Chapter 15 Holley
Fifteen
Holley
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of cold mornings, long work shifts, and trying—not very successfully—not to think about him.
When Tony’s name finally flashed across my phone, something in me unclenched so suddenly I almost sat down on the kitchen floor.
And then, after we texted—short, simple, easy in the way only he manages—I spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling wondering why it felt like nothing was on track.
But now that the glow has faded into morning light, I’m left wrestling with the same thing I haven’t said aloud to anyone:
I miss him.
I miss his steadiness.
His quiet humor.
His warmth.
His presence, which fills a room without effort.
And the way being around him made everything inside me stop buzzing for a minute.
I pull his hoodie over my head—yes, I still have it, and no, I’m not giving it back—and grab my keys. I’m halfway out the door before I realize I didn’t lock it behind me last night.
Again.
I swear I thought I did but this is twice I’ve reached for the doorhandle to find it unlocked.
I freeze on the porch, my breath fogging the air.
That feeling prickles at the back of my neck again—the one that’s been haunting me for three days now. Like someone’s eyes are on me. Like I’m not as alone as I thought.
I tell myself it’s just anxiety. Stress. Lack of sleep. But the sensation doesn’t fade. It just settles over me like a warning.
The driveway is empty. The trees are still. The air is sharp and quiet.
But I swear something shifts behind the storage shed at the edge of the property.
A shadow.
A shape.
A flicker of movement I can’t quite focus on.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself, gripping my keys like a weapon as I hurry to my car. It’s probably a bear or deer or something.
Still, the unease follows me all the way to work.
The dental office is already a mess when I arrive.
The waiting room lights are off. The blinds are half-closed. The front desk computer isn’t even on. I blink twice, wondering if I somehow read the schedule wrong.
Then Megan bursts out of the break room, waving a stack of papers like they’re on fire.
“Holley,” she hisses, “you will never believe this.”
I pull my coat off slowly. “What, did Dr. Kline finally blow up the suction pump?”
“No.” She thrusts the papers into my hands. “Dr. Kline has a tax lien.”
I blink. “A… tax what?”
“Debt,” she says dramatically. “A big one. A bad one. The IRS sent a notice and everything.”
I stare at the letterhead, processing. “Wait, is that why the lights are off?”
Maria nods vigorously. “They froze the practice accounts. We can’t run patients. We can’t take payments. We can’t bill insurance. We can’t do anything.”
My stomach sinks.
“So we’re closed?”
“Temporarily,” she says, though it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “Dr. Kline is begging his accountant to fix it. Could be a day, could be a week. But we’re definitely not working today.”
Perfect.
Just what I needed.
A forced break I didn’t ask for, paired with the creeping feeling that I can’t shake someone tailing me. How will I afford this unpaid day off?
I rub my forehead. “Okay. Well, let me know if you hear anything.”
“Oh trust me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I will scream the second this nightmare ends.”
I leave the office in a daze. My car feels like an ice box when I climb in. I sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing, letting the weight of everything settle.
No work. Uncertainty. A strange feeling that something is off.
And Tony’s text from last night sitting like a warm coal in my chest.
Before I can overthink it, I type:
Holley:
You will not believe this day.
He responds almost immediately.
Tony:
Try me.
So I do.
I tell him everything.
The lien.
The office shutdown.
The chaos.
And then I add, before I can talk myself out of it:
And on top of that… I keep feeling like someone’s watching me. I know that sounds paranoid, but it’s been days and I can’t shake it.
His reply takes slightly longer.
Tony:
That’s not something you ignore, sweetheart.
I swallow.
Holley:
I’m probably imagining it.
Tony:
And I probably look good in a suit. Doesn’t make either thing true.
Despite myself, I snort. I bet he would look good in a suit.
Holley:
I’m being serious.
Tony:
So am I. Trust your gut. It’s sharper than you think.
Before I can respond, another text arrives.
Tony:
And if work shut down, you’ve officially run out of reasons not to come to Salemburg.
I stare at the screen.
My pulse trips.
Holley:
Are you serious?
Tony:
I don’t say shit I don’t mean.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I shouldn’t.
I absolutely shouldn’t.
It’s reckless.
It’s impulsive.
It’s insane.
Except the idea of seeing him again sends a warmth through my chest so fierce I almost gasp.
Holley:
You really want me to come?
Tony:
I asked, didn’t I?
And then:
Tony:
Doors are always open. Your call.
That does it.
I put the car in drive before I can talk myself out of it.
Five hours later, I’m still gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
The long road into Salemburg feels like driving into a different world.
The sky is clearer. The air heavier with pine.
The town itself is small, tucked between long stretches of open road.
The houses look lived in, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone.
Bikes rumble somewhere in the distance—low, familiar thunder.
My stomach twists.
He invited me.
I didn’t warn him I was actually coming.
Which seemed romantic and bold an hour ago—until I pulled onto the street where he said the compound is.
The gate is open, guarded by two men who give me once-overs sharp enough to peel paint.
