Chapter 9 Brayden
brAYDEN
I'm the world's biggest asshole.
This thought has been on repeat in my skull all night, a bad country song looping endlessly while I stared at the guesthouse ceiling.
Even now, as I pull into the hospital parking lot, it’s still hammering at me.
The sun has barely crawled above the horizon, but I’ve been awake for hours, replaying that kiss.
What the hell was I thinking? She just got out of a marriage with a serial cheater, and what do I do? I go after her the first chance I get, acting with all the restraint of a hormone-fueled teenager.
I kill the engine on my bike and sit there for a moment, letting the early morning chill settle into my bones. It feels deserved after the surge of heat that tore through me when her lips parted beneath mine and when her fingers gripped my shirt as though she needed something to hold on to.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter, pulling off my helmet.
Last night—after a kiss that nearly set the guesthouse on fire inside my chest—I somehow found the strength to step back. To apologize. To finish feeding her spaghetti in awkward silence before driving her back to the church, where her father waited with a face that could’ve summoned a storm.
He hadn't said a word to me. Just nodded once, his eyes tracking Cece as she walked inside still wearing my hoodie.
She'd tried to give it back. I told her to keep it. Like some lovesick high school kid trying to hold onto a piece of her. I didn't tell her about the way my skin had burned where she touched me, or how I had to take the longest cold shower of my life after she left.
I shake my head, trying to clear it as I walk toward the hospital entrance. I'm not here for her. I'm here for my aunt.
The hospital's automatic doors slide open with a quiet hiss, releasing the distinctive smell of antiseptic.
I've spent more time in places like this than I care to remember—waiting rooms while brothers got patched up after fights gone wrong, emergency rooms after road accidents, and once, a long night in a trauma center when I wasn't sure if I'd make it to morning.
“Visiting hours don't start until eight,” the receptionist says without looking up as I approach the desk.
“I’m family,” I reply, keeping my voice even despite the way her expression shifts when she finally looks at me, taking in the cut, the tattoos visible on my neck. “Jillian and Harold Miller. Room 342.”
She hesitates, and I can practically see the debate flicker behind her composure—follow protocol or avoid confrontation with the scary biker.
“They're expecting me,” I add, which isn't exactly a lie. My aunt is always expecting me, whether I show up or not.
“I'll need to see some ID.”
I pull out my wallet and hand over my driver's license. She studies it longer than necessary, like she's memorizing my address or maybe just surprised I have legitimate ID.
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.” She hands it back reluctantly. “Elevators are to your left.”
I nod and head in that direction, ignoring the curious stares from the night shift nurses. I'm used to it—the sideways glances, the way people suddenly find something important to do when I walk by. My cut might as well be a force field for how effectively it keeps people at a distance.
The elevator ride to the third floor is mercifully empty. I lean against the wall, exhaling slowly as I try to get my head straight before seeing Aunt Jillian. She's got a sixth sense for when something's bothering me.
The doors slide open, and I follow the numbered signs down a quiet hallway. Most of the rooms are dark, patients still sleeping, but I can see light spilling from 342.
I knock softly before pushing the door open. “Morning.”
Aunt Jillian looks up from her knitting, her face breaking into that sunrise smile that's been my one constant. She's sitting in the chair beside Uncle Harold's bed, her gray hair pulled back in its usual neat bun, a half-finished scarf draped across her lap.
“Brayden, what on earth are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” she asks, but her eyes are bright with pleasure. She sets her knitting aside and holds out her arms for a hug.
I cross the room and bend down, careful not to disturb the various tubes and wires connected to Uncle Harold as I embrace her. She smells like lavender and that fancy hand lotion she's been using since I can remember—the one she claims keeps her hands young despite decades of hard work.
“Just checking in,” I say, straightening up to glance at Harold. He's sleeping peacefully, the steady beep of his heart monitor creating a soothing rhythm in the otherwise quiet room. “How's he doing?”
“Better. Doctor says we might be able to go home tomorrow if his numbers stay good.” She pats the chair beside her. “Sit. You look like you haven't slept a wink.”
I sink into the chair, not bothering to deny it. “Been busy.”
“Mmhmm.” She gives me that look—the one that says she can see right through my bullshit. “I heard you've been making quite the impression around town. Fixed the church van, brought in enough food to feed an army, and...” she pauses dramatically, “been spending time with Cecelia.”
“It's not like that,” I say automatically.
“Like you're interested in her,” Aunt Jillian says with that irritating knowing smile she's perfected.
I shift uncomfortably in the hospital chair. “We're just working on the charity drive together.”
“And riding motorcycles together. And having dinner together at my guesthouse.”
I shoot her a look. “You spying on me now?”
“I have eyes and ears all over this town, Brayden. You know that.” She reaches over to pat my hand, her touch gentle despite the arthritis that's starting to twist her fingers. “And I think it's wonderful.”
“There's nothing wonderful about it,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “She just got out of a bad marriage. The last thing she needs is someone making her life harder.”
“Someone like you,” Aunt Jillian repeats, brow lifting. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
I gesture at myself—at the cut, the ink crawling up my arms, the whole rough-edged package. “Come on, Jillian. Look at me. You know.”
“No,” she says, setting her knitting aside, which is never a good sign.
“I don’t know. What I do see is a man who dropped everything to help run a toy drive for kids he doesn’t even know.
A man who’s been taking care of his aging aunt and uncle without a single complaint.
Riding a motorcycle and wearing a leather vest doesn’t make you the villain, Brayden.
You’ve had a soft spot for that girl since the day you set foot in this house.
