1. The Dinner
CHAPTER ONE
THE DINNER
Layla
Present, Seven Years Later
“That’s it, Olivia. Spine straight. Good. Lift your arms higher,” I say slowly, observing my student’s posture. Her wiry arm begins to tremble, and I clap once. Everyone drops their arms. “Very good. I know it hurts after a while, but I promise, it gets better,” I say gently.
“Miss Rivers?” Olivia asks, brows furrowed. “Is it snack time yet? I’m hungry.”
I press my lips together as I squat down to meet my twelve-year-old student face-to-face.
“How do you feel about chocolate?” I smirk as I pull a chocolate bar out of the pocket of my zipped-up hoodie.
All the kids squeal, and I smile as we walk over to the bench. They’re restless now that they know they’re getting a treat, and I chuckle as I dole out a generous amount for each of them, followed by string cheese. Growing bodies need all the nourishment they can get.
“My mom says I’m not supposed to eat chocolate anymore,” Jenicka says, brown eyes downcast.
I sigh and crouch down in front of her. “You are a strong athlete. You practice some of the hardest dances in the world. Your body needs to replace all of the lost energy, Jen. Did you know that Olympic athletes need to eat extra food when they compete?”
This gets everyone’s attention. “A lot of extra food, in fact,” I tell them. “Chocolate has carbohydrates, which our body needs to perform well.”
“My mom says carbs are bad,” Olivia says timidly.
“They can be for some people, such as if you have uncontrolled blood sugar issues or are allergic to wheat. But for the majority of us, carbohydrates feed our brains and muscles.”
I could continue. I could tell them how female athletes are looked at differently—specifically dancers and especially ballet dancers. Where male athletes are lauded for eating a lot to perform, females are told to stay thin, to restrict, to make themselves smaller.
And I’m so sick of little girls getting told this message.
“Some people may say that because that’s what they were taught,” I tell Olivia seriously. “Do you remember what I told you all last week?”
“Don’t make ourselves smaller for other people,” Jenicka responds, happily chewing on her chocolate.
“That’s right. A lot of silly people will insist that you have to be less, but I’m telling you now that you can be more. You can be big and loud. You can take up space. In fact, it’s your right to do so. Do you understand?”
Twelve identical nods tell me that I’m at least— hopefully —getting through to them. There’s no way in hell I’d let these babies think the things I did about myself at their age. I went through hell and back combating those thoughts, and I’m finally in a good place with food. I won’t tolerate any negative talk in my class. I just have to hope they’re taking some of what I teach them back home. If I could hand them a shield from the world, I would. But since I can’t protect them, my words will have to suffice.
Olivia’s and Jenicka’s moms could shove that chocolate right up their behinds, for all I cared.
As the kids finish their snacks, I walk over to my purse and pull my phone out. Zoe and Remy have been blowing up our group chat, and I quickly tell them that I’ll respond once this intensive is over in a couple of hours. I glance up to check on my students, but they’re all still happily eating and talking in excited whispers.
I love this age group—twelve to thirteen. They’re still young enough to be optimistic and sweet but old enough that I can get real with them sometimes. I’m sure they won’t think I’m cool in a couple of years, but they adore me for now. And I’ll hold on to that as long as I can.
I look down at my phone, seeing as I have a minute to let them finish eating. A text from my dad comes through just as I’m scrolling through my favorite dark romance Facebook group, so I open it really quick.
Dad
Still on for dinner tonight? I’m making steak.
Sure. Sounds great! Be there around 6. Just need to shower after intensive.
Dad
Okay, sweetheart. I invited Orion too. It’ll be nice to have you both under one roof again.
My breath catches like it always does whenever anyone mentions him.
That’s fine.
I lock my phone and put it away, taking a couple of calming breaths. I haven’t seen Orion since Zoe and Liam’s wedding—my best friend and Orion’s oldest brother—who got married last year. It just so happened to be the same wedding where we kissed for about ten seconds at the rehearsal dinner.
That’s what I get for drinking too much tequila.
Somehow, despite vowing to stay away from him, we’d managed to circle each other like toxic sharks for seven years, both out for blood. I still hadn’t forgiven him for the audition he ruined, which made for volatile reunions whenever we were together. If we didn’t end up arguing, it was something else—such as him punching my date or showing up at my friends’ parties unannounced. It wasn’t healthy, and I hated what our relationship had become. If we weren’t bickering or glaring at each other, we were usually both quiet and brooding around the other.
