Chapter 10
CINDY
I wake up to sunlight streaming through my curtains and the immediate, crushing memory of last night. Not the kiss that scrambled my brain cells. Not the scent-matching that rewired my DNA. Not even the way Holt looked at me like I was something worth protecting.
No, I wake up remembering the part where he walked in on me during an extremely private moment with my battery-operated boyfriend, Mr. Bunbury.
Yes, I named my vibrator Mr. Bunbury. After Oscar Wilde’s imaginary invalid. Because if you can’t have literary references for your sex toys, what’s the point of even living?
The memory floods back in technicolor horror. Me, in bed, thinking he was outside in his car, being all noble and protective. Him coming in, thinking I was being attacked by Van and required Alpha intervention.
Instead, he found me in a very different kind of emergency. The kind where I was arched off the bed, Mr. Bunbury doing the Lord’s work, me crying out his name.
Hell!
I pull my pillow over my face and scream into it until my throat hurts.
“This is how I die,” I inform the pillow. “Not from Van’s psycho stalking or my mother’s disapproval. But from pure, undiluted embarrassment. They’ll find my body, and the coroner will write ‘mortification’ as the cause of death.”
I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, pans clanking, and the smell of bacon drifts into my room like a peace offering from the universe.
My stomach growls, the traitor. Apparently, my digestive system doesn’t care about my emotional crisis.
But on the bright side, the power seems to be back on based on my flashing clock on the bedside table.
“Okay, Cindy,” I whisper to myself, sitting up and catching my reflection in the mirror.
My hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted.
“You’re going to get up, have a shower, and go downstairs and act like a normal human who definitely doesn’t own a vibrator.
He probably already forgot about it. Men have a selective memory about these things.
It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is spectacularly fine. ”
I stumble to the shower, turning the water as hot as it’ll go, hoping to either wash away the shame or boil myself.
“Listen up, self,” I tell my reflection in the steamy mirror.
“Today your mother arrives, and you need to convince her you have your life together. You cannot hide in your shower, crying about the fact that the hottest man you’ve ever met saw you masturbating.
You’re going to channel Harper. What would Harper do? ”
She would probably make a joke about orgasms being good for the skin and offer to lend him her vibrator collection for comparison. Harper has no shame. I need to borrow some of that energy.
“Besides,” I continue my pep talk, lathering shampoo with perhaps more violence than necessary, “he’s seen worse.
He was in a biker gang. They probably had…
I don’t know, orgies? Is that what bikers do?
Group activities? Oh God, don’t think about Holt in an orgy.
Don’t think about… damn it, now I’m thinking about it. ”
The water is going cold by the time I finally emerge, wrapped in my fluffiest towel and determination to pretend last night never happened.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter at my reflection, thinking about all the feelings trying to claw their way out of the box I’ve stuffed them in.
The scent-matching that my body recognized even if my brain is in denial.
The kiss that made me reconsider my entire understanding of human lips.
The way he makes me feel safe and terrified in equal measure.
“Today is about surviving Mother. Everything else goes in the mental vault labeled ‘Process Never.’?”
I dress in my Saturday shopping armor of black leggings with orange spiderweb designs, an oversized cream sweater that falls off one shoulder, and my lucky socks with tiny pumpkins that have googly eyes. We all have our coping mechanisms.
I blow-dry my hair into submission, apply just enough makeup to look alive but not like I’m trying, and stare at myself in the mirror.
“You are Cindy Young. You survived running from your own wedding. You survived Van finding you. You can survive looking at the man who saw you with Mr. Bunbury. You are a warrior. A goddess. A—oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to die.”
I open my bedroom door, and the smell of breakfast foods assaults me in the best way. Real bacon. Real eggs. Real toast. Not my usual Saturday breakfast of coffee and whatever is left in the candy drawer.
Each step down the stairs feels like walking to my execution. The embarrassment plank, if you will.
“Morning!” I chirp as I enter the kitchen, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere around constipated cheerfulness.
Holt turns from the stove, and sweet mother of pearl, he looks good. His hair is slightly mussed from sleep, he’s wearing a gray Henley that clings to his chest, and his feet are bare, which somehow makes this domestic scene even more intimate.