“Hey,” one says, stepping forward. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“No,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’m looking for Tony.” They give me a look like I’m speaking a foreign language. I’ve read biker books so I trust my instinct. “Stud?”
They exchange a look.
“You Holley?” the other asks.
Shock flickers through me. “How did you—?”
“He said you might come around.” The first one jerks his head inside the gate. “Garage is down the left side.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
He told them I might come?
I drive slowly into the compound. It’s not what I expected. Cleaner. Organized. Bikes lined in neat rows. A couple of men working under a lifted truck. Another washing down chrome. The clubhouse itself looks like a converted warehouse—weathered, but sturdy.
Then I see him.
Tony stands in front of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a shop rag, back turned, head bent over something he’s been working on. His tattoos flex as he moves. His shoulders are tense, drawn tight like he’s working out a problem in his head.
I pull in beside the garage.
My heart is in my throat.
His broad back turns toward me.
He doesn’t see me yet.
I take a breath and kill the engine.
Before I open the door, he speaks.
“I swear,” he growls without looking up, “if this is Miles asking me to check his carburetor again, I’m burning the damn garage down.”
I laugh under my breath. I don’t have a carburetor on my car, it’s fuel injected, but I wish I did right now just to give him a hard time.
His head snaps up at the sound.
He freezes.
Completely freezes.
For a moment, Tony looks like a man who stopped breathing mid-sentence. His hands still. His jaw locks. His chest rises slowly, visibly, like he has to remind himself how lungs work.
Then his brows slam together.
He stalks toward me.
Not slow.
Not casual.
Not indifferent.
Full stride, deliberate, every step precise enough to shake something loose inside me. Determined.
When he reaches the car, he plants a hand on top of the door, leaning down until he’s eye level with me through the open window.
“What the hell are you doing here without telling me?” he demands softly.
Not angry.
Not yelling.
But intense.
Cutting.
Shaken, if I’m reading him right.
Heat floods my cheeks. “I… you said to come. So I came.”
“I meant eventually,” he mutters. “Not immediately. Not without warning. Jesus, Holley—I could’ve been on a run. Out of town. Busy. Anything.”
My breath catches. “Do you want me to leave?”
He stares at me.
Long enough that my heart practically stops.
Then—something inside him breaks. Or softens. Or gives up fighting, I can’t tell which.
He exhales sharply and shakes his head.
“No,” he says, voice dropping into something raw. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”
My shoulders sag in relief.
He runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to pull himself together. “You got no idea what you’re doing to me showing up like this.”
Fear flickers through me. “In a bad way?”
“How the hell could it ever be bad?” he snaps, then catches himself. “Holley, sweetheart, you can’t just walk into my world without warning. It knocks the wind out of me.”
My chest warms in a way I don’t have words for.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He leans both palms on the car roof, looking down at me like I’m the only thing he can see.
“You’re here,” he says quietly, each word deliberate. “That’s all that matters now.”
He steps back.
I open the door and climb out. He watches every second of it, eyes trailing my face, my hair, the hoodie I’m wearing—his hoodie, still far too big on me.
Something in his expression melts.
“You kept that,” he says.
I tug at the sleeve self-consciously. “It was warm.”
“Looks better on you anyway.”
My pulse kicks, sharp and heavy.
For a man who claims he doesn’t do romance… he really doesn’t know the effect he has.
He reaches for my bag before I can stop him.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you inside.”
I follow him toward the clubhouse entrance, nervous energy buzzing through me. The noise of the compound fades behind us. His hand stays on the strap of my bag, the other hovering near my back like instinct he’s trying not to act on.
Inside, the hallways are quieter than I expected. Not sterile—just solid. Purposeful. The kind of place built around loyalty and rules I don’t know.
“You good?” he asks gruffly, glancing over.
“I think so.”
“You sure?” he presses.
I nod. “I just… don’t know where I fit here.”
That makes him stop walking.
He turns fully toward me, blocking the narrow hallway with his body, towering over me in that way that should intimidate but doesn’t. Not with him.
“You’re with me,” he says simply. “That’s where you fit. That’s all you need to know.”
Warmth floods through me so quickly I nearly sway.
He seems to notice, because his voice softens when he speaks again.
“I’m not mad you came,” he says. “Just surprised.”
“I was surprised too,” I admit. “I drove halfway before I talked myself out of turning around.”
“What made you keep going?”
“You,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
Something in his eyes catches fire.
He clears his throat, visibly trying to dial it back. “Alright then. Let’s take a breath before the guys see me looking like I got hit by a truck.”
I laugh shakily.
He reaches out—slowly, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away—and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear.
“Welcome to Salemburg, Holley.”
My heart stutters.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
A beat.
“More than I should be.”
I swallow hard. “Can we start small? Just today?”
His mouth curves—not a smirk this time, not cocky. Something gentler. Warmer.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just today.”
But the look he gives me says he’s not fooling either of us.
Today is only the beginning.