Except when we kissed.
But that was just the tequila. It meant nothing.
After returning to my students, I guide them through turning preparations before demonstrating pirouettes. It’s not every day that a professional dancer can teach them. Though I hardly consider myself professional despite dancing for the Los Angeles Ballet last season and then recently being cast by the Pacific Ballet Company as Odette in Swan Lake a few months ago. It still seems surreal that I get to do this as my job.
I’m a work in progress when it comes to being proud of myself and my accomplishments.
All the dancers for the Pacific Ballet Company are on hiatus until the next season starts in a couple of weeks, so I’m currently spending my days volunteering to teach ballet intensives for kids.
“Miss Rivers?” Bradleigh, a girl in my class, says quietly, crossing her legs and arms.
“What’s up?”
She shuffles her feet. “Is it okay if I come to class in a t-shirt over my leotard next week?”
I furrow my brows. “Of course.” I don’t continue, instead waiting for an explanation if she chooses to share one.
Bradleigh started the class two years ago, and she went by a different name back then.
She uncrosses her arms a bit. “Thanks. It’s just until my mom can get me my medicine.”
I smile. “Whatever makes you comfortable. Okay?”
She nods. “Okay. Thanks,” she answers, seeming brighter than before.
She joins the others, and I feel silly for not considering her comfort. Of course she might want to cover herself up right now, especially since puberty is hitting them all around now.
Secretly, Bradleigh is my favorite student—resilient, talented, and kind. She’s alluded to having a hard time at school sometimes because of how she identifies, yet even at twelve, she remains positive and willing to learn.
She’s also the only student who signed up for all my intensives through the summer.
Checking the clock, I see that we’re nearly at the end of class, so I clap my hands three times to get their attention.
“That’s the end of class. Please practice your pirouettes and balancés. You’re doing great, so be sure to remember that, too.”
“Thanks, Miss Rivers,” they all say at the same time.
“What’s our mantra?” I ask, holding a hand behind my ear.
“My body is unique and beautiful just the way it is,” they shout.
Grinning, I clap. “Wonderful. Have a good weekend, everyone.”
Everyone turns to me for révérence. Then they file out of the studio, and I follow them, making a beeline for Olivia’s and Jenicka’s moms, who happen to be friends.
“May I have a word with you both?” I ask.
They smile. Jenicka’s mom says, “Sure. They looked great today.”
Oh good, a positive. That helps.
“They did. They’ve worked so hard. I’m so proud of them,” I say genuinely.
“How can we help?” Olivia’s mom asks.
I actively have to keep myself from wringing my hands together because confrontation like this makes me uncomfortable. However, for the sake of my students, I have to do it.
Both moms are young—they can’t be much older than me. I have to hope that it was just an honest mistake.
“First, I love having both girls in this group. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and they’re so talented. I thought I’d ask about something they both said when I served them a piece of chocolate earlier.” They look between each other before turning back to face me, and I school my face into gentle concern. “Olivia said that she’s not allowed to eat chocolate, and Jenicka mentioned that carbs are bad.”
Jenicka’s mom winces. “I didn’t think she’d heard that. I’m on a diet and was talking to a friend about it.”
I smile. “I understand. With little kids especially, we have to be mindful of how we talk about food. They hear everything,” I add, rolling my eyes. Both moms laugh, which is a good sign.
“And we’re just trying to limit sugar,” Olivia’s mom says. “I didn’t mean she could never have it.” She seems mortified.
I nod. “I know you’re doing your best,” I assure them. After all, if they think I’m attacking them, they might not be receptive to learning and doing better. I’ve taken many nutrition classes over the years, so I feel well-versed on the topic. “Would it be okay to send you both resources for how to talk about food in front of children?” They both nod enthusiastically. “Great. I’ll send it over tonight.”
“Thanks, Layla, that would be helpful,” Olivia’s mom says.
“Yeah, thank you. See you next time,” Jenicka’s mom adds.
“See you both next class,” I say, watching as my students filter out of the dance studio, checking the clock. I have an hour to get home, feed Sparrow, and walk to Dad’s house. It’s convenient living two blocks away from him in Los Feliz.
After tidying the studio, I slip into my flats, lock up, and head down to the parking garage in the studio’s basement. Looking around, I hold my pepper spray and walk to my BMW X3. It’s my pride and joy—something I bought used, in cash, with my own money. I don’t make a great salary, but last year, I was lucky to get a mortage on a fixer-upper listed well under the market rate. I’m financially comfortable, so I count it as a win.
