Chapter 8 Frost
FROST
“Can you put the silverware out for me?”
Hope hands me a couple of forks and knives, along with some napkins to lay out for dinner.
I happily oblige since I haven’t done anything the last couple of hours besides offer conversation.
She’s a beast in the kitchen. Chopping and mixing fast without looking at a cookbook and without a huge mess.
I don’t know how she did it without cutting off a finger.
Once the table is set, Hope carries the plates to the table. Steam rises off the food, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes fills me with a comfort I didn’t know I needed until it was right in front of me. Hope sits across from me, lifting her fork with that bright, effortless grace she has.
I should be enjoying the food, but there’s a weight in my chest, something pressing to be let out. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or it’s her and the way she looks at me, like she actually wants to know who I am and not just the pieces I let people see.
You haven’t drank that much.
She twirls spaghetti on her fork. “You look like you’re thinking something very intense.”
“I’m always thinking something intense.” I take a bite of a meatball and groan in appreciation.
She chuckles. “I take it you approve.”
“Fuck, this is delicious.”
Hope dips her chin. “You can tell me what you’re thinking about, if you want.”
Don’t do it… She deserves to know what kind of person I am.
The soft glow of candles on the table makes the rest of the world seem so far away. I can feel her waiting for me to say something. She doesn’t pry or push but patiently waits to see if the ugly truth will drag itself out, whether I’m ready or not.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Hope’s face is expressionless. She doesn’t tense or brace for the worst. Instead, she sets her fork down and rests her arms on the table, leaning in just a little.
“Go on,” she encourages.
I inhale and let it out slowly. “I’m with a motorcycle club. Death’s Gambit out of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.”
“I got that from your cut the first time we met as you were leaving the shop.” She barks out a laugh. “The same one you’re wearing right now.” Hope stills slightly. “Are you guys like Sons of Anarchy? Is your club dangerous?”
“It’s nothing like what you’ve seen on television or read about,” I explain. “We ride. We help each other out. We take care of our own.” I pause. “That’s why the club was formed. To give those who don’t have anyone a place to belong.”
“It sounds like family,” she says gently.
I laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah. Well, I guess that fits.” My throat tightens. “My mom got sick… breast cancer.”
Hope’s breath hitches. “Frost…”
“She fought it,” I say. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever seen fight before. But it wasn’t enough. And when she died…” I shake my head, jaw clenching. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t.”
Hope’s eyes soften with empathy.
“I left my dad to deal with everything,” I continue. “Left him and my little sister to handle all of it. The grief, the home they built that’s filled with her things. I took off to… ride.” I look down at my hands. “And I haven’t been back since the day we buried her.”
A long silence settles, heavy but not suffocating.
“I feel like a coward,” I say.
Hope reaches across the table. I stare at her hand and the innocence it represents to me. I take it without hesitation. I need this connection to her right now.
Her thumb brushes my knuckles, slow and reassuring. “Frost,” she says softly. “You didn’t run because you don’t care. You ran because you do.”
I shake my head. “That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not an excuse.” She shifts closer, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s a reason.”
I look up, and she’s watching me like she sees every broken thing I’m trying to hide and doesn’t flinch at any of it.
“Grief is messy,” she says. “It twists people up. Makes them do things they never thought they’d do. You weren’t abandoning them. You were surviving the only way you knew how.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I mutter.
“You’re human, and we all grieve differently,” she replies. “There’s no right or wrong way and definitely no time stamp on how long it takes to get over such an incredible loss.”
Something in my chest cracks, and it feels both terrifying and relieving.
“You’ll go back home eventually, won’t you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“That means you haven’t walked away for good. You’re still hurting because you love her so much, and you can’t bear seeing your family grieve, either. It would tear you apart. That tells me everything I need to know about you.”
“What’s that?” I ask hesitantly.
“That you’re a good man dealing with a shitty situation.”
I look at her, truly look, and the warmth of her hand around mine feels like something I’ve been starving for. Her touch grounds me to the present instead of spiraling into the past.
