Kiss Me, Kill Me

The guy was considerate. And polite. And gorgeous, in that free bird, drifter sort of way.

Sam moved forward, gently closing a hand on Carrie’s forearm and tugging her off to one side, out of earshot of the two men. Leaning close, he whispered, “Please, Mom? That Ambrose guy is a dork, anyway.”

“Sammy!”

“I know, I know. You prefer dorks. I get that. But you get lots of chances to have dinner with guys like him. How many times am I gonna have a chance to play guitar with Gabriel Cain?”

She blinked and tipped her head to one side. “You say that as if he’s somebody important.”

Her son blinked at her in a way that only a son could. His expression was one she might use if she were standing in front of the Mona Lisa and someone suggested it would make nice refrigerator art.

“What?”

“Mom, he’s famous. Way more famous than Manlin, Taylor and Mozart.”

“Strauss,” she corrected. Then realized he’d been making a joke and acknowledged it with, “But that was good.”

“Gabe’s songs have been recorded by some of the biggest stars in the biz. Six of them have gone platinum.”

She lifted her brows, unable to stop herself from looking over her shoulder at the apparently unemployed hippie in the distance. Watching her, he smiled with one side of his mouth and lifted a hand just slightly.

She looked back at her son. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I bet everyone in town has at least one of his songs on their favorites list.”

“Everyone but me,” she said. “But then again, I prefer country music. So it’s safe to say he’s not a starving artist, then?”

Her son’s eyes had moved away from her and widened, and then he smacked his forehead and said, “Jeez, Mom.”

“What?”

She turned at the sound of a male voice behind her saying, “Not starving, anyway.”

She spun and had to tip her head back to meet Gabe’s eyes because he was significantly taller than she was. “That was probably rude.”

“Not at all. I was a starving artist for a long time. I don’t consider it an insult. And I like to think success hasn’t changed me much. Your assumption assures me that I haven’t. Frankly, I appreciate it.”

She lifted her brows. “I just assumed…” She shook her head. “I was making judgments based on your appearance. Something I’ve tried hard to teach Sam to never do. And I’m frankly ashamed of myself for it.”

“Don’t be. I promise, it’s my deliberate intent to look the way I do, to convey the image that look conveys. It’s who I am.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t start every sentence by saying, ‘Hi, I’m famous. Have you heard of me?’ the way that other guy does.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your success, pal,” Gabe said, even as Carrie was opening her mouth to correct her son.

“Then why don’t you act like you are?” Sam asked.

“My values, my choice,” Gabe replied easily. “Doesn’t mean I get to force them on anyone else, much less judge them for their own. Shoot, I don’t believe in big, flashy vehicles, either. For me, they just don’t fit. But I wouldn’t even think about telling you to sell yours and buy an old VW. Because for you, that wouldn’t fit.”

Sam nodded. “I got you.”

“Good.” Gabe turned to Carrie. “Have your dinner with Ambrose if you want. My feelings won’t be hurt in the least.”

She met his eyes. “Really?”

“Really.”

She blinked, and felt right down to her toes that she would far rather spend the evening getting to know Gabe. And yet that practical part of her mind whispered that Ambrose was a whole lot closer to what she wanted. And that Gabe was the epitome of everything she didn’t want.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that his feelings would be hurt.”

“I think I agree with you.”

She held his gaze, and something tingled along the back of her neck. “You do?”

“Yeah. He seems to put a lot of stock in ego. And being turned down would be a blow to his.”

She nodded, glancing at Ambrose, who was in an apparently fascinating conversation with Sadie. The girl was clearly wise enough to know that he was the topic of discussion and that she should keep him distracted until they had finished.

God, she loved that girl.

“You’re welcome to go back to the house with the kids, Gabe,” she said. “If I let Sam miss the opportunity to, uh, jam with his hero, I’ll lose out on that mother-of-the-year nomination yet again.”

Sam rolled his eyes at her corny joke, but there was love and appreciation in them, too.

“I’ll try to get home early,” she said. “Maybe if you guys can hold off on dessert, we could all have it together when I get back.”

Gabe lifted his brows. “Really?”

She shrugged. “It’s not every day a girl has a rock star in her house.”

“Just a songwriter,” he said. “I only play for pleasure.”

“Even better.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Even though you should know I prefer country music myself.”

“Sammy Gold. I know.”

“Oh, my son has been talking, hasn’t he?”

Gabe nodded. “Ambrose is getting antsy,” he said. “Come on, Sam, let’s collect that girl of yours, and you can guide me back to the hacienda.”

“Sam, check on Rose for me when you get home, will you?” Carrie interjected, even as Gabe and Sam began to walk away.

“Sure.”