Jennifer Probst - All the Way

Soft laughter drifted through the air. He paused before table nine and looked over. Fiery red hair burned across the room and framed a face that had haunted his dreams for three years. His gut twisted in emotion. She belonged to him again. The knowledge brought humility. Satisfaction. And a deep, wrenching fear.

He was in love with her. Always had been. Always would be.

“Gavin?”

He blinked and looked down at his customer. “Yes, Mrs. Deniston?”

The older couple shared a look of common understanding. “You got it bad, son.”

Gavin groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve been staring at her for the past five minutes. You also look like you’ve been run over by a freight train. All the signs are there.” Mr. Deniston scooped up the bill and poked his finger in the air. “You’d better do something about it.”

Gavin watched as his brother placed his hand over Miranda’s. “Hmm, maybe you’re right.”

“Don’t screw up. The right one comes along but once in a lifetime.”

“Maybe it’s time I take that advice. Thanks, Mr. Deniston. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll try some damage control.”

Funny, the revelation he loved her came naturally, almost as if the knowledge was always there in his heart. He just needed the guts to finally admit it. He needed to tell her. More importantly, he had to find a way to make her come with him.

Or he could stay.

The constant battle warred and left a trail of unease. Yes, he realized he wasn’t as happy in his job, but maybe he’d be able to tweak his career to make it more user-friendly. Was he really ready to chuck years of sacrifice and work to run a restaurant he never wanted? Save it, yes. Be more involved with Mia Casa and his family, yes. Visit more, yes.

But drop his entire life to work day and night in the food industry?

He pushed his thoughts aside and joined Brando, who perched on the edge of his seat, and leaned close to Miranda. “I think my brother is seriously crushing on you, baby. He’s been dragging you for pizza a lot lately.”

Brando glared. “You know I’m in love with Tracey.”

A grin tugged at Gavin’s lips. “Sorry.”

Miranda turned to Brando. “Why don’t I come by tomorrow at lunch, and we’ll finish our conversation?”

Brando brightened. “Okay. Come on, Dominick, let’s finish up in the back.”

The three men trooped off, looking star-struck. Gavin shook his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Why do you have to smile at them like that?”

She laughed. “Hmm, you’re still the same possessive Italian from years ago. They’re your family, darling. Perfectly safe to flirt with.”

He grunted. “Did Helena of Troy say something like that before the Trojan War?”

She linked her fingers through his and leaned in. The sweet scents of fresh berries drifted in the air. Her black crocheted sweater slipped down over one shoulder. He slipped one hand under the strap of her lace camisole and caressed her with a light, teasing touch. A rush of satisfaction hit him at her quick indrawn breath.

“Do you have to go back to work?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He kneaded her neck with firm strokes, then massaged her scalp. She groaned. “Can you be late?”

“This can’t be possible. How can we want each other again so soon? After last night. And this morning. And in the kitchen.”

“We never did get breakfast.”

“You’re turning me into a nympho. I think I’m walking around with a stupid smile on my face 24/7, and Andy’s torturing me.”

He chuckled. “I’m getting the same treatment here.”

She pressed a quick kiss on his lips. “I’ve got to get back to the paper. If I don’t set up another good review, my editor will fire me. I’ve already drafted three columns, and they’re all on take-out Chinese.”

“That’s all we’ve eaten for the last four days.” He glanced down at her plate. “You didn’t touch your lunch.”

Her brow crinkled in frustration. “I know. Probably all that take-out. My stomach’s been queasy lately.”

“Are you getting sick?”

She shrugged. “Probably the beginning of that nasty stomach flu. It’s going around the office.”

“That settles it. I’m putting you to bed early tonight.”

A wicked gleam flashed in jade green eyes. “Do we get to play doctor?”

He grew to full attention at the idea of that scene. “Definitely,” he growled. Gavin grabbed her hand and led her outside the restaurant. “Have some tea to settle your stomach.”

“Darling, I have tea every night.”

“Have some crackers this time, maybe that will help.”

She laughed, but Gavin caught the pale tint to her skin when she passed a tray of steaming garlic pasta. He stepped onto the street. “Maybe you should go home now.”

“I’ll be fine. If I get worse, I’ll just work from home today.”

“Excuse me, I wondered if you can answer a question for us?”

Gavin turned to the two women dressed in expensive business suits by the door. What can I help you with?” he asked.

One woman motioned toward the sign. “Is this place any good? We’re both dying for Italian food, but we heard it got trashed in The Herald.”

Miranda stiffened. Gavin kept his voice calm and even. “We had some problems the night the critic visited. I’m the owner of the restaurant, and I can assure you both the food is outstanding.”

They shared a look. Gavin almost groaned. Obviously, they didn’t believe an owner could be impartial, and they were trying to come up with a dignified excuse that would allow them to leave.

“I never listen to critics,” Miranda cut in. “You can’t trust any of them—all they do is make money to eat for free and spout their own inflated opinions.”

Gavin wondered if she was running a fever.

“Did you eat in there?”

She nodded at the woman’s question. “Yep. Food was awesome, best Italian I’ve had in years.”

Obviously the women didn’t recognize her face, though they read her column. “Umm, may I interrupt and say—”

She waved one hand in the air. “Pasta is all homemade, bread is freshly baked, and the eggplant is perfect.”

Both women looked intrigued. “That sounds good. “

“It is. I eat here all the time.”