It’s a cold day for March, and despite seldom raining in LA, of course it decides to pour the entire drive home. The traffic is horrendous, and by the time I get to my two-bedroom bungalow, I have about fifteen minutes to get ready.
Hopping out of my car, I jog to the door and unlock it. My cozy house greets me, and I relax instantly. My eyes skim over the houseplants and fairy lights, as well as the small fireplace and reading nook nestled along the back window.
Because I live alone, I turned my guest bedroom into a library with built-in shelves. I’ve been slowly organizing the titles by author name, but it’s a daunting task I’ve been putting off since I moved in last year. As a self-professed bookworm, I have over a thousand books, and I spend almost all of my free time at home, getting lost in a new world.
The bungalow is small—just under 800 square feet—but I converted a small studio in the backyard into a dance studio for practicing.
Despite being perfect for me, I’ve made minor changes, such as the light pink wall color in the library and the flowers I planted all around the perimeter of the sage-green exterior.
It’s my oasis—my happy place.
And seeing as how I loathe dating, I’ll probably die here all alone as an old cat lady.
A low-pitched yowl sounds through the 1930s cottage, and I smile as I squat down to pet my ragdoll cat, Sparrow. I named him that when I was a teenager and obsessed with Jack Sparrow. It didn’t help that he’d had an eye infection for a few weeks as a kitten and looked like a pirate with one eye swollen closed.
He’s an old man now, but he’s the best part of my day.
“Hi, Row Row,” I croon, setting my purse down and walking into my small kitchen to feed him. “I’m sorry, but I have to go to Dad’s house for dinner. I’ll be back later, okay?”
An urgent meow is the only response I get. I bang around the small wooden cabinet that houses his food, and as I set the wet food down for him, he purrs appreciatively. I pet his thick fur, smiling down at him for a second. He’s so fluffy—he practically gets swallowed up by his fur until I get him groomed in the summer months.
Standing, I grab a glass from one of the floating shelves and fill it with water. This kitchen is what sold me on the house. Everything had been restored to its former glory. Whoever owned the house before me took great care in keeping the house’s character, which included the exposed brick behind the black vintage stove. I loved this house, and now that I’d stuffed a plant in every free crevice and corner, it felt like I was walking into nature whenever I came home.
After finishing my glass of water, I set it down and walk to my bathroom, undressing quickly. The leotard and skirt end up in a pile on the tiled floor as I start the shower—mounted above the restored claw-foot tub—and as it heats up, I turn to face myself in the mirror.
“You are beautiful. You are perfect just the way you are. Food is nourishment, not the enemy.”
I inhale and let my eyes drag down the reflection of my naked body, telling myself out loud all the things I appreciate about my body today—such as how strong I feel and how my hair just so happened to dry nicely, with the waves cascading down my shoulders and arms.
When I’m finished, I take the world’s quickest shower without getting my hair wet before pulling on a baggy cream-colored sweater and a pair of wide-leg jeans. I swipe some moisturizer on my face and take my contacts out, donning my round, wire-framed glasses.
Since it’s raining, I pull my hair up into a clip and slip into a pair of platform UGG slides. When I’m finished, I clean Sparrow’s face off. If I don’t, his smelly food will get everywhere, thanks to his fur. He meows and rubs against my legs as I wash my hands.
“Be a good boy, okay?” I tell him, grabbing my purse and opening the door.
The rain has stopped, but it’s still cold for LA, so I grab my long camel coat and pull it on as I step outside. Closing the door, I begin the trek to my dad’s house, only remembering that Orion will be there as his parked bike comes into view in the driveway.
“Crap,” I mutter, looking down at my casual, baggy outfit. Shaking my head, I stand taller. “You’re not here to impress him,” I tell myself.
Taking a deep breath and faking a confident, neutral expression, I walk up to the front door and open it. My father’s booming voice resounds through the house. I take my coat off and drop my purse onto the chair by the door, quietly walking toward the kitchen.
My dad has his back to me, and the smell of fried meat fills the air. He normally uses the grill out back, but since it’s raining, he’s using the stove. He’s in his usual printed button-up—this one with bright purple hibiscus flowers—and cargo shorts. I let my eyes wander to the man standing against the counter beside him, and my mouth goes dry.
Honestly, how is it possible that Orion looks better every single time I see him? It’s unfair.
And frankly, it’s inconvenient.
