Chapter 8
Linsey
The days have been slowly rolling past since Sabre kissed me and started taking Noah to school and picking him up. So far, it’s been great. He smiles at me, flirts his ass off, and he’s stolen kisses several more times.
Every school morning, he idles at my curb while Noah runs out to meet him.
I go to work and come home to find my son safe and sound in Aunt Carol’s care.
She’s more rested and relaxed now that she’s not doing Noah’s transport herself.
I feel a little guilty about not seeing how taxing that was for her.
Every few days, Zen texts me an update on Dylan’s whereabouts. So far, he hasn’t left Billings and hasn’t violated his parole. I’ve come to rely upon those reports to take the edge off my anxiety.
Tonight is the seafood class, the one he signed up for that got us talking after the first class he attended. I’ve reserved the very first station for him, right at the head of the class, because something tells me he’s going to be an expert with that filleting knife.
He shows up ten minutes early wearing what I’ve come to think of as his uniform—black jeans, black T-shirt, black lace-up boots, and his Legion cut.
Sabre is a handsome man, and he cleans up well.
We’ve got a brand-new face tonight, a thirty-something bleach-blonde who makes a beeline to him to introduce herself.
Sabre is polite but not all smiley like he is with me.
The rest of the class filters in behind him. There’s the couple who take every class I teach. I welcome the roommates who wear our restaurant-branded shirts. This time, they’ve ordered our chef’s whites. Even the influencer is back with his little setup. All in all, there are thirteen students.
“Tonight is seafood. The hands-on portion will be salmon, and I have instructions for other types of seafood that you can download from my website using the code you got when you registered.” I hold up a beautiful salmon in one hand. Everyone immediately starts whispering excitedly.
Wasting no time, I launch right into my lecture. “Breaking down a salmon is not difficult as long as you follow a few basic rules. We’re going to start with an intact salmon rather than one that’s already been gutted and descaled because I know you all want the full experience.”
They each pick up their salmon and look it over. Some seem more experienced at handling a whole fish than others.
I begin walking the stations again, but my class isn’t digging into their salmon the way I expected them to.
They’re all looking at station number one.
They’re fascinated by how Sabre takes his salmon apart in six strokes.
Clean entry behind the collar, smooth run down the backbone, two fillets.
Even the couple stops bickering long enough to watch.
I ask, “Where did you learn that?”
“An old man named Gus taught me. He taught me about knives when I was a kid. He was a fisherman, and that’s all he wanted to do when he retired. He was nifty with a knife, too.” He hands the fillets across for inspection, not even trying to hide how proud he is of his knifework.
“I know more about fish than you thought, right, Chef?”
“Yeah, but no one likes a braggart,” I tell him lightly. “Not even a handsome one.”
Several people chuckle and dig into their salmon. When they’ve all got their two fillets and we’ve cleaned up a bit, I announce, “It’s time for the fun part, searing our fillets.”
The influencer adjusts his phone to capture an image of the pan, mumbling, “This is what I’m talking about. Fresh salmon is high in omega-3 fatty acids.”
I end up standing beside Sabre as he sears his salmon.
He’s just about to scorch it, so I put my hand over his on the pan handle and flip it, showing him how if you sear it skin down, you get a nice crispy skin, and the heat slowly cooks the flesh.
His smile is warm, and there’s a moment when we’re staring into each other’s eyes and I begin to think that maybe we could have something special.
The couple starts whispering to each other.
They both look delighted. I’m getting the stink eye from the new girl, though.
Somehow, we all make it to our plates. While we’re all sampling each other’s cooking, one of the women wearing our chef’s whites whispers to me, “We like this one. We think he’s a keeper.” The other one waggles her eyebrows like we’re having girl talk.
I mumble, “You two are too much.”
Even when all the others wander off, Sabre doesn’t. Once again, he stays to help me clean up.
“So,” he says, working a towel around a sauté pan. “If I asked you to grade me, what would it be?”
After thinking it over, I say, “I’d give you a B-plus. Your fillet work was amazing, but you almost scorched your salmon.”
“Almost is another way of saying I didn’t scorch anything,” he shoots back playfully.
When I reach over to grab a towel, he takes my hands in his and looks down into my eyes. “What would it take for me to earn an A in your class, Chef?”
