Chapter 8
Tess
The porch creaks softly beneath my heels as I shift my weight, the old wood still warm from a day baking under the Kansas sun.
Somewhere out in the yard, Caleb curses under his breath as smoke rolls up from the grill again, followed immediately by Asher telling him he’s murdering the burgers.
Logan’s laughter carries across the yard while the smell of smoke, grilled beef, and barbecue sauce drifts through the thick evening heat.
Lily sleeps through all of it.
I glance down at the baby tucked against Clara’s chest, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, completely unaware of the noise surrounding her.
Soft breaths stir the wispy strands of hair at her temple with every exhale.
Clara adjusts the blanket over her daughter with careful fingers, her movements instinctive now.
“She does this all the time lately,” Clara says quietly. “A few weeks ago, somebody sneezing would’ve woken her.”
I smile faintly. “Guess she’s adapting to the Brotherhood.”
“That or she’s accepted chaos as her future.”
The rumble of motorcycles rolls up the driveway. The machines are loud. Lily sleeps through it all.
I frown at the three bikers.
The engines die almost in unison, and three men swing off with the easy confidence of people who've spent most of their lives in the saddle.
The one in the middle pulls off his helmet, revealing blond hair in the exact same shade as Clara’s. Ethan Bennett.
I shouldn't be surprised to see Clara's nephew. Family is family, even when that family spends most of its time wearing leather instead of a suit. It's the other two who make me blink.
Even people who'd never spoken to them knew who they were. Iron Ridge had been shaking their heads over those bikers for years.
Ethan laughs at something the man on his right says as the three of them head toward the yard.
Clara smiles before lifting one hand in greeting, as though there isn't anything unusual about her nephew keeping company with the notorious bikers.
Maybe there isn't.
The thought lingers for all of two seconds before another burst of male laughter rolls across the yard.
My gaze drifts automatically toward the sound.
Not because I care what Caleb managed to burn this time.
Because I’m looking for Dylan.
The realization lands hard enough that I tighten my grip around the stem of my wineglass.
He’s not near the grill.
Not sitting at the picnic table.
Not leaning against the railing with the others.
Gone.
I scan the yard again anyway, slower this time, my attention catching on every broad pair of shoulders before disappointment flickers low in my stomach when it isn’t him.
Jesus.
The obsession unsettles me more than the attraction itself.
I’ve wanted men before. Desired them. Enjoyed them.
At Indigo, men watched me constantly, their attention almost tangible at times, thick enough to feel against my skin before they ever crossed the room.
I learned quickly how to hold their focus, how to direct it, how to keep control of a scene without giving away more than I intended.
But my mind always stayed clear.
Dylan should have stayed in that same carefully separated category. Temporary boss. Temporary assignment. Temporary attraction. Simple, manageable boundaries that made sense from the beginning. Instead, somewhere along the way, he stopped feeling like work and started feeling dangerously personal.
Between reorganizing his impossible schedule and watching him work himself into exhaustion day after day, something shifted without my permission.
I’ve seen him survive on four hours of sleep while handling problems that would flatten most people.
I’ve watched him remember details about employees most CEOs wouldn’t bother learning.
Seen him cancel personal plans because a shipment issue needed fixing immediately.
That man doesn’t resemble the tabloids at all.
The stories paint him as some spoiled former football star coasting on charm and money, burning through women because he can and replacing them the moment they ask for something real.
The Dylan I know is many things. Gruff. Impatient.
Occasionally rude. But there’s nothing careless about him when it comes to his business, his people, or the life he built after football ended.
My fingers tighten slightly around the stem of my wineglass, because hard-working men are still capable of hurting people. Just because the tabloids exaggerated him into something ugly doesn’t mean every story was completely false, and that thought settles in my chest heavier than I want it to.
Maybe he did sleep around. Maybe women really did move through his life as quickly as assistants moved through his office. I don’t actually know. Neither of us owes the other explanations, and yet every time I imagine him with someone else, something unpleasant twists low in my chest.
Because when Dylan looks at me now, nothing about it feels casual anymore.
There’s weight in it, heat in it, a kind of focus that settles over my skin and stays there long after he looks away.
I feel it every time he steps too close in the office, every time his voice drops lower when it’s just the two of us, every time his attention catches on me like he forgets for a second that anyone else exists in the room.
Movement near the side of the house pulls me abruptly out of the thought. Jeremy rounds the corner first, walking fast enough that the tension in his body registers immediately. Dylan follows half a second later, and every muscle in my body tightens on instinct before I even understand why.
Something happened.
Jeremy’s shirt stretches oddly across one shoulder, the fabric wrinkled like someone grabbed him there. Dylan’s hair looks rougher than it did earlier, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way they normally don’t. Both men move with a contained kind of tension that prickles across my skin.
Beside me, Clara goes still.
Her entire body shifts before she even rises from the chair, instinct pulling her upright despite Lily sleeping awkwardly against her chest. She fumbles slightly, trying not to wake the baby.
I immediately steady her elbow.
“What’s wrong?” My gaze flicks back toward the men crossing the yard. Dylan still hasn’t looked toward the porch. Jeremy says something low to him, his jaw tight. “Did they fight?”
Clara narrows her eyes, studying them the same way I am.
“Hm.” The sound vibrates low in her throat. “You notice it too, huh?”
Then Dylan lifts his head.
Our eyes meet across the yard.
The look that lands on me feels raw in a way I’ve never seen from him before, stripped clean of the controlled polish he usually wears like armor.
Something sharp flickers beneath it, restless and unsettled, as if whatever happened behind the house followed him back and he hasn’t fully locked it down yet.
Dylan is always composed, always deliberate, every movement measured before he makes it.
But right now, there’s a crack in that control wide enough for me to glimpse the man underneath, and the sight of it sends heat sliding slowly down my spine.
I’m moving toward him before my brain catches up.