Chapter 3
THREE
COLD FRONT
STEEL
The late winter storm came early. By morning, Mt. Pleasant is smothered in white, snow thick as smoke, swirling sideways in the wind. The kind of storm that eats sound and time.
Saint Motors looks smaller under the weight of it. I left the clubhouse an hour ago, telling the guys I needed to check the generator, but the truth is, I just needed quiet. The kind that hurts.
Inside the shop, the air’s sharp with metal and oil. A single work lamp spills yellow light across the Harley’s chrome. My breath fogs the air, and the old barrel heater rattles in protest. Music hums low from an old speaker, some forgotten blues track that fits too damn well.
The engine’s open on the lift, half disassembled again. My way of needing something to do in the dark winter months, instead of letting my mind wander to what should be and isn’t. It’s a deadly turn my head takes each time I think about Aria and the way she left.
My hands are as black as my soul, covered with grease and ghosts. Sweat clings to my neck despite the cold. I work shirtless, heat from the barrel stove burning my skin while snow piles outside the bay door. The rhythm keeps me sane. Turn, tighten, check.
My father’s ghost lingers in the clatter of tolls and the smell of oil. I can still hear him in my head. Don’t let love make you weak, boy.
It was summer when we buried my old man. Hot enough to make leather stick to skin. She left that night, right after the last shovel hit dirt. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.
The socket wrench slips. My knuckles slam into steel, blood blooming bright against the gray. I shake it off, grab a rag, and keep working.
The wind howls harder, pressing against the bay door like it wants in.
Headlights slice through the storm, cutting across the frosted windows. My heart jumps before my brain catches up. I reach for the Glock on the bench, instinct before logic.
I straighten slowly, every muscle coiled tight.
The bay windows glow faint, white light reflecting off the snow.
I step closer to the window, squinting through the frost. The Jeep rolls to a stop out front, engine idling.
For a second, I think I’m imagining things.
But when the door opens and she steps out, it’s no manifestation.
Aria. She’s back, in the flesh and not my mind.
Her hair’s damp from the snow, clinging to her face. Snowflakes glint on her lashes. She’s clutching a folder against her chest like a shield. She looks too delicate for the weather, too real for the ache in my chest. The coat she’s wearing doesn’t belong in a storm like this.
My throat tightens. She shouldn’t be here.
I curse under my breath, shove the Glock back under the bench, and start wrenching on the bike, like I don’t have a care in the world.
The door creaks as she pushes it open, warm air spilling into the cold. Aria hesitates just long enough for the snow to cling to her coat before stepping inside.
The heat hits her, and I swear I can smell her before I see her properly. She smells of rain, perfume, and the faint memory of whiskey and July heat.
I keep my eyes on the Harley, pretending to focus. “Didn’t expect you this early.”
Her voice cuts through the hum of the heater, soft but steady. “Figured I’d get the paperwork out of your way.”
I wipe my hands on a rag, watching her from the corner of my eye. She hasn’t changed much. Still that same mix of fire and restraint, like she’s one deep breath from running again. “Draft send you?”
“I volunteered.” That earns her a look I can’t hide. I don’t know if it’s surprise or irritation, or the memory of how easily she used to undo me.
“You didn’t have to,” I say quietly.
“I know.” The air thickens, silence stretching like tension on a trigger. Snow beats against the windows, the storm building louder.
I force myself to ask something normal. “You keeping busy?”
She nods, setting the folder down on the bench. “Trying. Law doesn’t stop for grief.”
“Neither does the club.” The words slip out before I can catch them. She tilts her head, like she hears the exhaustion under the armor.
Her gaze drifts to the Harley. “You rebuilt it.”
“Had to,” I answer, voice low. “Couldn’t stand seeing it rot.”
She smiles faintly. “You sound like him.”
That one hits too deep. My jaw locks. “Don’t.”
She flinches, then covers it with a nod. “Sorry.”
I drag a hand over my face, breathing through the sting of it. The anger isn’t hers, it’s mine. The grief never learned manners. “You don’t need to apologize, Aria.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t either.” That line lands like a hook in my chest. She’s too damn good at finding soft spots I thought I’d buried.
Her eyes are shining under the lamplight. There’s warmth there, and something else, something I remember too well.
I swallow hard. “Still drink coffee like jet fuel?”
“Only on days ending in Y.”
My mouth almost curves, but I fight it back. She could always make me forget how to keep a straight face. The silence that follows hums with everything we’re not saying.
She clears her throat. “The deed transfer’s in the folder. I’ll have the city attorney sign off by next week.”
“Appreciate it.” My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She turns toward the door, boots crunching softly on the concrete. For a second, I think she’s really going to leave. That she’ll disappear into the storm like she did that night in July.
“Aria.” She stops. I hesitate, the words scraping raw on the way out. “Thanks… for showing up.”
It’s simple. But it feels like too much.
Her voice is softer than the snow outside. “Always.”
And then she’s gone. The cold floods in for a second before the door seals shut again. I stare at the empty space she left behind, the faint heat where she’d been standing.
The Harley gleams under the light, engine half-open, the room still smelling like her perfume and motor oil.
