Page 19 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby turned her head slightly, peeking out from under my chin, and followed my gaze.

There, in the shadows just past the stove, was the raccoon family.

Steve, the one I'd called Gremlin, and another that I was pretty sure she’d named Popcorn.

They were sitting very proudly in a circle, passing around chunks of our steak as if it were their last meal on Earth.

Steve had a piece bigger than his head and was chewing like his jaw was possessed.

Gabby let out a long, suffering sigh. “Should’ve known.”

“You gave them a taste once,” I pointed out. “Now they think they’re part of the rotation.”

“They kind of are,” she admitted.

“I told you?—”

“I’ll make toast,” she offered suddenly, already starting to shift off my lap.

My blood pressure spiked. “Hell no.”

She froze. “What? It’s just?—”

“Nope,” I repeated, gently but firmly grabbing her waist and pulling her back into place. “You’re not making toast. Not out here. Not ever.”

“I can toast bread, Webb.”

“You almost set eggs on fire,” I reminded her, narrowing my eyes. “Eggs, the literal water balloons of the cooking world.”

“That was one time.”

“One time that left the stove with emotional damage.”

She made a face and tried to swat my arm. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“If we’re avoiding a campfire so we don’t draw attention,” I drawled, raising an eyebrow, “lighting the entire cabin up like a damn flare because you wanted toast would be one hell of a way to say ‘Hey, bad guys, we’re over here!’”

She snorted and muttered something about dramatic overreactions. Still, she didn’t argue when I stood and started prepping a few slices of bread myself.

Behind us, the raccoons crunched on, completely unbothered and absolutely sure they were now part of the family.

I sighed and turned to Gabby with the spatula in one hand. “Do not feed them anything else.”

She looked back at me innocently. “What? Who, me?”

I gave her a look, but she batted her lashes. “Tinkerbell might’ve given them a few crumbs.”

I stared at her, my expression giving away how much bullshit I thought that was, making her grin.

And just like that, the tension broke again, and I couldn’t stop the laugh that rumbled up from my chest. Even with half our dinner stolen, armed psychos on the hunt, and raccoons treating us like a free buffet, she was still right here.

The night had been hell, and not because of anything outside the cabin. No traps had gone off, there weren't any whispers in the woods or even any raccoon-related disturbances. No—this hell was purely environmental.

The heat from the day still hadn’t lifted. There was no breeze, no hint of relief—just a heavy, unyielding weight that had settled over the cabin like a punishment. Inside, the air clung to everything it touched: skin, breath, even sanity.

I’d peeled my shirt off sometime before midnight and slept on top of the sheets, tossing and glaring at the ceiling like it owed me an apology.

But that was nothing compared to the torture I was currently faced with.

Gabby had changed into a pair of shorts that defied the laws of fabric coverage.

I had to squint to confirm they were, in fact, shorts and not just the bottom hem of a very bold decision.

Every time she bent down to pick something up or even just took a step, the lower curves of her ass flashed like they were personally out to ruin me.

I’d been clenching my fists all morning, trying to focus on practical things.

Productive things like helping her clean up the dishes and making sure she didn’t soak the damn skillet again.

But the way she moved around the kitchen, humming under her breath, completely at ease with the thin tank top clinging to her damp skin and those shorts. ..I was going to combust.

As she stepped past me to put the plates in the cabinet, her body brushed mine—just a glancing touch, but it was precise. Then, she shifted, and her ass skimmed over my crotch like it had GPS.

I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. Gritting my teeth, I glared at those old wooden beams like they could offer me an answer. A prayer or a warning would be sufficient. Something. Anything!

She moved again, sliding back to where she’d been drying the plates, and this time, her hip grazed me, slow and smooth. My spine snapped straight, my jaw locked, and I knew if she did that again, the skillet wouldn’t be the only thing getting seared today.

I cleared my throat, voice low and strained. “Is it just me, or did it get hotter in here?”

Gabby didn’t even blink. “Definitely hotter.”

How was she so totally unaffected and completely calm?

And then she reached down and tugged the front of her tank top, using it to fan herself. With every little pull, the fabric stretched forward, giving me flashes—just enough to see the soft swell of her breasts and the delicate edge of a black lace bra cupping her skin.