I know exactly where he’s going with this, but I don’t fall into his little trap.
“That’s a terrible line,” I tell him. But then I can’t resist kissing him because he’s a great kisser and I love it when he’s flirty like this. The kiss starts slow but gets heated fast. He pulls me closer and lifts me at the same time. I spread my legs shamelessly and wrap them around his waist.
One big hand slides up my back and wraps gently around the back of my neck as he deepens the kiss. My fingers move up to slide through his hair, and the next thing I know, my back is against the wall, and I want this to continue until I’m forced to come up for air.
He pulls back just far enough to look at me. His blue eyes are practically sparkling with heated interest. His voice comes out rough and needy.
“Come home with me, Linsey. I want you, and I know you want me too.”
He wants me to come to his house and spend the night. I think that over for a minute, admittedly loving the idea.
“Don’t overthink it. We’re mature, consenting adults. Why be alone tonight when we can be together?”
He’s right. There is no reason in the world we can’t be together tonight.
I’ve been denying myself sex for ten years, too worried about bringing another man into our lives who might turn out to be like my ex.
The thing is, I know Sabre is nothing like Dylan.
I trust him in ways I’ve never trusted my ex.
This big biker might be dangerous, but not to us.
He’d definitely break anyone who tried to hurt me or Noah.
I know that all the way down to my bones.
And it doesn’t bother me because I’d also break someone who tried to hurt me or my son.
The only real difference between the two of us is that Sabre is a much better breaker than me.
It’s time I stopped just being a mom, a niece, and a chef and started being a woman again. I truly want this, so why shouldn’t I reach out and grab what I want, just this once?
Pushing him back, I say, “Give me a minute. I need to make sure Aunt Carol is okay with watching Noah tonight.” I whip out my phone and text her.
Me: Is Noah asleep? I’m with Sabre and going to be out late, maybe all night, if that’s okay with you?
The reply comes back within seconds.
Carol: He was out by nine. His alarm’s set. The security alarm is set. Go have a night to yourself. You deserve it.
“Well, what did she say?” Sabre asks.
“She said for me to have fun.”
The look on his face says it all. He’s thrilled, excited, eager, and aroused all at the same time, which explains the bulge in his jeans.
“Want to ride on the back of my bike? I can drop you off in the morning to pick up your car on my way to pick up Noah.”
I glance out the window at his motorcycle and snatch up all my courage. If my nine-year-old can ride on the back of his bike, surely I can too. “Yes. I want to ride on the back of your bike.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here, darlin’.”
Sabre’s Indian motorcycle is beautiful. The chrome gleams in the moonlight. He gives me a spare helmet he pulls out of the storage compartment on his bike to wear.
It takes ten minutes of late-night riding on the back of his bike, with my arms wrapped around his waist, to reach his place.
It’s never been more apparent than at this moment that Sabre is all leather and muscle.
At one point, one of my hands drifts innocently a little lower than I intend, and I feel him laugh more than I hear it.
His house surprises me a bit. It’s a huge two-story brick home, but it’s extremely spartan.
The lawn is neatly trimmed, but there is zero landscaping.
His front porch has exactly one chair. There are no curtains on the windows, and when we get inside, I realize the furnishings are minimal.
Everything is neat and clean. There is zero clutter like plants, treasured family pictures, or toss cushions.
Just one row of neatly polished black boots beside the front door on a rack.
“Welcome,” he murmurs as we walk through his living room and into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
I shake my head, looking around. “I’ll take a bottled water if you have it.” When he walks over to the fridge, I realize his kitchen is more well-appointed than the living room or the dining room. He has an elaborate spice rack.
Glancing up at him when he hands me my bottle of water, I ask, a little awestruck, “You actually alphabetize your spices?” I’m honestly delighted with his response.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Unfortunately, you and I are a rare breed. You’ve also got a well-seasoned Griswold cast-iron skillet. That tells me you’re all about properly seared steak and fish. Those are exactly the cooking classes you signed up for as well.”
“You got me there, darlin’,” he murmurs. Coming up behind me, he wraps his arms around me and tugs me back against his chest. His mouth nudges the side of my neck, and he drops some sexy kisses along my skin.