Gavin wondered if the sun cast that strange tint to her skin, or if she was really turning green. She continued praising his restaurant while the women inched toward the entrance.

“Thanks for the advice. By the way, what did you have for lunch?”

Gavin waited and wondered if she’d admit she only had a salad.

“Garlic pasta,” she said heartily. “It’s one of their specials, you’ll love it. In fact, I think—”

She gripped her stomach and bit down on her lower lip.

Gavin decided she’d turned the same shade the broccoli rabe was the night of her review. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

She gulped in a big breath of air. Her brow knit in concentration as she seemed to will away the waves of sickness.

Gavin guessed the action didn’t work.

She bent over and vomited on the sidewalk.

When Gavin looked up, the two women had hurried down the block and disappeared from sight.

…

“I’m so sorry.” A shiver seized her body and she buried deeper into the sea green blanket. The soft threads, crocheted by her grandma, soothed her. “I totally screwed up helping you get customers.”

He laughed and laid a damp washcloth across her brow. “Not your fault. But next time I think you should let me do the cajoling. Those women couldn’t run fast enough, even on high heels.”

Miranda giggled, but the cramps in her belly turned it to a half groan. “I know Tim gave this to me. He can only copyedit hunched over my computer, and he’s been out a few days. Bastard.”

“I’ll send him the garlic pasta today by special delivery. That’ll get him.” Gavin plunked the bucket near the couch and squeezed in beside her. “Lay your head on me while you rest.”

“You’ll get sick.”

He eased her back and tucked the edge of the blanket under her chin. “I already had my tongue in your mouth. I’m doomed, anyway.”

She choked out a laugh and her stomach settled. “Don’t you have to get back to work?”

“I called in the second shift staff to cover for me.”

“Gavin, I’m fine. Go back to work.”

“Who’s going to hold your hair back when you throw up? Isn’t that what good boyfriends do?”

She relaxed into the strength of his arms. When was the last time anyone cared enough to be with her when she was sick? No one. Her dates fled if she wasn’t up for eating or fooling around. This was nice. But he was going to get bored. How long could he just stay on her couch, holding her, while he waited for her to get sick? She roused herself and tried sparkling conversation. “So, what was your favorite place you visited on your travels?”

His chest rumbled. “Baby, I don’t think you care right now. Close your eyes and rest.”

The next wave began and she moaned. “Can’t. Couch is shaking. Go home, Gavin.”

“Not going anywhere.” He grabbed the remote and turned it to an old episode of Seinfeld. “Concentrate on this in the background. I used to do that when I was drunk. Takes away the spins.”

“I’m gonna—”

She flew across the room and made it to the bathroom. When she finally lifted her head, all dignity and pride shriveled and died. She stunk. She looked like crap. She wanted to crawl into a hole and surrender.

He picked her up from the cool white tile, helped wash her face, then pulled her hair back to gather it in a clip. He left for a moment and returned with a T-shirt and sweats, then helped her change. Gavin forced a sip of water down her throat and led her back to the couch.

His solid warmth comforted her in a way she hadn’t experienced since her grandmother held her during the flu. The sickness and emotions whirled together in a rush. “Gavin?”

“What, baby?”

“I’m sorry. About the review.” She tried to gulp a breath. “You were right. I wrote it because I was angry at you and wanted you to hurt. Just like I did when you left me.” She waited a beat, then pushed through the rest. “I wanted to be the one to get the last word for once.”

She waited for his temper. Disappointment. Waited for him to leave.

Instead, he stroked back her hair. “I know. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

Regret choked her throat. “I can’t do another review, either. I—I won’t.”

“Okay.”

His simple acceptance rocked her soul, but another bout of nausea distracted her from analyzing her reaction. She ran back to the bathroom, misery and exhaustion battling for supremacy.

The hours passed. He didn’t leave. Didn’t speak. When the worst of the pain passed, Miranda lay her sweat-drenched head against him and let go. Seinfeld turned into Friends and The Big Bang Theory. Night fell and she slept. When she roused herself to open her eyes and take another sip of water, something deep inside of her shifted and broke open.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled and caressed her cheek. “Welcome.”

She fell back asleep.

“Have you guys done it yet?”

Miranda arched one brow and peered over her black-framed glasses in disapproval. Andy leaned against the computer desk and munched on a cannoli. Fresh cream spilled out from a perfectly formed crust, making her fingers clench around her pen. Damn, every time three o’clock hit she got the sugar craving, and she could always count on Andy to stroll past her with some kind of dessert. The awful virus had passed and given her a jump-start on her diet. Why screw it up now? Too many carbs and dessert menus had to go somewhere, and her hips were too meaty. Unfortunately, she wanted to gobble down that rich, Italian pastry more than she wanted to fit in her new size.

“Hmm, my ears must be playing tricks on me. You’d never ask such a tasteless question.”

“Nope, you heard right. You’ve been seeing him for a couple of weeks and still haven’t told me if you did it.” He broke off a piece of buttery crust and popped the wedge in his mouth. Crankiness hit her.

“Did it?” she repeated.

Andy rolled his eyes. “Come on, Miranda, don’t you remember the slang term? Did the nasty. Had sex. Got it on. Need I continue?”

“You’re warped.”

He grinned. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Why is my sex life suddenly so important to you?”

“Dear friend, you haven’t had a sex life for me to get excited about. I’m just trying to make up for lost time.”