It’s much easier to hate someone when they don’t look like every dark romance book boyfriend I’ve ever been obsessed with over the years.
Short, dark brown hair that’s tousled in a way that makes it seem like he makes zero effort yet completely complements his sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips. His thick eyebrows are defined and slightly arched, giving him a villainous look and framing his face to give him a commanding presence. He’s wearing a dark gray thermal pushed up to his elbows, black pants, and motorcycle boots. Whorls of black ink snake down to his left hand, and I don’t know how it’s possible, but he somehow looks even more jacked than the last time I saw him.
His muscles pull on the fabric of his thermal shirt, and I give myself a second to admire his narrow waist and muscular thighs. The way the muscles fill out the pants is— to use a term from my romance books —something that makes my heart skip a beat.
Just as I move my eyes back up to Orion’s face, his lips quirk up slightly, and he slowly turns to face me with darkened pupils.
Kill me now …
He totally caught me checking him out.
I clear my throat and walk into the room with my arms crossed.
“Hello,” I say to him, pressing my lips together in my best impression of a scowl.
“Hello.”
My dad turns around and grins. “La-La,” he says, wiping his hands before opening his arms for a hug.
I smile and walk over to him, letting my cheek rest against his shoulder for a second too long.
Nothing is like a hug from your dad.
He’s all I had when I was really young, considering my mom left us when I was two. Well, until he met Felicity, Orion’s mom. Since she passed, my dad’s been… okay. Alone and bored, but okay. I’m just glad I live nearby so I can see him a few times a week.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, pulling away.
“I hope you’re hungry.” He gestures to the three massive steaks popping and sizzling next to him.
“Starving,” I practically moan. It’s true—I’d eaten lunch, but that was hours ago. I glance back at Orion, and his eyes snap up from my legs.
“How are you?” he asks, crossing his arms.
I do the same and lean against the opposite counter, arching a brow. “Fine. You?” I say politely. I somehow manage to keep my voice even despite the fact that my heart is galloping a mile a minute.
Did he get taller? Has he always been this tall? Is that even possible?
I’m tall for a girl—nearly five foot nine—but he practically towers over me at six foot four. And since he seems to have consumed only Goliath-approved protein powder for the past three months, he also seems bigger than that now.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he answers, running a hand behind his neck.
His shirt pulls up slightly, exposing a sliver of his abdomen. My eyes practically twitch as I keep them on the counter above his left shoulder. I should not be thinking these things about him.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look ? —
“Ri, can you grab the beers and bring them to the table?” my dad asks as he plates the steaks.
Orion smirks at me before he pushes off the counter and walks to the fridge. Once he’s gone, I inhale three times rapidly, like I’ve somehow forgotten how to breathe.
“La-La, can you grab the potatoes and green beans?”
“Sure.”
I grab the bowl of creamy mashed potatoes and the platter of green beans sautéed with garlic and olive oil. My mouth fills with saliva, and I take my usual place at our decades-old dining table. My dad sits at the head, and I sit to his right while Orion sits to his left.
Across from me.
Just as I sit down, he kicks my shoe.
I glare up at him, and he sits up straighter with that same smug smirk as before.
The thing with Orion is that he knows exactly which of my buttons to push to get me to lose my cool. I can’t decide if he’s just that much of an asshole or if he’s trying to get my attention for another reason. He only has one mode around me, and that’s unhinged.
Jealous, cocky, brutish …
I’ve seen him with others, and I know he’s only like this around me. It must be that we grew up together. Despite not talking, he defaults to playful brother behavior every time we’re together.
Zoe loves him, and I’ve seen the way his brothers talk about him. How my dad talks about him. But for whatever reason, he acts out around me.
It drives me insane.
Mostly because he’s so hot and cold. He punched my date once for getting too handsy, and I didn’t see him again for months. When we kissed at Zoe and Liam’s rehearsal dinner, it was ten seconds of insane passion, followed by him pushing me away and leaving the venue early. I think most of that was because I was inebriated, but still. Nothing after both instances—nada. Not a call or text. It’s not that I wanted him to reach out to me after those events. Seven years ago, I made it very clear that I didn’t want him to be a part of my life anymore, so I don’t know why I was surprised when he was doing what I asked him to do—to leave me alone.
It’s just that sometimes he looks at me like he either hates me or wants to push me against the wall and ruin me forever.
Shivers work down my spine at the thought.
I don’t have long to dwell on the complexities of my Orion Ravage, however, because a second later, my dad plops a steak on my plate.
