Chapter 20
Sadie
After putting Owen to bed, I linger in the doorway longer than I need to, watching him sleep beneath the glow of the small bedside lamp.
The fair had finally exhausted him, which was no small achievement.
He clutches the stuffed toy Dash won for him beneath one arm.
His dark hair sticks up in every direction from the bath he barely stayed awake through.
Even asleep, he looks completely content, and for a moment, I stand there, simply enjoying the sight.
Days like today remind me how much has changed.
A few months ago, Owen’s world revolved around our small house, preschool, and the occasional weekend visit with Ethan.
Now he spends his afternoons chasing dogs around a motorcycle clubhouse, has somehow accumulated an entire collection of biker uncles, and talks about the Wild Riders as though they have always been part of our lives.
He seems happier than he has in a long time. If I’m honest, so am I.
When I first arrived here, I expected danger.
That assumption seems almost ridiculous now.
There are certainly dangerous men in this building, but they are not dangerous in the way Ethan always implied.
The Wild Riders are protective, loyal, and infuriatingly stubborn.
They take care of each other. They take care of their families.
And, whether I like admitting it or not, they have taken care of Owen and me from the moment we arrived.
I quietly pull the bedroom door almost closed behind me and step into the hallway.
“There you are.”
I look up to find Dash leaning against the doorway to his bedroom, one shoulder resting casually against the frame.
The hallway light catches in his blond hair, and there’s something unfairly attractive about how relaxed he looks.
Dash’s confidence slips through every smile, every joke, every movement, making it impossible to tell where the charm ends and the man begins.
His grin widens when he catches me studying him.
“That look usually means you’re about to insult me. ”
“I was considering it.”
“Good. I’d hate for you to lose your hobbies.” I laugh despite myself. The sound seems to satisfy him.
I have begun to suspect that making me laugh has become something of a personal mission.
It isn’t just the jokes, although there are certainly enough of those.
Dash notices things. He notices when I’m worried, when I’m overwhelmed, and when I’m carrying too much inside my own head.
More often than not, he responds by finding some ridiculous way to pull me back into the present.
“Come downstairs and have a drink with me.”
The invitation is delivered casually, but my immediate reaction is anything but.
A flutter of nervousness flicks through me, irritating and surprising.
The problem isn’t the drink itself. It isn’t even the idea of spending time alone with Dash.
We’ve already spent the entire day together at the fair.
We’ve talked, laughed, and shared enough stories that I should feel perfectly comfortable around him by now.
Unfortunately, that’s precisely the problem.
The more comfortable I become around the Wild Riders, the more complicated everything feels.
At first, the attraction had seemed straightforward enough.
After years trapped inside a marriage that left me feeling unwanted, it was hardly surprising that four handsome men had caught my attention.
Attraction is simple and easy to dismiss.
What’s happening now feels far less manageable because, somewhere between the clubhouse dinners, the endless conversations, and the way each of them seems determined to show up whenever I need help, attraction has started to turn into something deeper.
“I should probably get some sleep,” I say, although the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
Dash studies me for a moment before shaking his head. “No, what you should do is spend one evening having fun without feeling guilty about it.”
The response catches me off guard, largely because it lands far closer to the truth than I would like.
For years, every decision I made revolved around responsibility, work, marriage, bills, childcare, school forms, grocery shopping, and doctor appointments.
Somewhere along the way, my own happiness quietly slipped to the bottom of the list. Looking back now, I can’t remember the last time I did something purely because I wanted to.
Dash must see something shift in my expression because his voice softens. “You know, normal people don’t look this conflicted about having a drink.”
“Normal people don’t spend time with you.”
His grin returns. “Poor them.”
The smile that pulls at my mouth feels inevitable.
That’s the problem with Dash. He makes things feel easy, he makes me laugh when I don’t want to, and he makes me forget myself long enough to enjoy things, and as much as I know I should be careful, part of me is desperately tired of being careful all the time.
I let out a quiet sigh. “Okay, one drink.”
The look of satisfaction on his face is entirely unapologetic. “Excellent decision.”
As we head toward the stairs, I can’t help thinking that it probably isn’t.
The first drink disappears almost without me noticing, which is probably a sign that agreeing to come downstairs was a mistake.
Unfortunately, by the time that thought occurs to me, Dash is already halfway through a story that makes me snort with laughter, and the conversation flows easily, so easily that I don’t even think before saying yes when he asks if I want another.
What surprises me is not that I’m enjoying myself.
The surprising part is how long it has been since I enjoyed myself like this.
Somewhere between marriage, motherhood, work, and all the responsibilities that come with being an adult, fun had gradually become something that happened around me rather than something I actively participated in.
