I see that you had this kind of a dream body underneath those ridiculously trendy clothes the whole goddamned time I’ve known you. What the fuck?”
“Why are you pissed off?”
“Because how is that fair? Seriously. You’ve got this beautiful face, and a stupidly charming personality, and you’re smart, and disgustingly rich, and freakishly stylish, and now I find out you are sporting a ripped and toned physique too? You suck, Lund.”
How could she throw out such a flattering list of compliments and make them sound like insults? Jesus. What was wrong with her?
What is wrong with her? What is wrong with you? Since that is one of your favorite things about her.
I couldn’t help it: I laughed.
“It’s not funny.” She got this gleam in her eye that scared me a little.
“What?”
“Level with me, sport. Do you have a big dick too?”
What the hell? “No. I think it’s about average.”
“Oh. Well . . . that’s good. There’s still a chance for us then.”
And . . . I was fucking gone for with this woman. Crazy, mad about, completely wild for her.
Before she retreated, which I sensed she was about to by her body language, I circled my hand around her wrist and brought it to my mouth to nip at the finger that’d been poking me. “Now you know how bowled over I was when you stripped down to nearly nothing to try on clothes on Monday. Every inch of you is utter perfection, Gabriella, which you cover up in hockey gear and tracksuits.” I pressed my lips to the top of her head. “You are glorious and I’m obsessed.”
We stared at each other and I swore the temperature of the room went up fifty degrees.
“Nolan.”
“Yes?”
“Are you ever gonna kiss me?”
Angling my head, I bussed her cheek. Then dragged my mouth to her ear. “Yes. But not until that lip is healed.”
She muttered something about me being a sadistic cock of the walk.
I nuzzled her temple, inhaling the sweet warmth of her skin. “Harsh words from a woman who smells like goddamned cookies.”
“Boss . . . Oh, crap, sorry, I’ll come back.”
Sam’s interruption snapped Gabi out of it, and she stepped back. “Put a damn shirt on, loser.” Then she turned and stormed off.
I never did find out why she’d tracked me down.
* * *
* * *
I needn’t have worried about no kids showing up for the event.
We were absolutely slammed from a half an hour before we were set to start.
Not all the attendees wanted to bowl, which actually worked out because the lanes could only accommodate 144 bowlers at a time. The food truck meals were complimentary, but the attendees had to sign in and get a ticket before jumping into a line.
The “alphabet” volunteers wandered among groups of kids, talking to them, answering questions, just hanging out, being their authentic selves.
Gabi and I weren’t working together, but I’d catch a glimpse of her ponytail bobbing as she cut through the crowd. It soothed me to know she was here.
Sam and I were dividing up the prizes for the bowling tournament winners when I heard a familiar voice.
“Nolan, darling, this is amazing.”
I got up and skirted the table to hug my mother.
Edie Lund was a stunning woman; ageless, her asymmetrical bob complemented her strong jaw, high cheekbones and wide smile. I’d inherited her eye color and her fashion sense. Although she’d dressed down in navy-colored silk harem pants, an emerald and navy plaid jacket over an ivory lace blouse that matched her navy cloth pumps trimmed in ivory, her style screamed classy. A sapphire necklace, emerald earrings and pearl bracelets rounded out her look.
She gave me that raised Mom eyebrow. “Do I pass inspection?”
I grinned. “Always. Great weekend outfit.”
“I tried to get her to wear jeans,” my dad complained. “No such luck.”
This had been an ongoing joke for years. My mother never wore denim out of the house and my dad would live in jeans on the weekend if Mom let him. Besides, I really didn’t need to hear Dad going on about how fantastic her ass looked in jeans anyway.
He held his arms out. “No comment on my great outfit?”
Dad had refused to wear “fancy” jeans, meaning ones he couldn’t get at a sporting goods store. He preferred the Levi’s 501 shrink-to-fit, button-fly style, which he wore with Orvis oilskin leather hiking boots. Beneath his brown leather bomber jacket, he’d donned a hunter-green waffle-weave Henley. I hid a smirk that mom had coordinated his outfit to hers. “You