We all engage in casual conversation as we help ourselves to the sides. I grab a beer and ask my dad about his new prediabetes regimen. He was diagnosed last year, which meant that he’s now working out at the local gym four times a week, as well as watching what he eats. It’s also why I took a nutrition class to help him plan his meals.
As I chew the delicious steak, my dad asks Orion about his soon-to-be newly opened club. Orion stays mum about it, only saying it’s different from anything else he’s ever done. That piques my curiosity, and I make a mental note to ask Zoe about it the next time we have a girls’ night.
“And how’s ballet intensive?” my dad asks.
I can feel Orion’s eyes on me as I finish chewing. “It’s great. The kids are so grown this year, and they’ve improved a lot since last year.”
“They’re lucky to have you as their teacher,” my dad replies, smiling at me.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I avoid glancing at Orion.
“And when do you return to PBC?” he continues, referring to Pacific Ballet Company.
“In two weeks.”
“Well, put me down for a ticket for every Saturday show.”
I beam at him. “You know you don’t have to come every weekend, right?”
He scoffs. “Please. I’m retired now. What else do I have to do with my time?”
“And what will happen when I go somewhere else? Are you going to follow me?”
At this, I see Orion stiffen in my peripheral. I let my eyes rove over to his face for the first time since we sat down, and his eyes bore into mine with such intensity that I nearly choke on my mouthful of mashed potatoes.
He holds eye contact while he raises his water glass, sipping slowly so that I have no choice but to watch as it bobs down his throat. He has a bit of scruff shadowing his jaw and neck—much shorter than he used to wear it—and it takes me a second to realize he’s drinking water. Not alcohol.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw him with a drink. Even at Zoe and Liam’s wedding a few months ago, he had a bottle of sparkling water.
“We’ll see. Maybe Ri and I will fly out to whatever exotic place you’ll be next. Austria. France. Sweden.”
I huff a laugh as I sip my beer, finally breaking eye contact with the person I once considered a brother by circumstance.
“I think Orion has enough on his plate.”
I allow another look at him, and he’s watching me with narrowed eyes. He looks like he wants to say something—like he has a secret he’s dying to spill—but he shrugs and takes another sip of water.
“Whatever you want to do, Scotty,” he drawls, looking at me before looking at my dad.
They start talking about Orion’s newest bike—a sleek black something or other out front. My dad rode Harleys before I was born, so they’ve bonded over bikes. Once we all finish eating, and before I can protest, my dad stands up and begins clearing the table.
As he leaves the room, I feel Orion’s eyes on me again.
“Ice cream?” he asks, cocking his head. “I brought your favorite.”
He knows strawberry is my favorite and one of the only things that can win me over. Many of our childhood fights were solved with a sneaky cone of the creamy pink ice cream.
“Okay. Um, I’ll get it,” I say quickly. Anything so that I don’t have to be alone with him.
Inside the kitchen, I pull down two bowls. “Are you having ice cream, Dad?” I ask, though I already know what he’s going to say.
“No thanks, La-La. Sugars are still on the downslide, so I’d like to keep it that way,” he adds, giving me a rueful but jaunty smile.
“You should be proud of yourself,” I tell him, placing a few generous scoops in each bowl for Orion and me. “I know how much you love sugar, so this can’t be easy.”
He walks over to me and kisses the top of my head. “I do, but I love the idea of watching my grandchildren grow up even more.”
I snort. “That’s presumptuous. I don’t even know if I want kids, Dad.”
“Orion does, so at least I’ll get some with him,” he adds casually.
I go still at his words. They’ve had conversations about kids? I never would’ve guessed that Orion wanted any. For so long, he could barely hold down a job. He was the epitome of a party animal, never even coming close to settling down. In fact, I recently ran into him with a leggy blonde while I was out with Zoe.
“Orion wants kids?” My dad nods and begins to whistle, quickly rinsing our plates off and loading them into the dishwasher. “Leave those. I’ll do them when I’m done with my ice cream.”
“Nah, I have nothing else to do. It makes me happy to feed and care for you again.”
I smile warmly and pick the two bowls up. “Okay. I still wish you’d accept Orion’s offer to pay for a house cleaner.”
Orion and I hardly ever talk unless we have to, but trying to get some help around the house for my dad is one thing we agree on.
He guffaws. “And what would I do while they’re here? Sit on my goddamn ass and watch them vacuum? I don’t think so. I promise, I’m fine.”
