Once Upon a Proposal Read Free Page A

shape. Structurally sound, maybe. But nobody had lived in the place for longer than Gabe could remember.
    Which reminded him all over again about the door.
    He lifted the hammer between them. “Fiona asked me to fix the door. It’s been sticking?”
    â€œIf it’s not sticking, then it’s not locking properly.” Bobbie was grateful to focus on something other than the way she’d virtually attacked the poor man. It seemed like hours since she’d yanked open the door at his knock, but she knew it really had only been a matter of minutes.
    Only when she’d seen Tim Boering bearing down the walkway with determination in his step and roses in his hand, she’d simply panicked. No amount of hinting had been able to convince the man that she wasn’t interested. And sincethere’d been six-plus feet of very manly man already standing on her porch, she’d impetuously decided to show Tim that she wasn’t interested.
    She just hadn’t expected to find herself wrapped around a ticking bomb of sex appeal.
    Her heart was still dancing around inside her chest.
    And she realized that Gabriel Gannon, her sweet Fiona’s oft talked-about grandson, was clearly waiting for her to say something.
    The door. Right.
    Her face felt hotter than ever as she backed up until she was out of the way of the opened door. “It stuck so badly the other day that I couldn’t make it budge. I had to climb out the back window to get to work on time.”
    He had the decency not to laugh at that, though he didn’t stifle his grin all that quickly. “Can only imagine. This old door’s been warped since I was a kid.” He was running his very long-fingered hand down the edge of the door but his gaze—impossibly blue—was on her. “You work with my grandmother, don’t you?”
    â€œAt Golden Ability?” Fiona was the founder and long-time director of the small nonprofit canine assistance agency. “I’m just a volunteer for them. I actually work at Between the Bean. It’s a coffee place downtown.” Just the latest job in a long string of them, but she wasn’t about to tell this man that. “Lots of, um, business people stop in there,” she added even though she knew she was rambling. She just couldn’t quite seem to help herself. Her brains still felt scrambled.
    â€œWhat sort of volunteering do you do?” He straightened again from studying the door and moved around to the inside, giving her another whiff of the intoxicating scent that she’d noticed when she was kissing him.
    â€œI’m a puppy raiser.” She dumped the roses on the narrow entry table that was a general collecting ground for her mailand keys and puppy toys, effectively moving far enough away from him so that she wouldn’t be in danger of accidentally drooling on him. He’d pulled a hefty screwdriver out of his back pocket and used it, along with the hammer, to tap out the hinges on the door. “Have been for about ten years.” It was the longest she’d ever stuck with anything.
    But then how could you not stick with raising golden retrievers that could—someday—become invaluable assistance dogs?
    â€œFor some reason, I had the impression that you were in the office with her.” The hinges freed. He stuck the handles of his tools in the back pocket of his well-washed jeans, then wrapped his long, bare fingers around both sides of the weighty wooden door, lifting it right out of the door frame.
    â€œWell, I’ve helped out now and then when she’s short-staffed or something special’s going on.” She realized she was staring at the play of muscles beneath the short-sleeved white T-shirt he wore and quickly backed out of the way when he turned the door sideways to carry it out to the porch and down the steps where he leaned it against the iron railing. “What do you do with the door now?”
    He