Read Online Losing Gabriel by Lurlene McDaniel - Free Book Online
Authors: Lurlene McDaniel
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“Time to raid the deli tray.”
Sloan followed him upstairs. Dawson dragged the tray from the fridge heaped with deli meat, cheeses, sliced veggies, and dip. “Yikes! Who was your dad expecting? The whole neighborhood?”
Dawson grabbed condiments and a bag of deli buns and set all beside the tray. “What? There’s barely enough to share.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I can take home a doggie bag.” She said it in jest, but it was in part a request. LaDonna was out for an all-nighter, and Sloan had no idea when she’d drag herself home the next day. As usual, there wasn’t much to eat at the trailer.
Oblivious, Dawson slathered mustard on the top half of a bun. Sloan bumped him hard with her hip, making him drop the bun facedown on the countertop. “Hey!”
“Butterfingers,” she chided, grabbing her plate and a bag of chips and hurrying down into the basement.
He found her curled up on the sofa, munching her sandwich. He gave her a wicked grin and wiggled a soda can. “You forgot your drink. I brought it, but there’ll be a price for handing it over.”
She gave him a smug look. “I have a drink.” She fished under the sofa and lifted up a bottle of champagne. “Unlike you, I’m willing to share for free.”
“Whoa, girl. Where’d you get that?”
“State secret.” She’d lifted it from a convenience store days before when the clerk was busy and not watching, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Dawson took the bottle, wrapped in black foil and stamped with gold letters. He’d had beer and wine at parties with his friend Tad, but he’d never tasted champagne. Once Franklin had allowed him a sip of bourbon that had burned his mouth and made his eyes water. “Firewater,” Franklin had joked. “I’d rather you try it with me than at some party.” Dawson never confessed he’d already tried it at age thirteen at Tad’s house. Now he gave Sloan a conspiratorial grin. “You like this stuff?”
“Never had it before. Thought we should drink some together. For New Year’s Eve.” She wanted to taste the stuff and had hoped Dawson’s dad wouldn’t mind if they all sipped it together to welcome the New Year. But now Franklin was gone.
“I’ll get some glasses.”
“Hurry. The ball drops in fifteen.”
He returned with glasses and set them on the coffee table. “When did you sneak it inside?”
“When you weren’t looking, silly.”
He worked the cork up, and when it popped out, the liquid erupted into a cascade that gushed down the bottle’s sides and onto the floor. They laughed while Sloan sopped up the overflow with an afghan from the sofa.
Dawson poured two glasses full of the golden liquid that roiled with tiny bubbles. He gulped it. She tasted it. He scrunched his face. “I think you’re supposed to sip it,” Sloan said.
They each drank a second glass full. “Taste grows on you,” Dawson said.
“Makes me want to giggle,” Sloan said, giggling.
He poured them each another glass as the TV started playing “Auld Lang Syne.”
“Uh-oh, here it comes! Watch.” She pointed at the screen as an enormous crystal ball began its descent from a lofty tower and the crowds in Times Square hundreds of miles away from Windemere shouted out a countdown from ten to one. When the ball came to rest, and the brilliantly lit number of the New Year flashed on the screen, and confetti blanketed the TV people, Sloan set down her empty glass, set aside Dawson’s glass, and dove into his arms. Her head was spinning, and when his hot and hungry mouth met hers, she made up her mind as to how she wanted to complete their celebration.
Sloan pushed up his sweatshirt. His dark eyes bore into her blue ones. “What…?”
She tugged off her sweater and bra. His gaze roamed her body with a look more intoxicating than the champagne. “You make me happy, Dawson.” She lifted his hand, pressed a kiss into the palm, placed it against her breast, and watched goose bumps rise across his
Sloan followed him upstairs. Dawson dragged the tray from the fridge heaped with deli meat, cheeses, sliced veggies, and dip. “Yikes! Who was your dad expecting? The whole neighborhood?”
Dawson grabbed condiments and a bag of deli buns and set all beside the tray. “What? There’s barely enough to share.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I can take home a doggie bag.” She said it in jest, but it was in part a request. LaDonna was out for an all-nighter, and Sloan had no idea when she’d drag herself home the next day. As usual, there wasn’t much to eat at the trailer.
Oblivious, Dawson slathered mustard on the top half of a bun. Sloan bumped him hard with her hip, making him drop the bun facedown on the countertop. “Hey!”
“Butterfingers,” she chided, grabbing her plate and a bag of chips and hurrying down into the basement.
He found her curled up on the sofa, munching her sandwich. He gave her a wicked grin and wiggled a soda can. “You forgot your drink. I brought it, but there’ll be a price for handing it over.”
She gave him a smug look. “I have a drink.” She fished under the sofa and lifted up a bottle of champagne. “Unlike you, I’m willing to share for free.”
“Whoa, girl. Where’d you get that?”
“State secret.” She’d lifted it from a convenience store days before when the clerk was busy and not watching, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Dawson took the bottle, wrapped in black foil and stamped with gold letters. He’d had beer and wine at parties with his friend Tad, but he’d never tasted champagne. Once Franklin had allowed him a sip of bourbon that had burned his mouth and made his eyes water. “Firewater,” Franklin had joked. “I’d rather you try it with me than at some party.” Dawson never confessed he’d already tried it at age thirteen at Tad’s house. Now he gave Sloan a conspiratorial grin. “You like this stuff?”
“Never had it before. Thought we should drink some together. For New Year’s Eve.” She wanted to taste the stuff and had hoped Dawson’s dad wouldn’t mind if they all sipped it together to welcome the New Year. But now Franklin was gone.
“I’ll get some glasses.”
“Hurry. The ball drops in fifteen.”
He returned with glasses and set them on the coffee table. “When did you sneak it inside?”
“When you weren’t looking, silly.”
He worked the cork up, and when it popped out, the liquid erupted into a cascade that gushed down the bottle’s sides and onto the floor. They laughed while Sloan sopped up the overflow with an afghan from the sofa.
Dawson poured two glasses full of the golden liquid that roiled with tiny bubbles. He gulped it. She tasted it. He scrunched his face. “I think you’re supposed to sip it,” Sloan said.
They each drank a second glass full. “Taste grows on you,” Dawson said.
“Makes me want to giggle,” Sloan said, giggling.
He poured them each another glass as the TV started playing “Auld Lang Syne.”
“Uh-oh, here it comes! Watch.” She pointed at the screen as an enormous crystal ball began its descent from a lofty tower and the crowds in Times Square hundreds of miles away from Windemere shouted out a countdown from ten to one. When the ball came to rest, and the brilliantly lit number of the New Year flashed on the screen, and confetti blanketed the TV people, Sloan set down her empty glass, set aside Dawson’s glass, and dove into his arms. Her head was spinning, and when his hot and hungry mouth met hers, she made up her mind as to how she wanted to complete their celebration.
Sloan pushed up his sweatshirt. His dark eyes bore into her blue ones. “What…?”
She tugged off her sweater and bra. His gaze roamed her body with a look more intoxicating than the champagne. “You make me happy, Dawson.” She lifted his hand, pressed a kiss into the palm, placed it against her breast, and watched goose bumps rise across his
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