CHAPTER NINE #2
His gaze sharpens, not hostile, but assessing. Like he’s weighing me up. “To be honest, I’m hardly around myself. I work long hours on the farm.”
“And I assume Eden takes up your evenings,” I say, eyeing him.
“Is she the reason you’re sticking around, or have you developed a sudden love for the place?” he asks with a smirk.
“I need to be around for my kid,” I say firmly. “But I won’t sit here and lie to your face. I want her back. I love her.” The words feel like a weight lifting. “I fucked things up really badly.” I exhale slowly. “I’m trying to fix them. Properly. Not by forcing my way back in.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, his shoulders relax. “The room’s yours if you want it,” he says. “Month by month. No pressure.”
I blink. “You sure?”
He nods. “Farm’s big enough for the both of us.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost sway.
“Thank you,” I say. “And if you need help on the farm or whatever, I can muck in.”
He gives a smile, nodding. “Cheers, I’ll keep that in mind.”
EDEN
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” I ask, setting the roast dinner down in front of Martha before taking my own seat.
She hums, reaching straight for the potatoes. “Do I?”
“Yes,” I say flatly.
She shrugs. “I spoke to Rabbit.”
“How is he?”
She chews deliberately slow. “There’s a church meeting later via zoom.”
I wait for her to explain some more, and when it doesn’t come, I frown. “Okay . . . and?”
“And nothing,” she says. “That’s all I know.”
I relax slightly, then irritation creeps in. “Then why are you acting like you’ve cracked some big secret?”
She smiles faintly. “Because Kade doesn’t call meetings for no reason.”
“That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with me,” I say. “Or us.” She doesn’t argue. I poke at my food. “Also,” I add, quieter but firmer, “you tipping his coffee away this morning? That wasn’t okay.”
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, meeting her eyes. “You don’t get to decide things like that for me. I didn’t ask you to punish him.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“No,” I reply. “You’re angry, and I get that, but don’t put that on me.
” She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
She’s not used to me calling her out. “It’s okay to admit he hurt you too.
He hurt us both. He was the one that saved us in the beginning, gave us a family, showed us love, and then he let us down.
But don’t use me as an excuse to stay mad with him. ”
Silence stretches between us. Then the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” Martha mutters, pushing back her chair.
I barely have time to breathe before I hear Pete’s voice in the hall.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.” He steps into the kitchen, glancing between us. “I just came from the farm. I wanted to tell you myself rather than the rumour mills getting there first.”
Something in his expression—too serious, too alert—sets me on edge. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly. “I just thought you should know . . . Kade’s sticking around.”
“What?” I whisper.
“He asked about renting a room at the farm,” Pete continues. “Said he needed something close to you.”
My throat tightens. “And of course you told him no, right?”
Pete hesitates. “The room’s free. The extra rent would help.”
Martha’s wide eyes flick to mine.
“And,” Pete adds carefully, “he said he’d help out on the farm. We always need extra hands.”
The room feels smaller. Hotter.
I swallow. “Right.”
Pete studies my face then softens. “I just wanted you to hear it from me, not through village gossip.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
He winces before adding, “But now he’s clearly sticking around, is it a good time to have our breakup?”
I give a slight nod. “I’ll sort it.”
“I’ll let you finish your dinner. Call me if you need anything.”
When the door closes behind him, the silence roars.
Martha speaks first. “Still think that Zoom call is nothing?”
I stare down at my plate, appetite completely gone.
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit. “He’s a biker, not a farmer. What’s he playing at?”
The following day, the town green has been transformed.
Bunting flaps lazily in the breeze, food stalls line the edges, and the air smells like cut grass, frying onions, and sugar. Kids run wild with painted faces, dogs strain on leads, and someone’s set up a makeshift stage where a local band is already tuning up.
It feels . . . alive.
I’m manning the drinks stand with two other women, pouring lemonades and teas while trying not to spill anything down my front.
“Sparkling or still?” I ask the elderly woman in front of me, reaching for another bottle.
Laughter cuts through the noise. It’s a real, deep bellied laughter that automatically brings a smile to my face. I glance up and spot him.
Kade.
He’s halfway across the green, sleeves rolled up, kutte discarded somewhere I can’t see, boots sinking slightly into the grass as he runs—actually runs—after a sheep that’s clearly decided it’s had enough of the pen.
Pete’s with him, red-faced and wheezing, both of them shouting useless encouragement at the animal while it darts just out of reach.
“Oi! You little bas—” Kade laughs, skidding slightly as the sheep changes direction. Pete lunges and misses.
I snort before I can stop myself.
They finally manage to corner it, Pete grabbing the gate while Kade scoops the sheep up with surprising ease, his muscles flexing as he lifts it and deposits it back into the pen. The crowd around them claps and cheers.
Kade throws his head back and laughs again.
And it hits me like a punch to the chest.
He looks . . . free.
Relaxed in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. No tension in his shoulders. No guarded expression. Just a man in the middle of a sunny afternoon, laughing like he belongs here.
Like he fits.
“Bloody hell,” one of the women beside me murmurs.
I drag my eyes away just in time to see the two women at the end of the stand leaning closer together, whispering furiously while very obviously not being subtle.
“Who is that?” one of them asks, eyes glued to Kade.
“No idea, but he’s gorgeous,” the other replies. “Those arms—”
“And the beard,” the first adds. “Definitely not local.”
“Well, he won’t be single long if he is,” the second says, laughing. “Not in a place this small.”
