Page 14 of Sizzle

Gabrielle is lying so ridiculously that I tip my head back and laugh into the dark night sky. “You’re being delusional.”

Pro tip: never tell a woman she’s being delusional. Even if she is, she’ll stare you down like she’s trying to scorch your organs and body parts from the inside out and then stomp away in rage.

Which is precisely what Gabrielle does. Her feet hit the pavement aggressively as she speed walks away from me.

For a good couple of minutes, I trail behind her, not bothering to run to catch up. If anyone were to look out their window at this late hour, they’d think I was following this woman home in some weird, stalker-like way. Our positions look ominous, with her racing ahead of me as if she’s trying to make me lose her scent. I’m steadfast though, chugging along to make sure she gets home safe and sound.

If she won’t stay with me or talk to me, the least I can do is make sure the woman who just shattered my world over my head gets back to her place without any hiccups.

As pathetic as it is, I want to spend any modicum of time in her presence, even if she’s running away from me.

I give her almost the entire half-mile walk by herself, knowing she’ll probably rip my head off if I push the envelope further. Only when we’re in the condo development I walked her home to the other morning with her groceries do I jog to her side. We reach her grandmother’s place and Gabrielle doesn’t cast me a backward glance, so I gently pull on her elbow until she’s facing me.

Then, without warning, I lean in and capture her lips. Shocking her seems to give me the advantage, because her mouth moves of its own accord as I slowly, but with firm pressure, deliver the final gesture.

“A woman as special as you are deserves to be kissed good night, every night.” I frame her face as her eyes go wide.

I won’t say it now, but I know I’ve surprised her speechless with those sweet words. The thing is, I’ll be whoever she wants me to be; the sweet gentleman, the growly jerk, the man who worships her body.

As long as she gives me a chance, I’ll turn myself into her dream guy.

7

GABRIELLE

Sleep has evaded me for the last two days, which is how I find myself in my grandmother’s shop at five a.m. sharp.

The streets off Newton are quiet and dark, the sun not even having risen fully yet. Sweat beads my brow as I heft more books into boxes, the addresses on them ranging from charities to prisons to libraries around the country.

Grandma was nothing if not detailed in the instructions of her last will and testament; empty the shop, send the designated book collections to the places she’d already ensured delivery to, sell the building which she owned and didn’t rent, then sell off her condo, and donate her belongings. The woman was very ashes to ashes; she didn’t want anyone to be stuck with her responsibilities or burdens and wanted them off my plate. She just didn’t realize I’d wait to clear that plate well over a year since returning to town.

My plate because she didn’t designate anyone else to do this job. Even though we’d only spoken over the phone in recent years, my grandmother was very perceptive when it came to me. I think she could tell I needed a change, that I needed to address this void in my life. Maybe she even knew coming back to Hope Crest would force me into that. Either way, Grandma Lucy had very specific plans for what would become of her estate and belongings after the cancer took her, so I’m here to adhere to them.

Emptying the store was first up since I’d avoided doing that for months. I dabbled around at the theater, took long drives and walks most days, and almost blew through my savings without touching the inheritance she left. In a way, Grandma probably knew I needed the break in my life. Or what I was calling a breakup with the life I thought I’d have.

I avoided the back corner of the shop all morning, even though the ghost of what Liam and I had done here lingered in every single nook and cranny. I swear I could hear phantom sex noises as I boxed up children’s books for a special library in a hospital strictly meant for treating childhood cancer.

To say he shocked me to my core with that sweet kiss on my doorstep would be an understatement. I scurried inside and stayed awake for hours afterward, replaying the sex and his words in my mind over and over again. Liam Ashton surprises me at every turn, both now and twelve years ago.

That unexpectedness is probably what kept me away, what makes me skittish about even setting foot in his presence again. Because I’m the good girl, the one who follows all the rules and lives up to every single expectation. Women like me don’t have torrid affairs and fall for inappropriate men, even if he is no longer inappropriate in society’s eyes.

Being the oldest child always brings responsibilities. I was the guinea pig, the child my parents tested all of their lessons on before they went easier or harsher with my younger brother and sister the second and third time around. I was the one who got the mess-ups, the expectations, the punishments.

However, being the oldest daughter? That came with a list of shit that I am still recovering from to this day. People talk about childhood trauma like it has to be this huge event or horrible incident. In reality, some of the hardest childhood trauma to heal from is that of little patterns of behavior repeated over long periods of time.

For instance, making sure that my siblings were up, dressed, and got on the bus because my parents had to be at work before it arrived. Strapping a ten-year-old with that is a lot. That was only the tip of the iceberg, too.

I made sure Dad bought Mom Christmas presents and that she had a homemade breakfast on Mother’s Day. I assigned chores so that the house was clean when our parents got home from a rare trip alone, only to realize neither of my siblings did them, so I’d deep clean the entire house. I figured out the college financial process because my dad was too busy coaching my brother’s soccer team on the weekends to fill out the forms. I drove my brother and sister to and from practices while having to do work for my advanced placement courses in the car while they played sports. I set up parties for other people because Mom was too tired to do so or expected help. That’s why she had children, she’d always say.

I worked the next couple of hours until my arms ached and my head was clear of any thought but exhaustion. At least the manual labor was tiring me out, hopefully enough that I could fall into bed and take a nap without feeling the ghost of Liam’s lips on my skin.

On the checkout desk, my phone vibrates. Grabbing it, I see the time is around eight a.m. and that my mother is calling. The woman doesn’t even have the decency to wait until the afternoon because she probably decided I should be up and at my day since that’s how she raised us.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, knowing it would be far worse to let it go to voicemail.

Then I’d get a hundred texts about missing her call, asking what I was doing and how I could be so rude to my own mother. The guilt list goes on and on.

“Gabrielle, hi. You sound tired.”

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