Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Allison
"You know you don't have to keep picking me up from work," I tell Dime a couple of days later as I hop up into the passenger seat of his truck. "Or taking me to work. I can start to do both myself again."
He reaches over, grabbing my hand in his. "I like picking you up and knowing you're safe because you're with me. I don't trust anyone else with you."
I kinda want to tell him I don't trust anyone else either, but that's dangerous.
"That makes me feel loved, but I have to wonder if it's smart," I admit.
"I'm counting on you for everything. As someone who was married previously and counted on the man she had to divorce for everything, it could backfire. "
"It could," Dime says. "But it could also end up being the best thing that ever happened to you."
A part of me hopes so, another part of me worries what happens when this undercover operation is over.
We drive in silence for a while, my hand still in his. The familiar route back to his place has become our routine, and I find comfort in that. But underneath the comfort, there's always that undercurrent of uncertainty. The knowledge that this life we're building could be temporary.
When we pull into the driveway, I see Whiskers in the window, waiting for us. She does that every day now, sits in the same spot and watches for the truck. It makes me smile, this little routine we've all fallen into.
"She missed you," Dime says, following my gaze.
"She missed you too."
We head inside, and Whiskers immediately winds herself around both our legs, purring loud enough to be heard across the room. I scoop her up and hold her against my chest while Dime heads to the kitchen.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Starving. What are we making?"
"I was thinking pasta. The most easy thing ever." He opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. "You feel like helping or you want to relax?"
I set Whiskers down and join him in the kitchen. "I'll help. It'll be nice to do something normal together."
We work side by side, him chopping vegetables while I get the water boiling for the pasta.
It's incredibly domestic about this, it makes my heart ache in the best way possible.
This is what I've always wanted. Not the grand gestures or the expensive gifts, but this.
Standing in a kitchen with someone I love, making dinner, talking about our days.
"How was work?" I ask as I stir the pasta.
"Good. Fixed a Harley that was making this god-awful noise. Turned out to be a loose chain." He scrapes the vegetables into a pan. "Lee's getting really good at diagnostics. Kid's going to make a great mechanic."
"He seems like a hard worker."
"He is. Reminds me of myself when I was that age. He's eager to prove himself, willing to do whatever it takes."
I watch him cook, the way his hands move with confidence, the focused expression on his face. And I can't help but think about what he told me. About being Grant, about being undercover, about the life he's been living that isn't really his.
"Can I ask you something?" I say quietly.
"Anything."
"What happens when the undercover operation is over?"
His hands still for a moment, and I see his shoulders tense. Then he sets down the spatula and turns to face me.
"I don't know," he admits. "Honestly, Allison, I have no fucking idea what happens."
"But you've thought about it, right? You and Devil, you've had to think about what comes next."
"We have." He leans against the counter. "And the truth is, we're both struggling with it. With who we are versus who we've become."
I turn down the burner under the pasta and move closer to him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that when I first went undercover, I knew exactly who I was. Grant Swain, police officer, here to do a job and get out. But four years is a long time to pretend to be someone else. And somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending."
"You've become Dime."
"Yeah. I've become Dime. And now I don't know how to go back to being Grant.
" He runs a hand through his hair. "The club, the garage, this life—it feels more real than anything I had before.
And that scares the shit out of me because it means I might have to choose.
The badge or the cut. The cop or the outlaw. "
My heart is pounding. "And if you had to choose right now? What would you pick?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'd choose the cut. I'd choose the club and the life and everything that comes with it. But I'd also choose you."
Tears prick at my eyes. "Grant…"
"Dime," he corrects gently. "I know my name is Grant, but when you say it, I don't feel like myself. When you call me Dime, that's who I am. That's who I want to be."
"Okay. Dime." I step closer, putting my hands on his chest. "What happens to us when all of this is over? When you have to make that choice?"
"That's the one thing I'm sure about." He cups my face in his hands.
"No matter what happens, no matter what I choose, I want to be with you.
If I stay a cop, I want you with me. If I leave the force and fully commit to the club, I want you with me.
You're the constant in all of this, Allison.
You're the one thing I'm not confused about. "
A tear slips down my cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb. "I want to be with you too. Both versions of you. All versions of you."
"Even if it gets messy? Even if choosing the club means complications and danger and uncertainty?"
"Even then." I lean into his touch. "My ex-husband made me feel like I needed to be someone I wasn't. Like I had to fit into this perfect box to be worthy of love.
But you? You make me feel like I can be exactly who I am.
Messy and scared and sometimes too independent for my own good. And you love me anyway."
"I do love you. So fucking much."
"I love you too."
He pulls me into his arms, and we stand there in the middle of the kitchen, holding each other.
The pasta is probably overcooked by now, and the vegetables need to be stirred, but neither of us moves.
We just hold each other, finding comfort in the certainty of this moment even when everything else feels uncertain.
That's when I hear it. A song on the radio that's been playing in the background this whole time. A slow and sweet jam, the kind of song that makes you want to sway.
"Dance with me," Dime says, like he's reading my mind.
"Here? In the kitchen?"
"Why not? We've got music, we've got each other. That's all we need."
He takes my hand and spins me out, then pulls me back against his chest. We start to move, slowly at first, just swaying to the music. His hand is warm on my lower back, and I rest my head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. Leather and motor oil and everything uniquely Dime.
"I used to dream about this," I murmur against his shirt. "When I was married and miserable, I'd dream about finding someone who would dance with me in the kitchen. Someone who made ordinary moments feel extraordinary."
"You deserve all of that and more."
"I have it now. With you."
We keep dancing even after the song ends, moving to the next one and the one after that. The food is definitely ruined by now, but I don't care. This is more important. This moment, this feeling, this man who makes me believe in happy endings even when the future is uncertain.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For being honest with me. For telling me the truth about who you are, even when it was scary. For trusting me with Grant and Dime and all the parts of you that you keep hidden."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my breath catch. It's tender and vulnerable and so full of love that I feel it in every cell of my body.
"You make it easy to trust," he says. "You make everything easier."
He leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet, and I taste the promise in it. The promise that no matter what comes next, no matter what choices have to be made, we'll face it together.
When we break apart, we're both smiling.
"We should probably try to salvage dinner," I say, even though I don't want to move.
"Yeah, probably." But he doesn't let go of me. "Or we could order pizza and keep dancing."
"That's a terrible idea."
"The best ideas usually are."
I laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen, mixing with the music still playing on the radio. "Okay. Pizza and dancing it is."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel myself melting into him. When we finally pull apart, he grabs his phone and orders pizza while I turn off all the burners and put away the ruined food.
We spend the rest of the evening exactly like that. Dancing in the kitchen, eating pizza on the couch with Whiskers between us, talking about everything and nothing. It's perfect in its imperfection, and I wouldn't change a single thing.
Because this is what love looks like. Not grand gestures or perfect moments, but this. Dancing in the kitchen with overcook pasta forgotten on the stove. Laughing over pizza while a cat steals pepperoni from your plate. Holding each other close and promising to face whatever comes next together.
And as I fall asleep that night in Dime's arms, I know that no matter what the future holds, no matter what choices have to be made, this is real.
We are real.
And that's all I've ever asked for.