My stomach twists. They’re not wrong.
I pour another drink, my hands steady even as my chest tightens.
Kade wipes his brow with the back of his hand, grinning as Pete claps him on the shoulder. They exchange a few words I can’t hear, and then, like he feels it, Kade’s gaze lifts.
It finds me instantly.
The smile fades, just a fraction. Not gone but softened, like he’s suddenly remembered himself.
For a moment, everything else blurs.
The noise. The people. The green.
It’s just us.
Then a kid barrels into him, laughing, and the moment breaks. He looks down, helps the kid up, and ruffles his hair.
I exhale slowly, not realising I’ve been holding my breath.
“Next,” I call, louder than necessary.
Because watching him like that—happy, wanted, already being claimed by the town—stirs a warmth inside my heart that I’m not ready to feel.
The crowd thins for a moment, just enough for me to breathe.
I wipe my hands on a towel and reach for my phone, frowning when the screen lights up.
Five missed calls, all from Fern.
My stomach tightens. Fern doesn’t panic-call unless something’s wrong. I’m halfway through tapping her name when a shadow falls across the stand.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I jump, shoving the phone straight back into my pocket like it’s burned me.
Kade stands there, hands resting on the wooden counter, eyes searching my face in that way he has, like he’s already bracing for impact.
“Everything okay?” I ask, even though my voice comes out thinner than I mean it to.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Everything’s fine.”
“I’ve got five missed calls from Fern,” I tell him. “Do I need to be worried?”
Something flickers across his face—irritation, sharp and brief. His jaw tightens, and then it’s gone.
“No,” he says, then, quieter, “She shouldn’t be calling you.”
My pulse picks up. “Why?”
He straightens. “Because I haven’t had a chance to speak to you first. Come, take a break. I’ll explain.”
A cold weight settles in my chest.
“I don’t want to,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I . . . I don’t want to hear it, whatever it is. I’m scared you’re about to say something that changes everything.”
His expression softens instantly.
“Eden,” he says gently, reaching for my hand. “Everything will be okay.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the stand, at the line starting to form again.
“I can’t just leave.”
“I’ll bring you back,” he promises. “Five minutes. Please.”
My heart is racing, but I nod.
He takes my hand, something he’s not done in so long. It’s warm and solid, and he leads me away. As we walk, I catch sight of the two women from earlier watching us now, heads tilted together, eyes following his grip on me.
Something inside me straightens, and I stand a bit taller.
He steers me into the pub at the edge of the green, the noise dulling the moment the door closes behind us. It’s cooler inside, dimmer and calmer.
He orders two lemonades without asking.
We sit opposite each other, the small round table suddenly feeling too intimate, too loaded.
He wraps his hands around his glass but doesn’t drink.
“I stepped down,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“As President,” he adds. “I stepped down from the club.”
The words don’t land right away. They float between us, unreal.
“You can’t do that,” I say finally. “Kade, you’re a biker. The club is your life.”
“It was,” he corrects quietly.
My chest tightens. “They won’t let you just—”
“They voted already,” he says. “Diesel’s taking over.”
I shake my head, disbelief flooding me. “You built that club with your father. You fought for it. You bled for it.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you give it up?” My voice cracks. “Why would you walk away from the one place you’ve always belonged?”
He meets my eyes fully now. No armour. No title. Just Kade.
“Because I don’t belong there anymore,” he says softly.
I swallow hard.
“I belong wherever you are,” he finishes, “and wherever my child is.”
The room feels suddenly very still.
My breath catches, my heart slamming painfully against my ribs.
“Kade,” I whisper, and for the first time, I’m speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s done,” he says quietly. “And honestly? I feel lighter already.”
I nod, but dread curls in my stomach. He might feel lighter now, but it won’t stay that way.
“You’ve been busy,” I say. “Making plans.”
Something in my tone must sting, because his gaze drops to the table like I’ve burned him.
“I should have talked to you sooner,” he admits.
“But it wouldn’t have mattered what you said.
This was always going to happen.” He swallows.
“Feeling the baby move yesterday . . . it changed everything. If you’re staying here, Eden, then I’m staying too.
I want to be part of my child’s life. Fully. ”
My chest tightens.
“I’m not seeing Pete,” I blurt.
The words spill out before I can stop them, clumsy and ill-timed. The second his eyes snap back to mine, I regret it.
“I don’t mean . . .” I rush. “I’m not trying to say anything. I just thought you should know. We’re not a thing anymore.”
“Or at all?” he asks mildly, lifting a brow.
Heat floods my face.
“I know you, Queenie,” he adds softly. “He’s not your type.” He exhales, long and heavy. “Look, we’re about to be parents. Let’s stop dancing around things. No games. No half-truths. We need to be able to exist in the same space for our child.”
I nod, even though something inside me twists painfully at how reasonable he sounds.
“And maybe one day,” he continues, carefully, “you’ll meet someone else.” The words clearly hurt him to say. “And I’ll have to accept that.” He pauses. “But understand this—everything I have in me is going into being a good father. And that leaves no space for anyone else. Just you. And the baby.”
It should feel like comfort.
He stands, offering his hand. I take it, and he presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles.
“Thank you for listening,” he says. “Maybe we could grab lunch this week?”
It sounds like a meeting request, and I hate that it does.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “That’d be great.”
He leaves, and the door closes softly behind him.
I sit there with two untouched lemonades and the hollow ache of uncertainty.