6. Chapter 6 Ride into Chaos
Jenna: October
Visions of shadows stretch across an endless bridge. The sound of Jacob’s voice is distorted, distant in the wind. The feeling of wings flapping. Suffocation. Weight pressing down, crushing…
Gasping for air, I jolt upright. The nightmare slipping away the second my eyes open. But the sensations linger—falling, freezing cold water pulling me under, and a metallic smell that clings to me.
My hand presses to my pounding heartbeat, grounding me.
“Another one?” Jacob mumbles, his tone more habit than concern. For a second, I think he might reach out and try to comfort me. But instead, he turns away.
“Yeah,” I say softly. But he’s already half asleep.
Lately, we pretend the nightmares don’t mean anything.
Just meaningless, weird dreams. Same way we pretend we’re fine, but it wasn’t always like this.
The first time I woke up screaming in my sleep, Jacob held me in his arms until I finally drifted back to sleep.
He’d whisper, “You’re safe. It’s okay. I’m right here.
” There was this strange panic in his voice.
And the more the nightmares kept coming, the more he slowly pulled away.
Now, sometimes, I catch him watching me—not confused or worried, but like he recognizes what I’m dreaming. Like something’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. And that unknown unsettles me more than the dreams.
The next day, I’m late for work—again. Couldn’t find my stupid keys.
Maybe because I’ve been distracted by the last few weeks.
The sleepless nights. The distance with Jacob.
And the growing connection with Dylan. It feels good talking to someone about everything and nothing.
Almost too good. But I had to shut it down, even if I came off a little abrupt at the Halloween party.
As I rush into the office, I feel a scratchy sensation. I look down and my dress is inside out. Great. First, the ketchup stain. Then a button-popping disaster in front of a client. Now this. Next time, I’ll just come to work naked.
Megan, the office’s annoying fashion police, gives me a look. “Consistent… very consistent.”
“Thanks, Megan,” I mutter, biting back what I really want to say.
I’m officially ready for this day to end—and it’s only ten a.m. Jacob texted that he’s working late. And my mom’s still chasing men like it’s her day job, pushing me to meet another guy she found on Tinder. Guess some things never change.
I used to resent her growing up. Even judge her. Felt like she was too focused on her love life. But now, I get it. She was just doing the best she could with the shitty cards life handed her. Probably just trying to distract herself from her own mess while making sure I had food on the table.
After I had Lily, then Ava, she started to come around more, and we grew closer. Not best friends I’d tell everything to, but friends. And the girls adore her.
On my way to my desk, I spot Dylan across the hall, ripping out tiles. His forearms flex with each swing of the hammer, and sweat trickles down his neck, vanishing under his shirt. Exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need today.
He glances up, flashing his impossible-to-ignore smile that could light up an entire city, and strides over.
“Hi, Coconuts. I mean, Oranges.” His eyes stay locked on mine as he reaches into his tool bag and pulls out an orange with a goofy face drawn on it.
“Are you ever going to let that go?” I ask, fighting a smile.
“Nope.” His grin widens. “That image is burned into my brain.”
I grab the orange from him, rolling my eyes. “Thanks.” My tone is dry, but I’m not annoyed. “These are for my husband—married, remember?” The words spill automatically, like I’m reminding both of us.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Happily married? Or just married?” He sits on top of my desk, close enough to send my pulse racing. Lingering like boundaries don’t exist.
“Does it matter?” I ask, opening my laptop, pretending to look busy.
“That came out wrong.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to be a creep. I just… find it fascinating. Why people do it in the first place. I’ve learned most people do it for the wrong reasons.”
I open my mouth, ready with my sarcastic comeback, but something stops me. Maybe because I don’t like my answer…. and he’s the last person I should have this conversation with.
He studies me for a second, then softens his tone. “You okay?” He asks, like he already knows the answer.
I let out a sigh. “It’s been one of those days.”
He lifts the hammer, raising a brow. “Wanna smash something? It’s like free therapy.”
I hesitate. But the thought is tempting. I glance toward the bathroom, then back at him. “Why not? Lead the way.”
Dylan gestures for me to follow him. I set my laptop aside, and before I know it, I’m stepping into the half-demolished bathroom.
He hands me a pair of goggles and a hammer with a warm smile.
“Warning, I’m a klutz and probably shouldn’t be trusted with this thing,” I say before taking a swing. The crack echoes through the empty room. It’s oddly satisfying. I swing again. And again. Hard. Every bottled-up frustration shattering against those ugly green tiles.
I lose myself in it until my arm aches and I’m gasping.
“Jenna?” Dylan’s voice breaks through the haze. “Feel any better now?” he murmurs, his fingers grazing mine as he takes the hammer from my grip. The faint touch is enough to set every nerve in my body on fire.
I nod, stepping back.
“My older sister Amelia used to love demo days,” he says quietly. “Thought it helped with anger and boy problems.”
“Used to?” I ask with curiosity.
“Yeah. We don’t talk much anymore.” His smile slowly reappears. “Love the new inside-out look, by the way. Only you could make that work.”
I laugh, glancing at myself—dusty, disheveled, wearing a dress never meant for demolition. And somehow, he makes me feel like none of it matters. Not how ridiculous I look. Or how many times I screw up.
“Thanks for the smashing session. It felt… really good,” I say, handing back the goggles.
I hesitate, imagining what it would feel like to hold his hand, and something stirs.
Something I shouldn’t want. Something electric.
