Chapter 11
CINDY
T he opening beats of a boppy song blast through my kitchen speakers while I pipe yellow filling into the twentieth deviled egg.
General Flufferton sits on the chair I dragged in specifically so he could supervise, his massive black Maine Coon body taking up the entire seat.
His green eyes track my every movement like I’m performing surgery instead of making appetizers.
“I know, I know,” I tell him, adjusting the piping bag. “They’re not perfect. But Mother always loved these at Easter, so maybe—” I squeeze too hard, and filling spurts across the counter. “Shit.”
General Flufferton chirps at me, that weird little trill Maine Coons do that sounds nothing like a normal cat.
“You’re right. I’m overthinking.” I wipe up the mess with a paper towel.
“But you have no idea how excited I am to have you as mine now. In a bittersweet way, Mrs. Meadow’s moving was the best thing that happened to me this month.
Well, there are those three hot bikers… Nope, I can’t think of them.
” I reach over and scratch behind his ears.
“Seventy-three years old and moving in with her son’s family.
Can you believe her daughter-in-law is allergic to cats? Their loss, my gain.”
He makes this low groaning sound, like an old man protesting having to get up from his recliner.
“Yeah, well, tough. You’re too fluffy for your own good. Wait until I tell Harper about you officially living here. She’s gonna go ballistic and camp out on my couch just to cuddle you twenty-four seven.”
Another groan, deeper this time.
“Drama queen.” I arrange the eggs on an old crystal platter.
My hands shake slightly as I cover the platter with plastic wrap. The kitchen is spotless. I’ve cleaned it three times today. Fridge stocked with wine, that expensive cheese, fresh fruit arranged in a bowl like some Pinterest board threw up in here.
“Mother is going to accept me as I am,” I tell General Flufferton, but it comes out more like a question.
“I’m not going to care what she says about my place being small or my job being beneath me or—” I stop, take a breath.
“And you’re gonna be on your best behavior, okay?
No jumping on her lap. She hates cats. Says they’re for spinsters and witches. ”
He slow-blinks at me, completely unbothered.
“Well, maybe I am a witch. A brewery witch. Making potions out of hops and barley instead of eye of newt.”
I check my phone. 6:47 p.m. The sun is already setting, October darkness creeping in early. No messages. No missed calls. My stomach churns with each passing minute. Of course she’s making me wonder if she’s even coming.
“Fuck.” I start pacing, General Flufferton’s eyes following me back and forth. “She’s gonna stand me up, isn’t she? She’ll message me at dawn when I’m in my ratty pajamas with a face mask on and my hair looking like I stuck my finger in a socket.”
Through the window, headlights sweep across my living room wall. A familiar black truck pulls up to the curb. It’s Holt’s monster of a vehicle.
“Thank God,” I breathe, already heading for the door. “I could do with him talking me down from panicking.”
But it’s not Holt who climbs out of the driver’s seat.
It’s Luke.
Something in my gut twists hard, like when you miss a step going downstairs. Wrong Alpha. Wrong biker. Wrong everything. My phone buzzes and I actually flinch, nearly dropping it.
Mom: I’ve made us a reservation at Savor. See you at 8 p.m.
There’s a link to the restaurant website.
I stare at the screen. Read it again. Then once more because surely I’m hallucinating.
“What the fuck?” The words come out strangled. My mind spins like a blender on high speed. She’s not coming here? After I cleaned everything, after I bought all this food, after I mentally prepared myself for her to judge every square inch of my space, she books Savor? Arrow’s restaurant?
Does she know it’s his? Is this some cosmic joke? Or did she pick the fanciest place in town to make this about her, about showing me how a proper dinner should be?
General Flufferton is suddenly at my feet, meowing urgently, pressing against my legs. He always knows when I’m about to spiral. His fur is soft against my ankles, grounding me.
The doorbell rings.
“Right. Luke.” I force my legs to move, yanking open the door maybe a bit too aggressively.
He’s standing there looking absolutely perfect, because of course he is. Like some fallen angel who decided heaven was too boring. Except?—
“Luke! You cut your hair?”
His auburn hair that used to fall past his shoulders in waves is gone. Cut short like Holt’s, styled but still somehow disheveled. The copper highlights catch the porch light, making them look like actual flames.
“Hey,” he says.
General Flufferton makes a break for freedom, but Luke is already moving, scooping up all twenty pounds of Maine Coon like he weighs nothing. He steps inside, cat secured, and I manage to get the door closed while trying not to stare.
Black jeans that fit him like they were tailored by someone who really, really likes him.
Motorcycle boots. A white button-down shirt with tiny black dots, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing those thick leather bands around his wrists that he always wears.
Below them, the tattoos covering his forearms. Real biker ink.
A skull wrapped in chains on his left arm, what looks like a blade or dagger on the right, dark and sharp and dangerous.
And his scent, God, his scent. Leather from his jacket mingles with candied apples and spiced cider, plus that crisp, cold air smell that clings to bikers. My head spins, and I want to lean in closer and just breathe.
“You like the hair?” He’s watching me stare, one eyebrow raised, that knowing smirk playing at his lips.
I fan myself with my hand, not even trying to play it cool. “Somehow you’re even sexier than before.”
“Oh, you thought I was sexy?” That smile spreads across his face, the one that probably gets him out of speeding tickets and into trouble in equal measure.
Heat floods my cheeks, spreads down my neck, pools low in my belly. “I—that’s not—shut up.”
He sets General Flufferton down, who immediately starts winding around Luke’s legs like a traitor. “Didn’t know you had a cat.”
“He’s new. Well, not new new. He belonged to my neighbor, Mrs. Meadow, but she’s seventy-three and moving in with her son’s family.
