The Backpack Bride (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

Christian

“ W hy do I get the feeling your dad doesn’t like me?”

Roxy’s voice drifts past the refrigerator door separating us as she rummages around for what she says is a midnight snack. It’s only ten p.m., but I don’t have the heart to correct her. Not after she was forced to endure an awkward dinner with my perpetually at-odds parents.

I’d hoped to shield her from Dad’s disappointment in me, but I clearly did a poor job. At least Axel’s already gone to bed so we can openly discuss it. “It’s not that he doesn’t like you,” I say, carefully choosing my words. “It’s more the simple fact that I chose you. And anything I choose for myself is, in some way, lacking to him.”

Roxy straightens, closing the refrigerator door with her hip. “You mean he wanted to choose your wife for you?” A loose curl falls over her furrowed brow as she carries the salsa and guacamole to the counter.

“I’m starting to think this whole contract idea was his way of doing just that,” I say before letting a derisive scoff loose. “He told me I only had my grandfather to blame for it, but...I’m having a hard time believing the man I idolized for so long forced my dad to sign a contract to inherit the company.”

Roxy twists the lids of each container open, then reaches into the pantry for a bag of tortilla chips. “He wouldn’t lie about that, though, right? I mean...” She rips open the bag and snags a chip. “I doubt he’d go to such lengths just to get you to marry the person he wanted you to.”

“You’d be surprised. His type of manipulation and control is next level.”

“Have you asked your mom about it?”

I shake my head, crossing my arms and leaning back against the edge of the counter. “If she doesn’t already know, I can’t be the one to tell her that he only proposed because of some contract. If that was, indeed, the case.”

Roxy nods as she pops a chip into her mouth. “But they’ve been married for what? Over thirty years now? Clearly something is working for them.”

I let my gaze fall to her bare feet. “They haven’t always been happy, Roxy. In fact, I don’t think they’re happy now. Dad spends most nights at his apartment in Denver while Mom stays in Rocosa. I go see her when I can, but...” I blow out a harsh breath. “It’s not enough. She’s lonely. Has been for a long time, I think.”

Roxy gives a slow nod as she pulls a bowl and spoon from the kitchen cabinets. “That’s tough. She’s a very sweet person. Just like you.”

It’s impossible to hide my smile. “Just like me?”

A rosy blush spreads to Roxy’s cheeks as she dips her chin. “Yeah. I mean…you’ve got your faults, don’t get me wrong. Like what grown man drinks milk before bed?”

A laugh springs free from my chest. “A man who’s completely comfortable in his maturity and masculinity, that’s who.”

Her narrowed gaze assesses me. “Sounds like cognitive bias to me.”

A slow smile creeps to my face. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”

She turns to hide her own smile, then plops a spoonful of guacamole on her plate. “No. I’m nowhere near qualified for that. But…I do feel bad for your mom.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “Me too. I’m actually starting to wonder if she may be acting out on her loneliness.”

“How so?” Roxy quirks a brow as she licks the guacamole spoon clean. I force my eyes away from her pink tongue to finish the thought.

“I don’t know. Maybe by having an affair?”

Roxy’s eyes go wide. “Really? You think she’d do that?”

I toss up my hands. “I honestly don’t know. I’d like to believe she wouldn’t, but I’ve noticed some red flags, and…I’m not sure what to think.”

Roxy sets down the spoon and dips a chip in the salsa. “Well, I’m not one to judge. But if you’re concerned, maybe you should come right out and ask her about it?” At my wince, she adds, “Look, it’s better than wondering, right? My mind runs away from me if I speculate for too long. I’ll start to believe all the worst-case scenarios I’ve built in my head, then…” She hikes one shoulder. “It never ends well for me.”

As if sensing she gave a piece of herself away, Roxy focuses on her snack, ignoring my watchful eyes. Maybe I should take her advice and be direct. There’s so much I want to ask her, starting with why she left Denver. Why she’s bounced around from place to place all her adult life, refusing to put down roots. Now feels like the perfect opportunity to try and get her to open up, but what if she shuts me out? Will she think it’s not my place to pry or will she allow us to be vulnerable together?

Guess there’s only one way to find out.

“Roxy, why have you never settled down?”

She clutches a guacamole-laden chip, suspending it in midair. “I...I don’t know.” Her breathing quickens. “I just...haven’t wanted to.”

That response feels full of so many things yet lacks the truth I’m searching for. “And now,” I say, taking a step toward her, hoping she’ll trust me enough to confide in me. “Have your feelings changed?”

Slowly, she raises her gaze to mine. “Axel needing me changes things.” Her shuddery breaths, still shallow and erratic, fill my ears. She’s like a cornered animal, waiting to either strike or make a run for it. Fight or flight.

“I understand,” I say, hoping to soothe her. “Family is all any of us have at the end of the day.”

She swallows, the muscles in her neck rippling. “I won’t let him down.” The conviction, the sheer determination in her voice, proves she doesn’t give herself enough credit.

“I know you won’t.” I give her an encouraging smile. “And I’m here to help, in any way you need, all right? Whatever I can do.”

Her lashes flutter as her gaze falls to her snack. “Thanks, Chris. And...same.” She lifts her chin. “I want to help you gain control of the company you care so much for. Whatever I can do.”

“You’re doing it just by being at my side, Roxy.” I reach out and give her shoulder a squeeze. It’s a friendly touch, meant to bolster her. But when my fingers slide the rest of the way down her arm, electricity sparks between us.

She quickly retreats and clears her throat, setting her bowl on the counter. I take a step back. “I think I’ll head to bed. It’s been a long day.”

“Okay,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Night.”

“Goodnight.” With the confusing mixture of attraction and longing hounding my steps, I head to my bedroom and force myself to focus on more productive things. Safe things that don’t include a pair of dark-green eyes and the softest skin I’ve ever felt. Things that won’t have me dreaming of my wife long after I’ve gone to bed.