Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trudy
I’d invited Grace and King to dinner at my house on Saturday, and the moment Grace walked through my front door, I saw something shift in Stephen’s shoulders. The tension that had been living there for weeks, ever since he’d started reading that damn journal, seemed to ease just a little.
“Dad.” Grace smiled, moving straight into his arms for a hug.
“How’s my girl?” Stephen asked, his hand gentle on her back, his voice softer than I’d heard in days.
“Huge.” She laughed, pulling back to show off her belly. “This baby’s running out of room.”
King’s hand settled possessively on Grace’s lower back, and I saw the way Stephen’s eyes tracked the gesture—not with jealousy or suspicion, but with approval. Like he was satisfied his daughter had found a man who’d protect her the way she deserved.
“Trudy.” Grace turned to me with genuine warmth. “Thank you for having us.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” I gestured toward the dining room. “Sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”
While I worked in the kitchen, I watched them through the doorway. The easy way Grace leaned into King. The protective way Stephen watched over both of them. The laughter that came naturally, not forced or performative.
This was what family looked like. Real family. Not the strained, obligatory gatherings I’d endured with Harold’s children, who’d made it clear I’d never belong.
This was different.
And Stephen kept catching my eye across the table, like he wanted to make sure I saw it too. Like he was showing me what he was offering—not just himself, but all of this. A place to belong.
Later that week, Tyler showed up at the bakery after school, bursting through the door with his backpack still on.
“Nana!” He spotted me immediately, then froze when he saw Stephen sitting at his usual table. “Oh. Hi, Mr. Popeye.”
Stephen’s mouth twitched. “Just Popeye’s fine, kid.”
Tyler approached cautiously. “Um... there’s this thing at school. A science fair project. I need help building a?—”
“I’ll help you,” Stephen said before Tyler could finish.
Tyler’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Yeah. When do you need it done?”
“Next week?”
Stephen nodded. “Come by tomorrow after school. We’ll figure it out.”
I watched Tyler’s face light up, watched him practically bounce on his toes with excitement. “Okay! Thanks, Popeye!”
After Tyler left, I walked over to Stephen’s table. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” He looked up at me, his expression serious. “Kid needs someone to show up for him. I can do that.”
The next afternoon, I watched them leave together—Stephen’s hand on Tyler’s shoulder as they headed toward the hardware store, Tyler chattering excitedly about volcanoes and baking soda. Stephen listened patiently, asking questions, genuinely engaged.
And I realized, standing there in the bakery watching them go, that this wasn’t just about me. Wasn’t just about sex or romance or even love.
Stephen was building something real.
A family.
A life.
He was serious about fitting into Diamond Creek.
The week had been full of moments like that—Grace and King at my dinner table, Tyler’s hand in Stephen’s as they headed out for the afternoon, the way he looked at me across the room.
Stolen kisses between those moments, heated touches in the kitchen, nights that bled into mornings.
We’d gone to dinner at a steakhouse where he’d ordered for both of us without asking, his hand possessively on my thigh under the table.
We’d spent an entire Sunday in bed, only leaving long enough to order takeout.
He’d fixed the loose hinge on my kitchen cabinet without being asked, then fucked me against the counter while the coffee brewed.
He was everywhere, and I was drowning in him.
But there was one thing he kept asking for that I kept refusing.
“Come on, darlin’,” he said on Thursday morning, leaning against his motorcycle in my driveway. “Just one ride.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because those things are death traps.”
He grinned. “Lived my whole life on this bike. Still here.”
“Congratulations on your luck. I’m not testing mine.”
“Scared?”
“Smart.”
“Same thing.” He pushed off the bike and walked toward me. “What if I promise to keep you safe?”
“What if I promise to keep saying no?”
His grin widened. “You’re gonna say yes eventually.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
But he kept asking. Every day. Sometimes twice a day. And every time, I refused with some variation of sass and stubbornness.
Until Monday.
“One ride,” he said, standing in my kitchen with his coffee cup in hand. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m saying no. Again.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Liar.” He set his cup down and crossed his arms. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Then prove it.”
I glared at him. “That’s a terrible argument.”
“It’s working though, isn’t it?”
Damn him, it was. Because the truth was, I was curious. Terrified, but curious. I’d watched him ride away so many times, watched the easy confidence in the way he handled that machine, and some small part of me wondered what it would feel like.
To trust him that completely.
To let go.
“One ride,” I said finally. “And if I hate it, you never ask again.”
His grin was triumphant. “Deal.”
Ten minutes later, I was standing in my driveway, staring at the motorcycle like it might bite me.
“It’s not gonna hurt you,” Stephen said, amused.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.” He handed me a helmet. “Put this on.”
I took it with shaking hands. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Believe it, darlin’.” He helped me fasten the helmet, his fingers gentle under my chin. “Trust me?”
I looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but certainty. Confidence. The absolute conviction that he would keep me safe.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Then get on the damn bike.”
