Page 11 of Intoxicating Pursuit

An Invitation

A few days later, I was revising Forbidden Brews’ cash forecast and listening to morning rain patter my bedroom windows when the text arrived:

It didn’t. . . at least, not completely.

I took another sip of coffee and minimized my spreadsheet, opening a browser instead.

A quick Google of “Gabriel Walker” and “Creekside” yielded abundant links and images: a North Carolina visitor’s bureau article about La Fermata—Gabriel Walker's farm-to-table haven near the Smoky Mountains; photos of Gabe posing with cook staff and assisting laborers in the orchards; quaint images of an old white farmhouse with a broad sun porch; Instagram selfies of guests lounging under sprawling cedar pergolas surrounded by endless acres of crops.

Fragments of our conversation came back to me.

Had he been serious about me helping with a patio redesign? More importantly, why did I tell him I could travel that far away? Just the thought of venturing more than an hour’s drive from Meghan and Mom made my stomach turn.

My trips two years ago to close real estate purchases in Madison and Charlotte had not gone well, and after my unexpected visit to the Columbus ER, my days of being separated from my family had ground to a halt.

Marco had been left with the burden of the company's business travel, and I had hunkered down at home, defeated.

If I went, though, would I see Gabe again? I remembered his powerful build, his warm hands, and his wicked grin. Blood rushed to my face, and a low vibration spread through me.

Oh boy.

My mind was hesitant, but my body sure wasn’t. For now, I stalled:

Hi Charlie. Please tell Gabe I’ll check the dates. Will get back to you soon.