Even before Ethan and I divorced, most of our evenings followed the same predictable pattern.
We would put Owen to bed, clean the kitchen, watch television for an hour or two, and eventually head upstairs.
Looking back now, I can’t remember the last time we sat together simply because we enjoyed one another’s company.
Every conversation revolved around practical matters.
Every interaction had a purpose. Somewhere along the way, we stopped being two people choosing to spend time together and became coworkers managing the same household.
The comparison arrives uninvited, but once it appears, I can’t quite dismiss it. Sitting beside Dash feels easy in a way my marriage hadn’t for years.
The conversation continues for what feels like hours, drifting wherever it pleases.
For the first time in a very long while, I stop paying attention to the clock.
I stop worrying about the next thing I need to do.
I stop mentally reviewing tomorrow’s responsibilities.
Instead, I find myself completely absorbed in the moment, listening to Dash tell another ridiculous story while trying—and failing—not to smile.
Beneath all the jokes, there are flashes of something else.
Now and then, the performance slips just enough for me to glimpse the man underneath.
It happens when I ask about his family. It happens when I mention Owen.
It happens when the conversation wanders into more personal territory, and I catch a brief look in his eyes before he covers it with another joke.
The more time I spend around him, the more convinced I become that humor is not simply part of his personality; it’s his armor.
Well-polished armor, admittedly, but armor all the same.
For all his confidence and charm, there’s a loneliness to him that I don’t think many people notice.
Most people probably see the jokes and stop looking any deeper.
They see the easy smile, the endless stories, and the man who seems capable of making friends with absolutely anyone.
What they don’t see are the moments when he thinks nobody is watching, the brief flashes of sadness that appear and disappear almost instantly, or the way his expression softens whenever he talks about people he cares about.
By the time I finally glance around the room, I realize just how much the night has slipped away from us.
Earlier, the clubhouse had been full of life, with members drifting in and out of the bar, conversations overlapping across tables, and laughter carrying from one side of the room to the other.
Now, the atmosphere has changed entirely.
The bartender has long since disappeared, the chairs have been stacked around most of the empty tables, and even the music is quieter than before, reduced to a soft melody drifting through the near-empty room.
Somewhere beyond the windows, rain taps steadily against the glass, while the warm light above the bar casts everything in shades of amber and gold.
I’m sitting alone with a man I’m definitely attracted to, several glasses of wine into an evening that was supposed to involve only a single drink.
Instead of calling it a night, I find myself smiling as he tops up our glasses.
Owen is sleeping safely upstairs and the truth is, I can’t remember the last time I lost track of time while enjoying someone’s company.
I realize how much I miss simple things. I miss laughing until my stomach hurts. I miss talking for hours. Most of all, I miss feeling seen.
It’s impossible to ignore how attentive Dash has been all evening. Every story I tell receives his full attention. Every joke earns a response. Every time my mood shifts, he notices before I say a word.
When he tells me that his favorite part of the day was seeing me laugh, the tension between us grows tighter.
Under different circumstances, I probably would have rolled my eyes or teased him for being cheesy, but there’s something about the way he says it that steals the joke before it can form.
He sounds sincere. Worse still, he looks sincere.
The silence that settles between us feels different from the comfortable pauses that have punctuated the rest of the evening.
I find myself noticing details I’d previously ignored.
The warmth radiating from Dash’s shoulder where it brushes mine, the roughness of stubble along his jaw, and the way his gaze seems to linger just a little longer than before.
None of those things is significant on their own.
Together, however, they create a tension that is impossible to miss.
When my gaze drops briefly to his mouth, I immediately regret it.
Not because I don’t want to kiss him, but because the look in his eyes tells me he noticed.
The smile on his face is stripped of most of its teasing confidence, and I get the sense that he is just as aware of this moment as I am.
The thought sends a nervous flutter through my stomach.
The anticipation itself seems to stretch the distance between us, making me acutely conscious of every second that passes.
When he finally reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture feels unexpectedly intimate.
There is nothing particularly dramatic about it, and yet the simple touch sends warmth racing through me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before I can remind myself why getting involved with another Wild Rider is a terrible idea, I lean toward him.
The kiss feels less like crossing a line and more like arriving at a destination we’ve been slowly approaching.
It carries all the same warmth that has defined the evening, built from shared laughter, easy conversation, and the growing affection I have been trying not to examine too closely.
For a few brief moments, I allow myself to enjoy it without overthinking.
But the sound of the clubhouse door opening shatters the moment.
Dash pulls back first, and the expression that crosses his face is enough to make me whip around to look at the entrance.
Trigger stands framed in the doorway, rainwater glistening on his leather cut and dark hair, his entire body rigid.