I climbed on behind him, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. He pulled my arms around his waist, settling my hands against his stomach.
“Hold on tight,” he said. “Don’t let go.”
The engine roared to life beneath us, and I tightened my grip instinctively.
And then we were moving.
The first few seconds were pure terror. The wind, the speed, the feeling of nothing but air and asphalt rushing past. I buried my face against his back, squeezing my eyes shut, certain I was going to die.
But then... something shifted.
The terror began to fade, replaced by something else. Something wild and free and exhilarating. I opened my eyes and saw the world rushing past in a blur of color and light. Felt the wind against my skin, the rumble of the engine, the solid strength of Stephen’s body in front of me.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
I was flying.
We rode for twenty minutes, taking back roads through the countryside, and by the time we pulled back into my driveway, I was grinning like an idiot.
Stephen cut the engine and helped me off the bike, pulling the helmet from my head.
“Well?” he asked, watching my face.
“That was...” I couldn’t find the words. “That was incredible.”
His grin was smug. “Told you.”
“Don’t be cocky.”
“Too late.” He pulled me close, his hands settling on my hips. “You gonna ride with me again?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s a maybe.”
He kissed me then, deep and thorough, and I melted against him. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with heat.
“Inside,” he growled. “Now.”
We barely made it through the door before his hands were on me, pulling at my clothes with desperate urgency. We stumbled to the couch, and he pulled me down to straddle his lap, his mouth hot against my neck.
“Fucking beautiful,” he muttered against my skin. “Watching you let go like that... Christ, Trudy.”
I rode him there on the couch, my hands braced on his shoulders, his fingers digging into my hips as he guided my movements. It was raw and desperate and perfect, and when I came, he followed right behind me, his face buried against my chest.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, breathing hard, and I felt something settle in my chest. Something warm and right and terrifying.
I was in love with him.
Completely, irrevocably in love with this gruff, possessive biker who’d walked into my life and refused to leave.
But even as I lay there in his arms, feeling more content than I had in years, I knew something was still unfinished. Something important that we’d both been tiptoeing around, pretending we could ignore.
The journal.
He’d barely touched it all week. Had been avoiding it, I realized. Avoiding whatever truths were still waiting in those pages, lurking like shadows in the corners of his consciousness.
And I understood why. God, I understood. He’d already learned so many terrible, heartbreaking things about the woman he’d loved, the mother of his daughter. Things that had shaken him to his core and fundamentally changed how he saw his past and everything he’d thought he knew about Christina.
But he couldn’t move forward until he faced all of it.
Until he knew the whole truth, no matter how painful it might be.
“Stephen,” I said softly, running my fingers through his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my hands.
“Hmm?” His voice was drowsy, satisfied, the rumble of it vibrating through his chest and into mine.
“You need to finish reading the journal.”
His body tensed beneath me immediately, every muscle going rigid. The comfortable warmth between us shifted into something tighter, more guarded. “I know.”
“I mean it. You can’t keep avoiding it.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “It’s not going away just because you ignore it.”
“I’m not avoiding it,” he protested, but even as he said it, I could hear the lie in his voice. He knew it too.
“You are.” I pulled back to look at him, needing to see his eyes, to make him understand. “And I understand why. Believe me, I do. But you need to know the rest. You need to face whatever else Christina wrote. For Grace. For yourself.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw tight, the muscles working beneath his skin as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. I could see him wrestling with it, could practically feel the turmoil churning inside him.
“What if I don’t want to know?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if I’d rather just... leave it alone? Let the past stay buried?”
“You can’t.” I cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to hold my gaze.
“Because it’ll always be there, haunting you.
Hovering over everything you do, every choice you make.
And you’ll never be able to fully move forward until you face it.
Until you know everything and can finally make peace with it. ”
“Move forward with you, you mean.” There was an edge to his voice, something defensive and scared.
“With anyone. With yourself. With life.” I kissed him softly, trying to pour all my love and understanding into that single gesture. “With Grace. But yes... with me too.”
He closed his eyes, and I saw the war playing out across his face. The desire to know versus the fear of what he’d learn. The need for truth versus the seductive comfort of ignorance. The pull of the future versus the weight of the past.
“Tomorrow,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ll read more tomorrow.”
“Promise?” I needed to hear him say it again, needed that commitment.
“Promise.”
I settled back against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and hoped desperately that he meant it. That he wouldn’t find another excuse, another reason to put it off.
Because as much as I’d loved the week we’d had, the passion, the connection, the pure unbridled joy of being together, I knew it couldn’t last. Not really. Not while Christina’s secrets still hung between us, unfinished and unresolved, like a storm cloud waiting to break.
He needed to face the darkness before he could fully step into the light.
And I would be here, waiting, when he did. No matter what those pages revealed. No matter how much pain they caused. I would be his anchor, his safe harbor, his home.
I just hoped it would be enough.