“Morning,” he replies, his voice that croaky rumble. “Figured you’d need fortification before facing your mother.”
He’s set my table with actual place settings. There’s orange juice in a pitcher I honestly forgot I owned, toast arranged in a basket like we’re fancy people, and enough food to feed the neighborhood.
“This is… wow. You didn’t have to do all this.”
“You need to eat. Properly. Can’t face a dragon on an empty stomach.”
He plates eggs, adding bacon and toast. When he sets it in front of me, steam rising, I might actually tear up a little.
“You okay?” he asks, settling across from me with his own plate. “You know, after last night?”
I laugh, and it sounds like a chipmunk being strangled. “Ha! Last night? What about last night? Nothing happened last night. New day, new opportunities.”
He studies me over his coffee mug, and there’s something in his eyes, not mockery, not disgust, but maybe understanding? “Cindy?—”
“Nope!” I cut him off, shoving eggs into my mouth. “We don’t talk about it. It never happened. I was sleepwalking. You were hallucinating. We both had very different, completely unrelated evenings that definitely didn’t intersect in any mortifying way.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Sleepwalking?”
“Vigorous sleepwalking. It’s a medical condition. Very serious. No cure.”
“Right.” He takes a sip of coffee, and I can tell he’s fighting not to smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, everyone has needs. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Anyway, hope you slept okay on the couch,” I say, changing the topic, my face burning hot enough to cook the eggs myself.
“Sure did,” he answers quickly.
We eat in silence for a moment, and the food is genuinely incredible. The eggs are fluffy, the bacon perfectly crispy, the toast somehow exactly the right golden brown that I can never achieve without setting off the smoke alarm.
“I love watching you enjoy food,” he says suddenly. “Your whole face changes. You look… happy.”
“Food is one of life’s few uncomplicated pleasures,” I tell him, then immediately think about Mr. Bunbury and want to crawl under the table.
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine, and I don’t pull away even though my skin feels electric.
“We should practice being comfortable with casual touches,” he says, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist that should not be as affecting as they are. “Your mother will notice if we’re stiff around each other.”
“Right. Casual. We’re super casual. The most casual couple that ever casualed.”
“Ready for today?” he asks, his hand still on mine, grounding me. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. I’m good at improvising. If you get stuck or overwhelmed, just squeeze my hand. I’ll take over.”
“Like a tactical girlfriend extraction?”
“Exactly like that.”
I turn my hand over, lacing our fingers together, practicing. His hand dwarfs mine, warm and calloused and surprisingly gentle.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “I know this is a huge ask. Lying to my mother, pretending we’re together, giving up your Saturday. I just need her to see I’m settled, happy, so she’ll back off. Maybe if she leaves me alone, Van will too. I love this town. I don’t want to run again.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” His grip tightens slightly. “Not from him, not from her, not from this town. I won’t let that happen.”
The certainty in his voice makes me believe him, which is dangerous for my heart but comforting for my anxiety.
We finish eating, and I start clearing plates, needing something to do with my hands that isn’t touching his.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, rinsing dishes because apparently we’re having a serious conversation now.
“Go for it.”
“How bad were you guys? As bikers? Like, should I be checking for bodies in my basement?”
His laugh is dark chocolate mixed with whiskey. “No bodies. Well, no bodies you need to worry about.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when I turn, he’s leaning against my counter, looking like every bad-boy fantasy I’ve ever had.
“I ran the Savage Reapers,” he says finally. “Not just a member. I was the president. The guy making the hard calls, giving the orders others followed.”
“You ran an entire motorcycle gang?”
“MC. Motorcycle Club. But yeah, basically a gang.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more. “We did things I’m not proud of. Protection rackets, enforcement, moving products that shouldn’t be moved. Violence that wasn’t always justified, just profitable.”
“So why leave if it was profitable?”
His expression darkens, and for a moment, I see the dangerous man he used to be. “We lost someone. Young kid, Danny, barely twenty-two. Prospect who wanted in so bad he’d do anything to prove himself. Took a job he wasn’t ready for, walked into an ambush meant for me.”
“Oh God.”