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)
Tony smirks. “That place was held together with duct tape and prayers.”
“Pretty much.”
“You want work?” he asks. “Work with me at Honey’s Hot Rods.”
I blink. “What?”
“Honey’s Hot Rods,” he says. “We need a shop secretary. Tiffany keeps trying to do intake paperwork between oil changes and tune-ups, and it’s a mess. She hates people in general. She wants more time on the cars. You want more independence. Solve two problems at once.”
I stare.
He’s serious.
“You want me to work at your shop?”
“Yes.”
“And live where?”
He tilts his head. “Where do you want to live?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I want space. But also this. You.”
“You can have both.”
“How?”
“You keep your cabin,” he says. “Use it as a short-term rental. Earn money. Build savings. Work at the shop. Then split time however the hell you want. My place, your place. I can set you up in one of the rentals by the shop. You don’t have to move in permanently to sleep in my bed most nights.”
My breath catches. “Most nights?”
He leans in, voice dropping, low and rough. “Sweetheart, after yesterday? You’re not sleeping alone unless you insist on it.”
Emotion punches me straight in the chest.
“But,” he adds, pressing a finger under my chin to lift my face, “I’m not taking your independence. I don’t want it. I want you. However you come.”
A tear escapes.
He catches it with his thumb.
“Why are you being so—” I choke. “—so good about this?”
“Because,” he says, thumb stroking my cheek, “I never thought I’d try a real relationship again. Not after everything with my wife. Not after years of keeping my distance. And then I almost lost you before I ever really had you.”
He pauses. Swallows.
“And it hit me like a damn truck that if I didn’t do something—if I didn’t fight for this—I’d spend the rest of my life telling myself you were the one that got away.”
My heart stops.
He keeps going, voice softer.
“I don’t need a ring. I don’t need vows. I don’t need forever promised on paper. I just need you choosing me every day you want to. And I’ll choose you back. Every day I can.”
My breath trembles.
I reach out and cup his jaw.
“Tony…”
“Yeah?”
“I choose you.”
His eyes darken, soften, melt all at once.
I rest my forehead against his. “Not as a wife. Not as a possession. Not as someone who belongs to you. But someone who wants you. And wants this. And wants to figure it out together.”
His breath hits my lips.
“That’s enough,” he whispers.
“It is?” I ask.
“It’s everything.”
He pulls me into his chest, strong arms wrapping fully around me, and for once in my life I feel held without being caged, loved without being claimed like property, wanted without being consumed.
I let out a shaky breath and sink into him.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Tiffany about the secretary job.
Tomorrow, I’ll call the property manager and put the cabin on short-term rental sites.
Tomorrow, I’ll start fresh.
But tonight?
Tonight I lie in Tony’s arms, wrapped in a warmth I never thought I’d find again, knowing exactly what comes next.
A life that’s mine.
A love that’s his.
And a path we walk together without trying to own each other.
Just choosing.
One day at a time.
Twenty-Two
Stud
I always thought “domestic” was a dirty word.
Not because I hated it.
Because it wasn’t meant for men like me.
Men who bury their wives too young.
Men who raise their daughters half in a garage and half in a motorcycle clubhouse.
Men who sleep better with something dangerous within reach.
Men who live with the knowledge that everything they care about can be stolen in a heartbeat.
I learned a long time ago:
Comfort is a trap.
Softness is a weakness.
Home is something you have to constantly defend or lose.
And then Holley happens to me.
Not all at once.
Not with fireworks or lightning bolts.
But slowly—like someone opening a window in a room I didn’t realize I’d sealed shut.
And now, three weeks after the kidnapping, I’m looking around my kitchen at eight in the morning watching her stand barefoot in one of my old t-shirts, hair up in a messy bun, humming some song I don’t know while she makes coffe …and I’m ruined.
Absolutely done for.
She opens a cabinet and frowns. “Tony? Why are your mugs on the top shelf? How tall do you think you are?”
“Tall enough,” I mutter, because that’s easier than saying, They’re up there because I don’t use them unless someone I care about is here, and that’s only been Tiffany and the occasional biker I’m too annoyed to tell to go home.
Holley gets on her toes trying to reach one.
I take exactly two steps and pluck it down for her.
She pretends not to notice how close I stand.
I pretend not to notice how good she smells—like soap and warm skin and the lingering hint of my sheets.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling over her shoulder.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.