Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“There it is,” I tell her quietly. “Your ticket out of here.”
She huffs a little. “Yours too.”
“Yeah.”
We brew another pot of coffee and eat simple—eggs, toast, leftover chili warmed up because I made enough for an army and somehow the two of us almost finished it. She steals one of my hoodies and rolls the sleeves up three times to get them to pretend to fit.
By afternoon, we’re back in the living room, spread out on the floor in front of the fire. She’s sitting cross-legged under a blanket, hair falling over her face as she quietly reads a book. I’m leaning back against the couch, legs stretched out, and we’re in this comfortable silence between us.
We’ve been talking on and off all day. Little things. Stories from Salemburg—her face when I told her about riding cross-country with the club, sleeping in cheap motels or under the stars, about bar fights that turned into lifelong friendships. Stories from her life before the divorce—how she used to plan vacations she never took, how she always meant to learn how to hike but got too busy being what someone else needed.
We haven’t touched the heavy stuff again. Not directly. But it’s there, under every look, every brush of her hand over my forearm when she passes me something.
Now, she closes the book gently and looks over at me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“You.” No point lying.
She laughs softly. “That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to notice that.”
Her gaze lingers on my face like she’s memorizing it. It makes me feel raw. Exposed. Like she’s getting a version of me most people never see.
“You’re quieter today,” she says.
I shrug one shoulder. “Got things on my mind.”
“Like leaving?”
“Like making sure you’re okay when I do.”
Her eyes soften. “Tony, you’re awesome, but my life is fine. It was before you rode into it and it will be when you ride back out.”
The name hits me in the chest. I’m used to being Stud. Road name. Handle. The version of me that belongs to the club, to the world out there where men don’t usually sit on floors in front of fireplaces thinking about women who sleep in their t-shirts.
But from her mouth, “Tony” feels right. Like she’s talking to the man, not the myth. Sure, she’s said it plenty but today it hits different.
“I’ll be okay,” she states softly. “I was okay before you got here.”
“Were you?” I ask, voice low.
Her mouth presses into a line. “I was surviving.”
“Surviving isn’t the same as okay.”
She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No. It’s not. But sometimes surviving is as close to okay as someone can get.”
I push myself up, propping an arm on my bent knee. “What’s your plan when I go?”
She looks at the fire, not at me. “Go back to work when they reopen. Keep saving. Maybe have a conversation with a property manager about the rentals and having someone to come in and do cleanings once I’m making more. Work on getting some of the jobs off my plate.”
“Maybe work in some time to come to Salemburg,” I let the sentence topple out with far too much hope.
She murmurs, “that would be nice.”
We sit there, the promise hanging between us like a new thread, thin but strong.
She shifts, pulling one knee up, resting her chin on it. “What about you? What’s your plan when you go back?”
“Same as always,” I tell her casually. “Check in with the guys. See who broke what while I was gone. Work on a couple bikes, pick up some jobs, ride when I can.”
“You make it sound simple,” she says.
“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” I answer. “But it’s mine. I know who I am there.”
The slow burn between us picks up a degree, like someone turned a dial. She feels it too—I can tell by the way she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, by how her tongue darts out to wet her lips, nervous habit I’ve noticed.
I push off the floor and move over, dropping down beside her. The blanket shifts, making room for me like it’s expected this since the first day she stepped foot in this cabin.
“You cold?” I ask.
“A little.”
I lift the edge of the blanket. “Come here then.”
She hesitates only half a second before scooting closer. I tuck her into my side, my arm going around her shoulders, her legs stretching out and tangling with mine under the warmth. Her head finds my chest, like it’s done this a thousand times.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Better.”
The fire pops. The ache in my chest turns into a steady heat.
I could kiss her right now. I want to. But I sit there instead, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch. This isn’t about taking everything just because I can. This is about giving her something solid to lean on when everything else feels uncertain.