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Page 4 of Intoxicating Pursuit

A Reminder

A fter another hour tromping through the soggy, overheated forest, I managed to retrieve both bikes.

I secured Gabe’s Trek Fuel EX inside my personal office at the brewery, but I knew it was likely a futile gesture.

His band toured the nation every summer.

They likely couldn’t spare time to chase down a mountain bike on a day already upended by bloody injuries.

But it was his, and it was too nice to simply lock to the rack outside.

Besides, was there even a remote chance Charlie would swing by to pick it up? Or for that matter Gabe?

I decided right then. As long as my daughter was cooling off after our disagreement last night, and given the mountain of work awaiting me, I may as well return to Forbidden Brews once I’d cleaned up and checked in at home.

I could toil over tasks from my office and give Meghan her space while I was at it.

A win-win for sure. Plus, on the sliver of a chance that Gabe stopped by, I might be able to connect with him again.

The mere possibility sent a flush of blood to my cheeks.

First though, a shower, a solid meal, and a bit of rest were non-negotiable. My bike leaned against the brewery’s brick facade, and I righted it before easing my stiff, weary legs over the frame and setting off in the direction of home.

Progress up the quiet, sloping road was slow, and my mind ran in loops, replaying the moments I’d been crushed against Gabe in the dark hallway.

Impossibly, my skin still tingled where he’d stroked my arm.

Heat lingered where his whiskers had brushed my face.

Gabriel Walker had leaned in for a kiss!

Is that possible? Maybe I’d imagined it. No. It happened. He’d wet his lips!

My bike nearly bucked me from my seat, rattling my teeth as it crashed through a pothole I’d been too spaced out to avoid.

Good grief. Can I not get a grip? If I didn’t pay attention, I was going to hurt someone. Probably myself.

Evicting the senseless, obsessive thoughts from my brain, I forced my focus where it belonged—on the bustling main road ahead.

***

G ermantown Avenue stretched all the way from downtown Philadelphia to the village of Chestnut Hill, where slow-moving cars bumped along its trolley tracks and Civil War-era cobblestones.

I slowed to ride on the sidewalk, pedaling past the town's time-tested storefronts. I rolled by the shoe shop where my mom took me for my first Mary Janes so long ago, passed by banks and antique dealers, and inhaled the heavenly, sugary scent wafting from Brendenbeck’s Bakery.

Tempting as it might be to stop in, I knew a box of their pecan-covered sticky buns already graced my kitchen counter.

On that thought, I picked up pace and turned off Germantown Avenue into the West side of the suburb.

Here, old-growth trees sheltered a patchwork of historic, single-family homes and rambling stone estates, all nestled snugly together along quiet residential roads.

I waved to a few neighbors before pulling up to a pre-Depression-era house crafted from thick slabs of Wissahickon schist.

I half-climbed, half-melted off my bike and pushed it up the patchy, blacktop driveway toward the backyard, where Mom was trimming her azaleas.

The shrubs added a cheerful touch to the home’s former carriage house—which had been renovated into a guest cottage years before I bought the property.

Mom had insisted on moving in after Dad died, and the azaleas were her addition. She always kept them tidy.

“Hey, Sammy.” She stood as I approached, beaming her usual, sunny smile and wiping sweat from the wisps of her brunette pixy cut. “Looks like you’ve had a big morning.”

“Yup. Can’t even begin to explain.” I looked around for the car that wasn’t there. “Have you seen Meghan?”

“She drove off an hour ago. Some friend was having a boyfriend emergency. Said she might be back after dinner.” She flashed a knowing look at me. “She’ll be fine of course.”

I returned her warm expression and leaned my bike against the back porch’s iron handrail.

She tilted her head. “Actually, she did seem a little stormy this morning.”

Stormy was a good word for it. I sighed, eager to find calmer weather in my relationship with my daughter soon. “Last night was a little rough. I’m hoping she’ll come around.”

“Hang in there, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you. Gonna go clean up.”

She laughed. “Yep. You need it. Love you, too, sweetheart.”

She went back to her azaleas, and I headed up the steps to the back door, eager for the comforts of home.

***

A window over the kitchen sink looked out onto Mom’s cottage, and I watched her fuss in the garden while I heated up leftovers from the brewery.

The kitchen was our main gathering area, and I’d splurged a few years ago on white cabinets, quartz countertops, and a large butcher-block island where we could all sit, eat, and chat.

I pulled out a cushioned barstool, dug into one of the restaurant’s latest creations, and was blissing out in the cool air when a text arrived from Tina:

OMG. Gabriel Walker!! Are you so excited?

I stared at the phone, puzzled. I was indeed very excited.

. . and still shocked. . . and suffering a little disbelief, to be honest. But she couldn’t possibly know any of that.

I was positive Marco hadn’t recognized him and was pretty sure we’d evaded everyone else.

Could Erin have placed him? She’d brought ice and food to the table, but if I couldn’t tell who he was at first—even up close—it seemed doubtful she would have made him out quickly.

I hedged:

***

Little dots flashed across the screen as Tina responded:

Are you flaking on me? Sammy!!

She was still typing, and I waited until her message popped up:

I already hired a sitter, and the tickets were NOT cheap. I swear you’re too busy for your own good these days. Please don’t do this.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. The pieces clicked together.

Tina usually splurged on good seats for us when Gabe’s band came to town, but I didn’t realize she’d done it this year. Or maybe she told me at some point, and I forgot. In the whirlwind of launching Forbidden Brews’ newest locations, I think I’d forgotten nearly everything.

I texted back:

Not flaking on you. I promise.

Tina’s response arrived quickly:

Good! That’s my girl!

Dots danced as she continued to type:

Pick you up at 4? Don’t wanna be stuck in the back of the pit like last year. You might be able to see, but I’m way too short.

I glanced at the clock. Any last hope I’d been harboring for a productive day evaporated. But people walked away. . . work didn’t. I could pay invoices and review financial statements tomorrow. Disappointing Tina would not be an option.

Plus, if we arrived early enough, we had a chance of being on the rail. Of being close. How could I resist?

I typed a quick response:

Will be ready at 4. Can’t wait to see you.

And I truly couldn’t. She was never going to believe what just happened.