As we walk back into the dining room, I see Orion texting someone on his phone. He quickly locks and pockets it, and I set his bowl down a little too hard.
I swear I hear him chuckle under his breath.
He and my dad talk some more about motorcycles, and then somehow, they get on the subject of a family vacation we’d taken to Yellowstone when Felicity was still alive. It was a tradition. Every year, the four of us would pick a place somewhere in the continental US and go for a week around Easter. He argued that most places were warm enough to visit then, but not summertime hot. We’d trek to places like the Grand Canyon, Boston, New Orleans, Sedona, or Montana.
Those trips were some of my favorite memories growing up.
I remember feeling like a real family when Orion and Felicity joined my dad and me. And having four bonus siblings by marriage who no longer lived at home? Even better. Being young without a mother figure was hard on me, and I envied all my friends who had a traditional two-parent household. Not that gender mattered—one of my best friends growing up had two moms. I felt like I was missing out on many things growing up. My dad worked long hours at the bar with his best friend, Gary, and I craved a parent picking me up from school instead of going to after-school care. I craved someone to sing me lullabies and braid my hair. My dad tried both, and though it was a valiant effort, he never quite succeeded.
And then he met Felicity, and a few short months later, I was suddenly a part of this wonderful nuclear family.
I loved Felicity like a mother—it was hard not to. She was beautiful, devoted, and kind. I don’t exactly know what happened between her and Charles Ravage, Orion’s father. I just know it was a bad situation. After having five sons, she was grateful to raise me.
I finally had someone to sing me lullabies and braid my hair.
That is, until we all lost her when I was eighteen.
But I had her for ten lovely years.
I swallow as I look over at my dad, who is talking animatedly about how I’d gotten stung by a bee when it flew into the car when I was sixteen.
Turns out, I’m allergic to bees.
“Oh, you should’ve seen Orion’s face. I swear, he was white as a sheet the entire ambulance ride to the hospital. I thought he was going to pass out.”
I look over at Orion, and he’s running a finger over the rim of his glass.
“I don’t remember that,” I say slowly.
“Sweetheart, he was worried sick—quite literally, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, well, it’s not every day that you see your step—” He swallows. “You were struggling to breathe.”
Mixed feelings surge through me. He was always attentive growing up, but I guess I only remember the drinking and the way we push each other’s buttons now.
He looks away pointedly, and my pulse begins to spin when the hand resting on the table curls once.
“Aw, it was sweet,” my dad says, oblivious.
He has no idea what happened between us. I’ve never told him—never told anyone, in fact. Zoe and Remy have an idea of what occurred, but no one knows what actually happened at that audition.
It’s for the best.
After my dad and I chat a bit more, I head home early. It’s been a long day, and my whole body aches from the repetitive movements I had to do for the students today. I’ve also been slacking on keeping myself in shape, so starting tomorrow, I’ll have to wake up early to get my practice in. If I don’t, I won’t be able to play Princess Odette in Swan Lake —a coveted role I worked my ass off for.
As I say goodbye to Dad and grab my purse and coat, I see Orion whisper something to him and follow me to the foyer.
“Um, what are you doing?” I ask as he reaches around and opens the door for me as I slip my second arm into my coat.
“Walking you home,” he says matter-of-factly.
I roll my eyes and look up at him. “Thanks, but I’m perfectly fine walking alone.” He smells like… home . This close, I can see the yellow specks in his crystal-blue eyes.
His jaw hardens, and he nods once. “Fine.”
I push the door open and begin walking, huffing out a frustrated sigh as I go. It’s not until I’m a few houses down that I hear a rumbling sound behind me. Twisting around, I see Orion slowly trailing me on his motorcycle.
“I said I was fine,” I yell, glaring at him.
He flips the visor up, and I get a peek at his playful smirk. “You said I couldn’t walk you home. You never said I couldn’t follow you some other way.” He snaps the visor back in place and continues trailing me.
And that freaking helmet… combined with that fitted leather jacket and his thick thighs hugging the seat of his bike…
I’ve been watching too many hot biker videos and imagining Orion with his tattoos and that helmet, gripping his handles, flexing those muscles, watching those veins in his arms pop.
I curl my fists inside my pockets as I walk up my driveway, not even looking back at Orion as I let myself inside.
The roar of his bike reverberates through the neighborhood, and I smile as I lock my door and reach down to pet Sparrow.
“What a jerk,” I whisper, thinking of my stepbrother.