It’s in the way he sees me. How he makes it so damn easy to be myself.
But I have no right to feel this way. So I let go of the goggles.
Izzy bursts in, her energy slicing through my thoughts. Guilt crashes over me. She has no idea what’s going on with Dylan—hell, neither do I. But I know it’s wrong. The thought of her questioning things leaves me unsettled. How much has she noticed? How long until someone calls me out?
“Hey, La Primavera Venue canceled. Shantel’s pissed and looking for you.” She pauses and glances at Dylan. “Looking good as always, Dylan.”
He grins. “I should probably get back to work.” He bends down to pick up the tile pieces, his back to us.
Izzy watches him with zero shame, then says softly, “You’ve been talking a lot to Dirty McHottie. Should my brother be worried?” The noise of the workers in the background seems to muffle any chance of him overhearing.
I force a laugh, brushing it off. “He’s good-looking, sure. Maybe a little too friendly. But nothing to worry about.”
Even if I can’t explain what’s happening between us.
She presses a smile. “Right. He’s probably flirting with every woman in the building and has three girlfriends at home waiting.”
I roll my eyes. “Renovations are temporary anyway.” A deflection, weak at best.
She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, he’s not flirting with me,” she grumbles. “And honestly, I’d love to do more than just flirt with that man.”
God, I know, me too.
Over the past few weeks, things between Dylan and me have gotten…
complicated. It started small—quick chats, drawn-out smiles, his hand brushing mine, and not pulling away fast enough.
At first, it felt harmless, just two people connecting.
But now, the more we talk about life, dreams, and everything in between, the harder it’s getting to ignore this pull between us.
It’s fine, I tell myself. Just two people having fun at work.
I can totally be friends with an attractive man.
But every shared laugh, every glance that lingers, pulls me somewhere I shouldn’t be.
Dylan has become my escape. A reminder of who I was before responsibility, before marriage, before the scars of trauma I’ve spent years trying to cover.
Maybe even a glimpse of who I want to be.
One night, after a long day at work, I find myself ruminating about Dylan. And all the ways I can’t have him as I watch him from the safety of my new SUV. The parking lot is nearly empty, but hopefully, he still doesn’t see me just sitting here like a creep.
Dylan leans against his motorcycle, carefree, like he has no worries, no responsibilities. He pops a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly. What. The. Hell. Somehow, he makes eating chips look so freaking hot.
My brain immediately protests. Nope, absolutely not my type. Look away.
I answer my buzzing phone instead. It’s Jacob. Another trivial argument—doesn’t matter that it’s my birthday today. This time, about buying the wrong flavored water. I barely listen, glancing back at Dylan, needing out of the endless back-and-forth. “Uh-huh, okay. Sure.”
I hang up and blast music, needing to silence the frustration. Singing my heart out to Usher’s, You Got It Bad like I’m auditioning for a singing contest. Mid-verse, I catch Dylan staring—just as I fumble with the gear shift.
Reverse, no, forward.
Crap.
Metal crunches. The airbag detonates, slamming into me. Happy freaking birthday to me.
Stunned, I just sit there as the chemicals sting my nose. Who the hell put that stupid pole there? Great. Brand-new car. Crumpled fender. Maybe Jacob won’t notice.
Dylan strolls over, arms crossed, barely hiding his amusement as he surveys the damage. “Well, that’s one hell of an exit. Isn’t Usher supposed to be all smooth, not making women wreck their cars?”
I force a small smile, but my stomach sinks. Jacob’s reaction to this is going to be spectacular. “I’m not sure you can call it an ‘exit’ when I’m kind of stuck here.” I groan. “And what do you have against Usher? He’s one of my all-time favorite R&B artists.”
His grin widens. “Nothing against Usher, just more into country jams. But don’t worry, my cousin Louie can fix it and make it as good as new in a few hours.”
“I’d appreciate the help. But maybe don’t mention this to anyone. My husband doesn’t need to know about accident number three.”
Dylan chuckles. “Your secret’s safe with me. We’ll get that fender fixed, and maybe I’ll finally let you in on the hot chicken recipe you keep begging for.”
I half smile as I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out. “I don’t beg. I politely ask, and you hoard it like it’s a national treasure.”
He grins as he pulls out his phone. “Sorry, family secrets. But feel free to keep asking. I kinda like the sound of you begging.”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t stop my lips from curling up. “In your dreams, Dylan.”
“Every night.” He throws me a look, the glimmer of unmistakable naughty-fucking-ness. “I’ll call my cousin to pick it up. Probably best not to drive it.”
I follow his gaze to the motorcycle. My mind races with excuses, but something about this moment feels different.
I hesitate. “Are you sure? I could drive it to the shop,” I offer, trying to sound casual, though my voice betrays me.
Dylan tilts his head. “With a deployed airbag? Not a great idea. I can call you an Uber if you’d rather not ride.”
I hesitate. “I mean… I’ve always wanted to ride a moped. This is basically the same thing, right?”
He flashes me a look—like he knows I’m saying yes to something I might regret.
We walk across the parking lot, my eyes darting around, praying no one sees us. He climbs on first, starts the engine, and hands me a helmet from his saddlebag.
I strap it on and swing my leg over the bike, gripping his waist. His ridiculously solid, rock-hard waist. Holy fucking shit. The vibration beneath me sends a strange thrill through my bones. Then the world blurs as we take off, wind whipping against my skin.
And for the first time in forever, I feel weightless. Free.