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)
She nods. “Just tired.”
Tired.
That’s one word for it.
She’s been quiet since we left the cabin not scared quiet, but thoughtful. Lost in her head. And every time she looked at me, something in me tightened. Was she remembering? Does she know how much I hurt her?
I help her down and keep her tucked close as we move inside.
The moment the door shuts behind us, Kelly’s shoulders drop. She breathes out slowly, sagging against the wall.
“You good?” I ask again.
“I think so,” she whispers. Her eyes scan the room. “I remember something.”
My heart pounds, too loud in my ears. “What kind of something?”
She frowns, looking around the small living room, old couch, battered coffee table, kitchen tucked into the corner.
“I remember this couch,” she shares softly. “I think I sat here once? And you were standing over there, near that counter.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah. You did.”
“What did we talk about?”
“You were upset,” I share carefully. “Work stuff.”
“And you comforted me?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. The Kings had recently purchased this place. Kelly was having a rough day at the shop. I felt like she needed a time out. I grabbed her and brought her here to hang out while I installed a new hot water heater. She actually saw the space before most of the brothers.
She swallows, throat tight. “You’ve done that a lot? Consoled me.”
I blink once, slow. “Yeah.”
Her eyes soften. “You never said anything.”
“I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Her breath catches. “Why would that scare me?”
“Because feelings have a way of doing that.”
Her cheeks go pink.
She steps further into the room, moving slowly, testing her balance. I follow her without thinking — the same way I breathe without thinking.
Her fingers graze the back of the couch. “How much time did we spend together?”
“Enough,” I answer.
She gives a weak laugh. “Ledger, I’m not exactly in a position to decode vague biker answers.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Enough that you mattered Enough that I took it all for granted.”
Her eyes flash up to mine, stunned, soft, hurting. “I mattered to you?”
I look away. The silence is thick, full of things I can’t say. She steps toward me, close, too close — until her chest is inches from mine. I stop breathing.
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Did you matter to me?”
I can’t lie. Not to her. Not now.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I did.”
Her breath shudders. “I wish I remembered that.”
My jaw clenches. “So do I.”
She stares at me like she’s reading something written just under my skin. Something she used to know by heart.
“Ledger”
I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.
But when she looks up at me with those wide, searching eyes — eyes that don’t remember our history but still trust me completely — something inside me breaks.
I reach out, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She inhales sharply. Her eyelids flutter.
My hand cups her cheek without thinking, delicately, slow, careful. Her skin is soft beneath my palm, warm, familiar in a way that punches every ounce of air from my lungs.
“You always do that,” she murmurs.
“Do what?”
“Touch me like I’ll break if you press too hard.”
I swallow. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“Kelly.”
She steps closer.
My heart stops.
She’s right in front of me now, close enough that her breath fans across my lips. Close enough that I can smell the faint hint of vanilla from her shampoo. Close enough that the heat radiating from her body sinks into my bones.
Her hand comes up tentatively, trembling slightly.
She presses her palm to my chest.
Right over my heart.
I flinch.
Not from pain. From recognition. From want.
“Why does this feel familiar?” she whispers. “Why do you feel like a piece of me I need to breathe?”
My voice is sandpaper. “I can’t answer that for you.”
“Then let me,” she hesitates, “try something.”
Her words barely land before she rises onto her toes.
Her lips brush mine.
Just barely. A soft, feather-light kiss that lasts a second and destroys me completely.
I go still.
She presses again, a little firmer, a little surer, like she’s testing the shape of something buried in her bones.
Her hand fists in the front of my shirt. A quiet, desperate sound escapes her throat.
And I’m gone.
Completely gone.
My hand slides behind her head, tilting her gently, and I kiss her back — slow, deep, careful but hungry in a way I can’t smother. She gasps into my mouth. Something inside me roars awake.
Her fingers curl around my neck, pulling me closer. I let her. God help me, I let her.
And then— I feel it.
Her body recognizes me. Her breath syncs with mine. Her lips shape against mine like they’ve done it a thousand times before. Heat surges through me, hot, primal, possessive.
I deepen the kiss instinctively, pulling her closer, her body fitting against mine like it always has, like it always will. And that’s when I shatter into a million pieces.