Chapter 22
T hree days after Gabriel had left her and Leo to develop a plan of attack, an early-morning knock at the door woke her.
She didn’t question who stood on her porch.
She’d updated Philly a few times via text, and he’d invited her out to Rita C’s once on a night he worked as the bartender.
She’d been a bit surprised by that and had debated whether to take him up on it or not.
In the end, she couldn’t keep away. If he was going to offer olive twigs—not branches, not yet—she’d take them.
Rolling out of bed, she tugged a sweatshirt on, then ran her fingers through her hair.
She didn’t usually sleep well, and last night had been no different, but she refused to think about what a mess she must look.
If he came by—she glanced at the clock—at five thirty in the morning, he’d get what he got.
Swinging the door open, the cold air whipped around her bare legs. It hadn’t snowed yet, but the biting cold foretold an early ski season. Without thinking, she grabbed the front of Philly’s shirt, tugged him inside, then quickly shut the door.
“Uh, hi,” he said. His gaze drank her in, darting to her face before sliding over her body, as if he couldn’t stop himself.
Hmm, maybe she didn’t look as bad as she thought.
Clearing his throat, he took a step toward the gas fireplace. “I brought coffee. Don’t you want to change? Aren’t you cold?” he added.
She glanced down. She had a fuzzy sweatshirt on over her tank top, but she slept in tiny silk boxers. “No,” she said, taking a cup from him and walking toward the fireplace. She flicked it on, then took a seat on the sofa, curling her legs under her.
“Tell me about Rita C’s,” she said. “Where’d the name come from? Was it someone’s mother?”
He stared at her legs. She wiggled her toes.
He yanked his gaze to hers. She held it, not at all oblivious to the fluttering in her stomach.
She didn’t totally trust it, or believe it might mean anything, but a tiny voice inside her head recognized his attraction.
And an even more tentative voice inside her heart whispered a hopeful “yes.”
Then his brows slammed down, and he picked up a throw blanket. Draping it over her, he took his own seat and resolutely turned his attention to the flames dancing behind the glass.
“It’s named after Saint Rita of Cascia,” he said.
She tipped her head. “I’m not up on my canons. Who is she?”
“The patron saint of impossible causes. More colloquially, the patron saint of abused women.”
That little nugget of information hit her harder than it should.
That the fifteen men who made up the Falcon’s Rest motorcycle club, each and every one of whom had been Spec Ops of some sort, had named their bar after the patron saint of abused women, gave her more insight into them than any of her research.
“Why?” she asked, her voice quiet.
He took a sip of his coffee, and for a moment, she wondered if he planned on answering. Then he exhaled. “You know how I grew up. Well, everyone else in the club has a similar story. Matthew and I didn’t have a mother around, but if we had, my father would have beat the shit out of her, too.”
“And that’s why you do the work you do. Helping women escape,” she said.
“It’s not only women, and we don’t really think of it as escaping. We extract them from the situation. Those kinds of scars, well, you don’t really escape those. Not without a lot of work and, if you’re lucky, a good therapist.”
His gaze stayed fixed on the fire, and a twinge of guilt twisted through her.
It was five thirty in the morning, and he’d brought coffee.
He wore a pair of running shoes, black track pants, and a sweatshirt.
He hadn’t come by to be reminded of his past or of the gut-wrenching work he and the club did.
“What’s the plan?” she asked. He swiveled his head and looked at her. “You going for a run?”
A beat passed, then he grinned. “We’re going for a run.”
She’d made the mistake of telling him that her lack of appetite wasn’t a food issue but an anxiety one.
She’d battled with it her whole life, but when things got stressful, her digestive system turned on her, and eating was the last thing she wanted to do.
She’d gotten good at ensuring she had enough calories to stay healthy—thank you, protein shakes.
But short of taking antianxiety meds, which she had no wish to do, running was the only thing that helped take the edge off.
“A run.”
He rose as he nodded. “Hop to, woman,” he said, gesturing her up. “Time’s a-wasting. Can’t squander those daylight hours.”
“It’s still dark,” she pointed out.
“I have headlamps in my truck.”
She thought about telling him to go away.
That she wanted to crawl back into bed with her coffee and laze around for another hour but stopped herself.
He was offering another olive twig. And in the scheme of things, between lounging around by herself and dragging her ass out into the cold to run eight miles with Gabriel, she’d take the eight miles.
She was greedy for time with him, for a chance to atone, for a chance—as remote as it might be—to rediscover the friendship they’d had.
The friendship that had been the anchor in her tumultuous childhood.
She tossed the throw blanket off, hiding a grin at how his gaze immediately went to her bare legs. “Okay, Captain America, but you better keep up. I’m not going to slow down to accommodate your broken-down soldier’s body,” she teased.
“There is nothing broken down about this fine specimen,” Gabriel said, smoothing a hand over his chest. Even covered by a sweatshirt, it was a nice one.
“We’ll see,” she said, winking as she walked out of the room.
She wasn’t at all surprised when he kept up with her or that he slowed his pace for her. She hadn’t really thought she’d be faster, but she liked egging him on—a tiny dip of her toe back into the relationship they’d had. One where they teased each other, laughed, talked, and adventured.
What did surprise her, though, was when he grabbed a bag from his truck on their way back into her cabin.
“What’s that?” she asked. Unlocking the door and letting them both in. They’d turned the fire off when they left, but a soft warmth still filled the room.
“Breakfast,” he replied.
She eyed him as she shut the door. “I eat fine,” she said. “I’m a healthy weight and don’t often get sick. You don’t need to feed me.”
“You said running is one of the only things that helps you manage your anxiety. You ran eight miles. Now it’s time to eat,” he said, moving past her toward the kitchen.
When he started unpacking the bag, pulling out a carton of eggs, then a block of cheese, the words in her throat died.
She truly didn’t need him to feed her, but he seemed to need to.
And, admittedly, she liked the look of him in her kitchen.
She couldn’t cook worth crap and always felt as if she were bumbling about.
He moved around with a nonchalant confidence that was more attractive than it should be.
“Spinach, cheese, and ham omelets with chicken sausages,” he said.
“If you eat everything on your plate, I may even share the maple bar I brought.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, just went about preparing their meal.
It gave her more time to admire him, his hair tousled by the wind of their run, the fit of his track pants over his long, lean legs. Gabriel Walker kept in shape.
A wave of longing swept through her. They’d never have a second chance.
Not after she’d detonated both their lives.
But that didn’t stop her wondering what it would have been like if she hadn’t.
What it would have been like if she hadn’t had the parents she’d had.
If she’d been able to say yes to him that night.
If they’d been able to become what they’d both wanted for each other.
Had they been too young for anything to stick, though? Or would they have stayed together? Would they be married, maybe even have a couple of kids? Nearly twenty years later, she wasn’t sure she even wanted either of those last two things. But back then? She’d dreamed about having a life with him.
With a mental shake of her head—it did no good to wonder about those things—she joined him. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen, but can I help?”