The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(78)

“Cool, baby. Told him to give you a shot. Glad he’s doin’ that.”

I was about to do another jig.

I didn’t.

“Sorry?”

“I know Marlon. He was a couple of years before Johnny in school, but he played football since he was a kid, and Dad was involved in Pop Warner, and he and Johnny played on the same team in high school. So I’ve known him a long time. He was getting some gas at the garage last week, saw him, walked out, had a chat.”

“You . . .” I swallowed hard, “had a chat.”

“Babe—”

“So I didn’t earn that job? I got it because I’m fucking a Gamble brother?”

“Addie—”

“No, unh-unh. No.”

Toby went silent.

I stared at his kickass great room.

All wood and windows with comfy, macho-man leather furniture, a big kitchen (that was a lot more wood, but with stainless steel appliances) that was totally open to the space, running flat against the back wall with a long island in between.

It looked like a dude purchased it four months ago. A dude who had been a drifter before that, and hadn’t gotten down to roosting, so there wasn’t a lot of personality.

But even me, the minimal decorator, saw the potential.

The whole place was sweet.

But the master bedroom upstairs was what it was all about. Two full walls of windows, a corner fireplace, a private balcony you got to through French doors, and with the flora outside, it was like sleeping in a tree house.

A luxury one.

If the choice came about mingling households officially, I’d pick Toby’s place for Brooks and me to live. It was only two bedrooms (and a loft on the third story), probably smaller in square footage, but it was more me than the acres.

Him and me.

And the retro Christmas lights and the wreath would still work.

“You got a lock on that?” Toby growled into the string of thoughts I let myself have rather than losing my fucking mind.

But he was growling, and not the good way.

Okay . . .

How could he be pissed?

“Toby—”

“That’s the way shit gets done, oh, I don’t know, pretty much fuckin’ everywhere,” he bit out.

I was absolutely not a fan of the sarcasm.

I did not get the chance to share this.

Toby kept at me.

“You know somebody, you put in a good word. Trust me, every applicant for that position, if they knew somebody who knew Martin or Sandberg or Deats, and they caught one of them, they did the same.”

“Okay, but—”

He spoke over me.

“This isn’t small-town shit. This isn’t Gamble brothers shit. This is what you do. You need that job. You wanted that job. It’s decent pay. Good insurance. Steady hours. In Matlock. They would not hire you if you didn’t impress them. They’re not morons. And I didn’t offer them free oil changes for life. I said you were a hard worker. Smart as fuck. And he’d be able to count on you. I absolutely mentioned you were mine, so he could read from that that I got you, so it isn’t about pity for the single mom. But you’re a Gamble and my father coached him in Pop Warner. So this is also about respect and history. I did not lay it on thick, but he understood me. And that’s it, Addie.”

“You got me?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

My voice was rising, and yes, it was perhaps a little hysterical when I asked, “I’m a Gamble?”

“You at my place yet?”

“Yes.”

“Right now, walk to the guest room,” he ordered angrily.

“Why?”

“Do it, Adeline.”

I walked up the stairs to the guest room.

The door was closed.

I opened it.

One wall of windows. Much smaller. Its own bathroom.

And right then it was partially filled with a crib and a baby dresser and changing table.

There wasn’t a lot of personality there either.

Except the most adorable crib skirt, the mattress covered in a baby-blue sheet, and there was a blanket over the railing on the side that was like the skirt—blue bears, some black arrows and teepees, all on white.

“You there?” Toby demanded in my ear.

“Yes,” I forced out.

“Surprise. And Merry Christmas.”

I closed my eyes.

“Now, are you a fucking Gamble?” he asked.

“Toby.”

“What are we doin’ here? Tell me, Addie. Are you just fuckin’ a Gamble brother?”

Okay, I’d apparently hit a nerve with that.

“I just wanted it to be about them wanting to hire me.”

“And again, if they didn’t want you, they wouldn’t have hired you. But like you said, you have little experience in an office and I just wanted to remind them that historical ties bind if it was between you and someone else. You might have knocked their socks off. You have a way of doing that. You’re confident and radiate ‘I’m a chick who can get shit done.’ But in the end, does it fuckin’ matter? ’Cause in the end, you got the fuckin’ job.”

He was right.

And that sucked.

“I’m sorry, Tobe, my response wasn’t cool.”