Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Still, every now and then, my eyes flick toward the door. Looking for him. Hoping.
Hating myself for looking.
By noon, the adrenaline crash hits me. My hands tremble as I tie a ribbon around a cupcake box, and my stomach twists sharply—not pain, exactly. More like exhaustion wearing a mask.
“Kelly, sit for a minute,” Ally urges.
“I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re tying a bow around the customer’s napkins, babe.”
I look down.
Oh.
Yes. Napkins. Tied up like a gift basket.
“I might need a sandwich,” I admit.
“You need a therapy appointment and a shot of tequila,” Ally mutters as she steers me toward a stool behind the counter. “And possibly an exorcism.”
“I’ll settle for the sandwich.”
I sip water while she grabs food from the fridge. The bakery is quieting, the rush slowing. The soft hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of mugs is comforting, predictable.
Normal.
And then the bell over the front door jingles.
I don’t look up. I can’t. Not after this morning. If I see Riot again today, I might actually scream.
But it’s not him I hear.
It’s two men’s voices—deep and gruff—arguing quietly. Not unusual; bikers drift in here all the time since Ally got tangled up with Chux and the Kings of Anarchy MC.”
I keep my head down until something in their tone makes the hair at my nape stand up.
“…told you she’s connected to them now. Makes her an easy warning shot.”
My blood runs cold as I fight to casually make my way away from the front retail space. Warning shot? Ally steps back into the room and freezes when she sees my face.
“Kel? What—?”
“Shh,” I whisper, tilting my head toward the voices.
The two men are near the door, not wearing cuts. Outsiders. Strangers. Their words float across the room in fragments.
“Kings sticking their noses…” rambles I can’t decipher, “…make an example…” more muttering “…accident wouldn’t take much…”
My stomach drops. Accident. They’re talking about an accident like it’s something they could arrange. Something casual.
My throat tightens. A chill crawls down my spine. Ally notices my shaking hands. “Kelly,” she whispers, “you’re scaring me.”
I force a laugh that sounds nothing like me. “Probably nothing. Just customers being shady.”
Her eyes narrow. “Kel—”
“Seriously, it’s fine.” I push her back towards the kitchen trying to shake off the unease. “Probably just talking shit.”
But deep down, something twists. Something uneasy, sharp, instinctive.
Like my body knows danger before my brain can name it.
The men leave after a minute, the bell jingling lightly behind them.
Ally watches them go. “I don’t like that.”
“Me neither,” I admit. “But we’re not detectives. We’re bakers.”
“Yeah, and bakers get murdered first in horror movies.”
I give a weak laugh. The knot in my chest loosens slightly, but the cold coil of fear remains.
It’s probably nothing. I misheard them. Definitely nothing. Still, when I walk to my car after closing, the street feels quieter than normal. The shadows seem longer. The breeze colder.
And for the first time in a long time, I wish Riot were here.
Not because I need him. But because I miss the way he always stood between me and the world—casually, naturally, like he didn’t even think about it.
I unlock my car, slide behind the wheel, and grip the steering wheel until my pulse stops racing.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I start the engine.
Pull out of the lot.
Trying to remember to breathe.
And I don’t look in the rearview mirror.
Because if I did… I might see the pair of headlights pulling onto the road behind me.
Following.
Waiting.
Watching.
Lost in my own thoughts, though, I miss it all.
Two
Ledger
I walked away from the one damn thing I truly wanted for myself.
* * *
I’m halfway down Main Street before I realize I haven’t touched the coffee Kelly gave me.
It sits in the cup holder, untouched and now lukewarm. I brought it with me out of habit—because she handed it to me, because some part of me didn’t want to leave anything she touched behind—but the idea of drinking it turns my stomach.
I pull into the clubhouse lot, kill the engine, and sit there in the silence, helmet still on my head.
The stupidest part? This was supposed to be easy. She was supposed to be easy.
No strings, no feelings, no expectations.
That’s what she said.
That’s what I agreed to.
And somewhere between those late nights in her bed and those quiet mornings where she blinked awake and smiled at me like I hung the damn moon—I forgot to keep my distance.
I forgot to keep it simple.
I forgot that men like me don’t get softness in our lives without paying for it later.
I rip the helmet off and scrub a hand down my face. My throat is tight—annoyingly so. I’m not a man who second-guesses shit. You point me at a problem, I solve it. Quickly, efficiently, and usually with force.
But walking away from Kelly? That isn’t a solved problem.
It’s just a mess I made worse.