. “You are, Gabe. You’re tough.”

“Don’t confuse me with you!”

His footsteps punished the marble floor as he stalked past her and headed for the family room.

She’d been alone with pain too often herself to even think about letting him go. The family room was empty, but the sliding doors that led to the deck were open. As she walked toward them, she saw him standing outside clutching the railing as he stared up at Heartache Mountain.

The drizzle had changed to light rain, but he didn’t seem to notice that he was getting wet. Beads of water glistened in his hair and darkened the shoulders of his T-shirt. She’d never seen anyone who looked lonelier, and she stepped out into the rain with him.

He gave no indication that he heard her coming up behind him, so that she wasn’t quite prepared when he spoke. “I keep a gun by my bed, Rachel. And it’s not there for protection.”

“Oh, Gabe . . .”

Every part of her wanted to touch him and offer what comfort she could, but he seemed surrounded by an invisible barrier, one she was afraid to cross. Instead, she moved next to him and lay her arms over the wet railing. “Does it get any easier?”

“It was easier for a while. Then you showed up.”

“I’ve made it more difficult for you?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know anymore. But you’ve changed things.”

“And you don’t like that.”

“Maybe I like it too much.” He finally turned to her. “I guess these past couple of weeks have been a little better. You’ve been a distraction.”


She gave him a weak smile. “I’m glad.”

He scowled, but there wasn’t any real anger behind it. “I didn’t say you’d been a good distraction. Just a distraction.”

“I understand.” Rain soaked her dress, but it was warmer out here than inside the air-conditioned house, and she wasn’t cold.

“I miss her all the time.” His eyes searched her face, and his voice grew deeper, huskier. “So why do I want you so much that I ache with it?”

The rumble of distant thunder accompanied his words, almost seemed part of them. A tremor passed through her. “I think . . . I think we’ve been drawn together by desperation.”