Page 55 of Sugar & Shadows

Bastard. It came easily.

And these children adored him.

And so did the adult audience, it seemed. More than one minivan mom was openly drooling over his arms, which were on display since he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

He was fully immersed in the story, not bothering to confirm he was getting the reaction he wanted. There was no calculation. And he never broke character or gave any of his attention to the adults. It genuinely looked like he was having more fun than even the kids.

At one point, a chubby toddler in overalls wandered over and plopped into his lap. Gabe kept reading as the kid rested his head against his chest.

A woman in front of me sighed dramatically. As much as I wanted to roll my eyes in response, the warmth prickling behind them stopped me.

This was unfair. I’d been off all week. Hormonal. Maybe this was the month I’d actually get a period after years of wildly irregular cycles. Figures. I’d even cried last night while looking at old photos of me and Chewie, the cat Dad had given me for my ninth birthday.

My emotions were wonky. Maybe it was being back in this town. Maybe it was the loss of my career. Or maybe it was being thirty-five, and I was just losing my mind.

But Gabriel Harding only made managing them more difficult.

And his fan club was rapt. A woman in her early thirties, wearing yoga leggings, was hanging on his every word, while two others stared vacantly.

I couldn’t blame them. The stubble on his jaw was delicious. And then there was the passion he possessed as he read children’s literature. Not to mention what I now knew was hidden beneath the dress shirt.

I exhaled slowly as he wrapped up his story dramatically. This version of him didn’t fit with the narrative I’d built. The version of him I’d carried with me for so many years.

Parents stood and gathered coats as kids scattered, picking books to take home and zooming over to the wooden train set in the far corner of the children’s room.

Gabe stood slowly, smoothing his jeans. Jeans that hugged his thighs and made him look ridiculously tall. Or maybe the doll-sized furniture in this room was at fault for that.

My face flamed. I needed to get out of here and get to work.

But before I could get my feet working, he looked up and homed in on me, his jaw flexing. Not in surprise, but as if he’d been aware I was watching.

A little girl darted for him, holding a book and babbling, and Gabe broke eye contact, then kneeled to chat.

His eyes were bright and his smile was real. This was not the “mayor face” he wore when he was in town or meeting with officials. He chatted with kids and answered questions about books, seemingly delighted to be there.

It wasn’t an act. This was real. And honest.

And for some bizarre reason, my nervous system couldn’t handle it.

So I darted out of the room, sucking in a harsh breath.

My mom popped out of the break room with a coffee mug and held it out to me. “Black, as requested.”

The mug, one of many in her collection, read Books: Because there are too many people outside.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing at the door to my war room. I should be in there already. Working.

“Are you feeling okay?” She rested the back of her hand on my forehead like I was five instead of thirty-five.

I waved her off. I was just tired. And a bit achy. And my stomach was off. But it had been years since I’d endured a Vermont winter. Maybe this was a side effect of a vitamin D deficiency piled on top of the absurd emotions I faced every time a long-forgotten memory from my childhood hit me. Which had been often since I arrived.

“All good. Just gonna get to work.”

I turned toward the war room, but before I made it there, before I could flip the ineffective lock, Gabe appeared, blocking the narrow hallway with those damn shoulders.

“Working?” he asked.

I tilted my head and raised my mug. “Doing public relations, Mister Mayor?”