I drop onto the stool, rubbing the grease from my palms, and stare at the ring hanging from my neck.
“Always,” I repeat under my breath, voice cracking just enough to hurt.
The wind howls so loud it shakes the glass. I stand, staring at the bay doors long after they close behind her.
I tell myself to let her go. She doesn’t belong in this storm or this life anymore. She made that choice the night she left me standing in the July heat, dirt still fresh on my father’s grave.
But when the next gust rattles the siding, I catch a glimpse of movement through the window. Her Jeep hasn’t moved.
She’s still sitting there, engine idling, snow already piling up on the hood. “Dammit, Aria.” I grab my coat and shove through the door. The wind slaps the breath out of me, stinging my face, my chest. The snow’s knee-deep already, turning everything into blinding white.
She looks up when I reach her window, eyes wide, hand frozen halfway to the gearshift.
I rap my knuckles on the glass. “You waiting for an engraved invitation?”
She rolls the window down just enough for the cold to rush in. “I was just…”
“Freezing to death?” I lean closer, voice rough from the wind. “You won’t make it two miles in this mess. Come back inside.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” she says, chin tilting up. “You made it pretty clear.”
“Forget what I made clear.” My voice softens before I can stop it. “It’s dangerous out here. You can argue with me inside where it’s warm.”
Her eyes search mine, weighing pride against sense. Then she exhales, a small cloud of white. “Fine.”
“Good call.” I open her door, take the folder from her lap before she can protest, and offer a hand she pretends not to see. She still takes it.
Her fingers are ice cold, small against my palm. I don’t let go until we’re both inside the garage again, the door thudding shut behind us.
The heater hums, struggling against the draft, but the place feels warmer instantly. I peel my coat off and hang it on the door next to my cut. She shakes snow from her coat, hair dripping onto the concrete.
“Told you,” I mutter, setting the folder on the bench.
She gives me that look. The one that used to undo me. “Still bossy.”
“Still reckless,” I shoot back.
“Guess we’re both consistent.”
A reluctant grin almost tugs at my mouth, but before I can answer, the lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
She glances up. “That normal?”
“Not lately.”
The power cuts for a breath, plunging us into a dim orange glow from the heater. Then it buzzes back on, weaker this time. Snow hits the door again, heavier, sealing us in.
She crosses her arms. “Please tell me you’ve got a generator.”
“Not one that can fight this storm.”
“So… we’re stuck?”
“Looks that way.”
Her lips press together, half-smile, half-challenge. “Figures.”
I shrug, moving toward the heater to feed it more wood. The flame flares, casting gold light over the Harley’s chrome and the damp sheen on her hair.
She steps closer, rubbing her hands for warmth. “You ever fix that idle problem?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Still nags at me sometimes.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Me too.”
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The storm howls outside, the lights flicker again, and every ounce of space between us disappears into the heat rising off the barrel stove.
Her gaze peeks over my bare chest, grease-stained hands, and the ring hanging from the chain around my neck. Something in her eyes softens before she catches herself.
“Still working yourself bloody to outrun your thoughts?” she asks quietly.
“Still pretending you don’t have any?”
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Touché.”
I grab the rag from the bench and toss it into the oil bucket. “Get your coat off before you freeze.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked.”
“So are you.” We’re both too stubborn to move first.
Lightning flashes, followed by a low roll of thunder that doesn’t belong to winter. The lights flicker once. Twice. Then settle into a weak buzz.
I glance at the power box. “Great. If the grid drops, we’re sealed in till morning.”
She glances toward the door, snow already stacking halfway up the glass. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
Her jaw tightens. “Then I guess I’m staying.” The words hang there, heavier than they should be.
“Guess so,” I mutter.
I move to the heater, feeding it another piece of kindling. The flame flares, warm light washing over us both.
She steps closer to the Harley, tracing her fingers along the gas tank like it’s something sacred. “You fixed the scratches.”
“Couldn’t stand seeing it scarred.”
“That’s what you said about your father.”
I look up at her then, really look. The years, the distance, none of it changes what she does to me. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, counselor.”
“Then stop acting like you don’t need anyone.” The words hit harder than the cold. I want to tell her she’s wrong, but she’s not.
Instead, I walk past her, close enough that her perfume cuts through the oil and smoke. It’s disarming as hell.
“I’ll grab you a towel,” I say, reaching for the storage cabinet just to keep from touching her.
“Steel,” she says softly.
I turn.
Her eyes are glassy, but her voice doesn’t break. “I didn’t mean to leave like I did. That night… I just couldn’t watch you fall apart.”
I stare at her for a long second, pulse roaring in my ears. The image flashes behind my eyes. July heat, her hair shining under streetlights, my father’s casket, her walking away. I’d sworn I wouldn’t chase her. Presidents don’t run after angels.
“Too late for apologies,” I say, voice low.
“Maybe,” she says, stepping closer. “But not too late for honesty.”
The power flickers again, plunging us into momentary darkness. When the light steadies, she’s right in front of me. Close enough that I can see every fleck of green in her eyes. I tell myself to step back, but my body’s already chosen.
Outside, the storm howls harder, sealing the world away. Inside, it’s just us. Heat, hurt, and history.