I was officially in hell.

A sexy, humid, slow-burning kind of hell where every brush of skin and swing of her hips was one step closer to me losing my goddamn mind.

I tried to focus on the dishes and on anything that wasn’t her body, her mouth, her scent, her?—

“Webb?”

My eyes snapped to hers. She was watching me over her shoulder, plate in hand like I hadn’t just been imagining what that lace would look like on my bedroom floor.

“You okay?” Gabby asked, her brow lifted.

I gave her a tight, polite, deeply restrained smile.

“Peachy.” I tried to sound as breezy as possible, but my voice was just a little too hoarse.

Because the thing about being tortured—it’s only unbearable when you want it this badly, and God help me, I did.

I took a few steps back from her like I was backing away from open flame.

I needed space to breathe. Any type of distraction would work.

The heat in the cabin was thick and sticky, curling around everything like steam, but it was nothing compared to the fire building in my chest every time Gabby moved.

Every little shift of her hips, every swing of her ponytail, every offhand laugh—it was all winding me tighter by the second.

And those shorts she was wearing? Jesus.

It was torture, plain and simple, and I was a damn fool for pretending otherwise.

I tried to refocus on helping her clean the dishes and making sure she didn’t soak the old skillet in soapy water again.

Still, even that was pushing the limits of my control, especially after the kiss we’d shared.

That kiss had rattled something loose in me, and every time she looked at me like nothing had happened, it only made it worse.

Then, I noticed something missing. She didn’t have her gun on her.

I frowned and scanned the room, expecting to see it tucked somewhere nearby.

But it wasn’t on the counter, the windowsill, or the edge of the pantry where she usually left it.

My gaze dropped to her waist. It definitely wasn’t in the back of her shorts—there was no way I wouldn’t have noticed that—and the front wasn’t tugged or weighed down.

Which meant she’d hidden it on her body somewhere.

“Where’s your gun?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She barely glanced over her shoulder as she replied, “It’s on me.”

That answer didn’t help. In fact, it made things worse.

Because now I was picturing every possible place it could be tucked—and every inch of skin I hadn’t yet had the privilege of seeing.

And suddenly, it was no longer just about safety, it was about curiosity and heat.

It was Gabby driving me out of my fucking mind without even trying.

I stepped in behind her slowly and deliberately, closing the space between us.

Her attention was on the plates she was stacking, unaware—or pretending to be oblivious—of the way my eyes traced every inch of her.

My hand came up, dragging gently along the waistband of her shorts.

She stilled, and my fingers slid over the soft dip of her side, firm and focused, searching for any sign of metal or weight. They encountered nothing.

I moved to the other side, slipping my hand up beneath the hem of her tank top and gliding it along her warm skin, which was flushed from the heat. Still no sign of the gun.

Leaning in close, I let my breath brush her ear, my mouth hovering just behind it as I murmured, “Where is it, baby?”

She inhaled sharply, her body tense against mine. She didn’t answer at first like the question had short-circuited her brain. “What?” she breathed out, sounding dazed.

I nuzzled her neck, my lips brushing the delicate skin there, and asked again, voice low and deliberate, “Where’s your gun?”

“I… forget,” she whispered, and it broke into something halfway between a confession and a breathless apology.

I laughed softly, the sound warm against her neck.

I couldn’t help it. She’d forgotten. The woman who was supposed to be armed had stashed her weapon somewhere in the ether and left me chasing shadows on her body.

I pressed a kiss behind her ear because, at that point, the only thing I could think was fuck it.

The moment the kiss landed, she spun in my arms with a speed that caught me off guard. Her hands found my shoulders and gripped tight, and before I could speak, she jumped. I caught her easily, my hands sliding to her thighs as her legs wrapped around my waist. And then she kissed me.

Hard. Hungry. Like she’d been waiting just as long and had finally reached the point where waiting wasn’t an option anymore.

I turned with her in my arms and pressed her back against the nearest wall, my mouth moving over hers like I’d been holding this back for days—which I hadn't. She tasted like heat and every damn thing I hadn’t let myself want until she'd come into my life.