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"Gabe," she finally managed to whisper, drowning in the sultry depths of his eyes.
"Jen." His breath brushed dangerously close to her ear. He smelled like sandalwood soap and freshly cut sawdust. Her senses swam at the familiar scent, and the pull in her belly became a full-fledged, sweet-hot clench.
He dropped a hand onto the stack of papers on the table and leaned closer to her. "Sign them, darlin', and I'll take care of your damned kitchen and make this worth your while," he rumbled in that gravelly voice she'd almost, but not quite, forgotten.
"You do trust me, don't you?" One eyebrow rose in challenge. "You did--once."
Trust him? Had he forgotten? Had he forgiven her? My God, Gabriel Jackson was standing in her kitchen, leaning over her chair. Gabriel from her long ago hometown of Rock Creek.
Another realization shot through her. This was the man Leslie and all the other women in North Carolina drooled over? The famous Dream Room, hard-bodied carpenter, who sawed and sweated with his shirt off on TV every week? That hunk was her Gabe?
"Well?" he pressed, his steady stare daring her to refuse.
"I--I trust you."