When we got up to his apartment, he declared it a work-free night. We’d do something fun. How about …? Cue two minutes of awkward silence.

“I have this,” I said, waving Patrick’s book.

“I said fun. If you’d like a novel, I have some that I suspect are more to your taste.”

“I thought you didn’t read fiction?”

“If you’d like quiet time, that’s perfectly understandable.” He went into his room, fetched pillows, and returned to the sofa. “But I thought we could do something together.”

“Sure.”

“Perhaps …” Ten seconds. Then, “You like movies. We’ll watch one of those.”

“Uh …” My gaze swept the screen-free condo. “On what?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He looked around. “Maybe on your laptop.”

“How about cards?” I said. “You’ve gotta be able to play, considering you put yourself through college running an illegal gambling ring.”

“Allegedly.”

“Um, no. You confirmed that, remember?”

His lips twitched in the barest smile. “Ah, right. I certainly can play. However, you may also recall that I’m rather gifted at—”

“Cheating?”

“I was going to say sleight of hand.”

“Same thing.”

“Allegedly.”

I smiled. “Well, I’m not going to wager. We will, however, need cards. Do you have a deck?”

“No, but I can acquire one far more easily than I can acquire a television.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. I bet one of your neighbors has a lovely big-screen TV you could lift faster than you could go out and buy a deck of cards.”

His eyes glinted. “I thought you weren’t wagering tonight.”

I laughed. “Tempting, but we’d better stick to cards.”

“Then make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back shortly.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

That night, I dreamed that Gabriel found us something fun to do together. And it wasn’t cards.

I woke from the dream, stretching in bed, pillows against me, face buried in them, inhaling the smell of him, drowsy and happy and—

Oh, shit.

I jumped up, pushing the pillow away and gasping for breath, struggling to clear the images from my mind because … Shit, shit, shit.

It was one thing to stay overnight at a guy’s house. It was another to sleep in his bed. And it was another still when you could smell him in that bed, as if he was lying right beside you.

Shit, shit, shit.

I flicked on the bedside light. I still picked up the faint scent of him, tugging along the image of Gabriel himself, in bed and—He’d wanted to change the sheets earlier, but I’d said not to bother. Insisted on it, actually. Maybe because I didn’t want those sheets changed. I’d remembered other nights, the faint smell of him coming through the fresh pillowcase.

I had to change the sheets. At least that should keep me from having any unwelcome dreams. But doing that in the middle of the night? At best, it would suggest my head injury might be serious. At worst, it would be downright rude, implying the sheets stunk.

I glanced at the bedside table. Gabriel had picked up ginger ale because that’s what I’d had in the hospital. I splashed the sheet with sticky soda.

Off with the soiled sheets. Now to find a new set.

A peek in the bedroom closet showed clothing. The en suite bathroom didn’t have a closet. I’d seen one in the main bath, so I tiptoed through the living room and inside, closing the door all but a crack before turning on the light.

I opened the bathroom closet. Toiletries. Towels. A folded duvet cover, which suggested there were sheets in here somewhere. The shelves ran deep, and I tugged out the duvet cover and what looked like unused pillow shams—yeah, really couldn’t imagine Gabriel using pillow shams. There was something behind them. A box. I peeked in and …

It looked like cans. I pulled one out. I didn’t stop to consider whether I should—it was cans, not hidden client files.

I was holding a can of beef stew.

I reached into the box and felt around. More cans. Okay, well, that wasn’t what I’d expected, but it was none of my business. I backed out and …

And Gabriel was standing right there. Still dressed from the day before, in trousers and a half-buttoned shirt.

“Hey, sorry,” I said. “I spilled pop on the sheets and was looking for clean ones and—”

I lifted my hands in a shrug and realized I was still holding the stew. He looked at it. He looked at me. I put the can back so fast it clanged against the others, and I shoved the duvet and shams back in.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Really sorry. I wasn’t snooping. That’s why I didn’t close the door and … And I guess I should have asked, but I didn’t want to wake you, and I figured this was the obvious place, and I saw the duvet and there was something behind it and …”

And I’m babbling. Desperately babbling in hopes you’ll get that look off your face.

Except it wasn’t a look. That was the problem. His face was blank, and that emptiness wasn’t a lack of emotion or reaction—it was a ten-foot-thick wall of ice.

I closed the closet door. “If you can just direct me to the sheets. Or get them. Right, that’s better. You get them, and I’ll put them on, and you can go back to bed. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Really sorry—”