The daughter-in-law is allergic, so she asked if I wanted him and obviously I said yes, because look at him.
” I’m rambling, my mouth running to avoid thinking about how Luke smells like temptation. “Where’s Holt?”
Luke walks farther in, casual as anything, and leans against the back of my couch. “Well, funny story.”
“Oh my God, what happened to him? Is he okay?” The words tumble out in a rush. My mind immediately goes to the worst places—a bar fight, a bike accident, something violent and dangerous that comes with their territory.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. Just knocked his head, mild concussion. They’re keeping him overnight at the hospital for observation.”
“Hospital? Holt’s in the hospital?” My voice rises. “But we practiced together. We had the whole routine down, the story about how we met, what he does for work?—”
“That’s why I’m here. We’ll practice now.” He pulls out his phone, checks the time. “It’ll be fresh in our minds.”
“Okay, but wait—” I narrow my eyes at him. “What actually happened to Holt?”
Something flickers across his face. Guilt? Amusement? “You really want to know?”
“Is it like… a biker gang thing?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Images flash through my mind of rival gangs, territory disputes, the kind of violence you see in movies.
Luke barks out a laugh. “No, nothing like that. Though that would be less embarrassing.”
“Go on,” I ask.
“See, Holt was up on this ladder, fixing the marquee at the restaurant. Real focused, you know how he gets, making sure everything was perfect for tonight.” He shifts against the couch. “And earlier he might have mentioned to Arrow about your little vibrator incident.”
The floor drops out from under me. “Wait, fuck, wait—what?” My voice goes supersonic. “Please don’t tell me he told everyone about?—”
“He only told Arrow.” Luke holds up a hand. “But Arrow told me, and, well, it’s a hot story.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. “Anyway, I had this squishy dildo at work from some bachelorette party gag gift someone left behind?—”
“Wh— Actually, never mind.”
“—and I thought it would be hilarious to chuck it at him while he was on the ladder.”
“You didn’t.”
“Hit him right in the face.” He demonstrates the trajectory with his hands. “Perfect aim, really. Should’ve seen his expression—complete shock. Then he wobbled, arms windmilling, and down he went.”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with both hands. “I’m going to die. I’m literally going to die of embarrassment right here in my kitchen, and General Flufferton is going to eat my face and?—”
“He’s fine, though,” Luke continues. “Just a bump on the head, couple bruises, and a sore eye. Arrow stayed to handle the restaurant while I took him to the hospital.”
I blink at him, lowering my hands. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“You’re very red,” he observes, that smirk playing at his lips again.
I grab a throw pillow from the couch and launch it at his head. It hits him square in the face with a satisfying thwump .
“That’s for hurting him!” I grab another pillow. “And embarrassing me!” This one he catches, laughing.
“Which brings me to my next point.” He sets the pillow down, and something in his expression shifts, becomes more serious. “My apology. And how I’m gonna make it up to you.”
“By not telling anyone else about my mortifying incident?”
“Holt told us all about your mom.” He runs a hand through his shortened hair, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out to touch it. “How she’d expect your boyfriend to look like him after Van saw him with you at the Harvest Dance.”
My stomach flips, and I stare at his hair. “Oh God, you didn’t?—”
“Cut it all off to play the boyfriend for you? Yeah.”
“For me?” The words come out as barely more than a squeak. My throat feels tight. “Luke, how long did it take you to grow your hair?”
He shrugs. “Couple years. It’s nothing.”
I’m shaking now, overwhelmed by the gesture, the sacrifice, the absolute insanity of it all. “I’m so sorry, but also thank you, but also you’re a complete jerk for the dildo thing and?—”
He crosses the space between us in two strides and pulls me into a hug. I’m enveloped in that hunky scent, his arms solid and warm around me. My body goes haywire, heart racing, skin tingling, heat pooling everywhere it shouldn’t. This is fake. This is pretend. This is?—
“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs into my hair, and I can feel the rumble of his voice through his chest. “I promise.”
“I doubt it.” My voice is muffled against his shirt. “Today is turning out to be completely horrendous, and you want to hear something that’ll make it worse?”
He pulls back slightly to look at me, hands still on my shoulders. “Hit me with it. Can’t be worse than giving Holt a concussion with a sex toy.”
“I just got a message from my mom.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s not coming here.”
His brow furrows. “She’s not?”
“She booked us a table at Savor restaurant. For eight o’clock. In an hour.”
His mouth actually drops open. Like, full, jaw-unhinging surprise. “Arrow’s restaurant?”
“Yep.” I laugh, but it’s got a hysterical edge to it.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Does she know it’s his place?”
“I have no idea! Maybe? Most likely not. It’s the fanciest place in town, so probably she just picked it to make me feel inferior.” I gesture wildly at my kitchen. “I cleaned everything three times, Luke.”
“Hey.” His hands remain on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing small circles that should be comforting but just make me more aware of him. “Look at me.”
I do. His gray-green eyes are steady, focused entirely on me.
“We’re gonna figure this out. But first, you need to breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, you’re hyperventilating. There’s a difference.” His hands slide down to my arms. “In through your nose. Come on.”
I inhale shakily.
“Good. Now out through your mouth.”
I exhale.
“Again.”
We breathe together for a minute, and gradually my heart rate slows from hummingbird to skittish squirrel.
“Better?”
“Marginally.” I step back, needing distance from his touch. “Maybe let’s practice our backstory.”
He smiles gently, but I can’t afford to read into it.
“Let’s just get our story straight,” I say, putting space between us.
“Right,” he says after a beat. “Strictly facts.”
But the way he’s looking at me? There’s nothing fake about it, and that’s the problem.