“You’re more than I deserve,” I murmur.
“Not true,” she says, squeezing my hand. “You’re just harder on yourself than you need to be.”
Something inside me shifts. I’m not healed or fixed, but for the first time in a long time, I feel understood.
Hope’s thumb keeps tracing circles over my knuckles, and I swear it does more to crack me open than anything I just confessed.
She studies me for a long moment, then stands.
Not abruptly, but with purpose. She walks around the table to sit beside me.
Her knee brushes against mine and sends a wave of warmth up my body.
My breath catches somewhere between my chest and throat.
“Frost,” she says quietly. “Look at me.”
I do because how the hell am I supposed to resist?
Hope raises her hand and brushes my jaw with her fingers. My entire body responds to the contact like it’s been waiting for it.
“You and your family have been through a traumatic loss,” she murmurs. “You shouldn’t be going through the aftermath alone.”
Hope’s fingers slide from my jaw to my cheek, cupping it softly. I lean into the touch before I can stop myself. Her breath catches just a little, making every muscle in me tighten.
“I’m not good at this,” I tell her, voice low. “Letting people see the mess I’ve become.”
She smiles. “I see you, all of you... and I’m not going anywhere.”
My heart thuds once, hard. Hope’s face is inches from mine now. I can feel the warmth of her breath, smell the faint sweetness of wine and basil still clinging to her skin. Her other hand slides to my forearm, fingers curling around it like she’s anchoring me.
“Frost,” Hope whispers. “You’re allowed to need someone. Even if it’s just for a moment.”
My breath shakes. “I don’t want it to be only for a moment.”
Hope doesn’t seem surprised by my answer and makes no move to pull away. She moves in closer until her thigh is pressed against mine. Her hand slips from my cheek to the back of my neck, eyes flick to my mouth and back up.
“Then don’t make it one,” she murmurs.
That’s all it takes. Hope said the one thing that unravels me.
I lift my hand and stroke her hair behind her ear, slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants.
Instead, she leans into it, her lips parting just slightly, her breath trembling in a way that curls heat low in my stomach. I tilt her chin up.
“Hope,” I say because her name feels like something holy in this moment. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” she says.
Something inside me breaks. I close the last inch between us and kiss her.
She sighs softly against my mouth, her hands curling into my shirt, pulling me closer.
My tongue slides across her lips until she parts them for me.
When I trace her jaw, she shivers and leans into me.
I wrap my arms around her waist, drawing her close until our bodies are flush with each other.
Hope pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” she whispers, voice shaky.
“I don’t care.”
She smiles and threads her fingers into my hair. “Good, because I wasn’t done.”
Hope kisses me again more forcefully, and I’m lost in the taste of her, the heat of her, the way she melts against me like she’s been waiting for this moment too.
“You’re sure?” I murmur against her skin.
“I’ve been sure since the moment you walked through my door.”
“If we do this, you’re mine,” I promise. “There won’t be anyone else.”
She pauses. “Yours?”
I nod. “I knew the first day in the coffee shop. I’ve been fighting with myself to let you go.
You’re too good for me and deserve someone better.
” I take a deep breath. “I’m a selfish bastard, though.
I don’t want to ever let you go, and if we take this any further, I’m going to tie you to me every way I know how. ”
Hope smirks. “What are you waiting for?”
I lift her into my arms, and she wraps her legs around my waist in a tight grip.
“Bedroom?” I growl.
“First door on your left,” she instructs.
In the bedroom, I lower Hope to her feet with her back against my chest. I nuzzle the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
My voice is a low rumble against her skin. “You remember what I said out there in your dining room?”
She shivers in my arms, a full-body tremor I feel straight down to my soul. “Yes.”
I tighten my grip, my hands splaying across the soft plane of her stomach. “Say it.”
She breathes in, a shaky little intake of air. “You said, if we do this… I’m yours. Forever.”
“That’s right.” I bite her earlobe, not hard, just enough to make her gasp. “No take-backs, no rewrites. This isn’t one of your stories. This is forever. Are you sure?”
Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”