Don’t throw away a second chance just because you’re scared of what it means. ”
“That’s not how I remember it,” I say, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake Harold.
“It’s exactly how things turn out if you let them,” Aunt Jillian replies, picking up her needles again. The quiet click-click fills the room, steady as her heartbeat. “And for what it’s worth… Cecelia’s been through more than you realize.”
“Yeah, I know about her ex. Real piece of work.”
“Not just him.” She glances at Harold's sleeping form, then back at me. “That girl's been living her whole life trying to meet everyone else's expectations. First her father's, then Ethan's. She never got to figure out what she wanted.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Sounds familiar.”
“Thought it might.” She gives me a knowing look. “Only difference is you ran away to find yourself. She did what was expected of her.”
I lean back in the chair, letting her words sink in. “I didn't run away. I got kicked out.”
“Semantics.” She flicks her hand dismissively. “Point is, maybe what she needs isn't someone who fits neatly into that perfect little world she's been suffocating in. Maybe she needs someone who can show her there's life outside it.”
“And you think that's me?”
Aunt Jillian's confidence in me is worse than any guilt trip she's ever laid on me. At least with guilt, I know how to push back. But this blind faith that I'm somehow what Cece needs? I don’t know how to process that.
“You're giving me too much credit,” I mutter, watching the steady rise and fall of Uncle Harold's chest. “I'm not some knight in shining armor.”
“No, you're better,” she says, those knowing eyes pinning me in place. “You're real. And that girl has had enough fairy tales to last a lifetime.”
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble I didn't bother to shave this morning. “I kissed her,” I admit, the words falling out before I can stop them. “Last night.”
Aunt Jillian's knitting needles pause mid-stitch. “And?”
“And nothing. I apologized and took her home.”
She stares at me like I've just told her I'm giving up motorcycles for competitive ballroom dancing. “You apologized? For kissing her?”
“Yeah,” I shift uncomfortably. “It was too soon.”
“Says who?”
“Says common sense. Says the fact that her life is complicated enough without adding me to the mix.”
The needles start clicking again, faster now. “Did she kiss you back?”
“Yeah,” I finally admit. “She did.” I can still feel the way her fingers curled into my shirt, the soft gasp against my mouth.
“Well then.” Her smile is triumphant, like she's just won an argument I didn't know we were having. “Maybe you should let her decide what's too soon for her, instead of making that choice yourself.”
The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background as I consider her words. Uncle Harold stirs slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into stillness.
“It's not that simple.”
“Love rarely is.” She sets her knitting aside and leans forward to take my hand in hers. Her skin is paper-thin now, blue veins visible beneath the surface, but her grip is still surprisingly strong. “But that doesn't mean it's not worth the trouble.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Nobody needed to, dear.”
I'm saved from having to respond by a soft knock at the door. A nurse pokes her head in, her smile professional but her eyes wary when they land on me.
“Just checking vitals,” she says, moving to Uncle Harold's bedside.
I stand up, grateful for the interruption. “I should get going anyway. Got some things to take care of.”
She releases my hand with a sigh. “You're running away again.”
“I'm not running,” I protest, but the excuse sounds weak even to my ears. “I've got club business to handle.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She gives me that look again, the one that sees through my bullshit. “Well, before you go running off to your very important club business, you might want to know that the town tree lighting festival is tonight.”
“And I care about that because…”
“It’s Cece’s favorite town holiday tradition. Just thought you’d like to know that.”
“Since when do you keep track of Cece's favorite anything?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, please. I've known that girl since she was in diapers. Her mother used to help me with the church bazaar before she passed. Cecelia loves Christmas more than anyone I know. That tree lighting is the one thing she never misses—not even the year she had mono in high school.”
“Tree lighting,” I repeat, as though I’m committing it to memory. I actually am, even though I’m pretending I don’t care. “What time?”
Aunt Jillian’s smile is so smug I want to roll my eyes. “Seven o’clock sharp in the town square. They do the countdown, light the big tree, then everyone sings carols and drinks hot chocolate. Very Norman Rockwell.”
“Sounds miserable.”
“For you, maybe. For her, it’s magic.” She picks up her knitting again, the needles clicking in a steady rhythm. “Though I suppose a tough biker such as yourself wouldn’t be drawn to anything so wholesome.”
I recognize the manipulation tactic for what it is. “I didn't say I wasn't interested.”
“So you'll go?”
“I didn't say that either.”
The nurse finishes checking Harold's vitals and writes something on his chart, then gives me a professional nod before leaving the room. I take that as my cue to go, leaning down to press a kiss to Aunt Jillian's soft cheek.
“Love you,” I murmur against her skin, inhaling the familiar scent. “Tell the old man I said hey when he wakes up.”
“I will.” She pats my face with her weathered hand. “And Brayden? Sometimes the best Christmas gifts are the ones we don't think we deserve.”
I give her a look at the not-so-subtle hint, but her words follow me out of the hospital room and into the elevator. Tree lighting. Seven o’clock. Town square. The information loops in my head as I stride across the parking lot to my bike.
I’m not going to that tree lighting. It’s not my scene—too many people, too much cheer, too many memories of standing on the outside while the rest of the town celebrated without me.
Besides, after last night, Cece probably needs space.
Time to remember why getting involved with someone of my reputation is a terrible idea.
But as I swing my leg over my bike, I already know I’m full of shit. I’ll end up at that damn tree lighting tonight, watching her from a distance the same way I did in high school, pretending I’m not hoping she’ll look my way.
Some things never change.