“Let me know when you’re ready.”
“Okay.” Noelle slips off her backpack and begins bundling up Ainsley.
I turn to Storm.
“Yeah. Go.” He ticks his chin toward the mall exit.
I don’t bother telling him when I’ll be back at the clubhouse because if I have my way, I’ll get invited inside Noelle’s place. Just for hot cocoa and cookies. Or a movie. Or the chance to give her my number and learn where she lives.
I won’t stalk her. Tonight.
That’s about the limit of my promise.
“We’re ready,” Noelle announces, and I turn around, grinning when I see both of them bundled up.
“Lead the way, darlin’.”
Chapter 3 Noelle
Torque followed me home. He’s not riding a motorcycle, which makes sense in this weather, but I’m almost disappointed. I wanted to see him riding through the blustery snow with his black leather jacket, defiant against the weather, his chin lifted with pride as he glided across the wet pavement. A romantic notion probably conjured from all the smutty novels I read.
Seriously, I have an addiction.
It’s for research—work-related intel. I’m an author, so I can claim it.
Of course, I write small-town romance with humor and spice. It’s different from what I read, but I find inspiration in all types of books. You have to fill the creative well, or it dries up, and no one enjoys a book that’s dull or forced.
I click the remote on my visor, and my garage door opens before I pull to a stop and shut down the engine. Ainsley is already asleep in the backseat. I glance at her, and my heart squeezes. I could have lost her tonight. I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I thought my heart might jump right out of my chest.
My sister would have killed me. Legit murder. I would have let her.
When I grab my purse and backpack and open the door, I see Torque standing at the edge of the garage, just outside the line.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I gesture to my car. “She’s asleep.”
“Need any help?”
Actually, yeah. “Yes. If you can grab this stuff for me, I’ll unlock the door.”
He strides toward me and reaches for my things, holding them as I push the key into the lock. Once it’s open, I gesture for him to enter.
“You can set those on the kitchen counter.”
“Sounds good.”
He enters the house as I click the garage door closed. Only a minute later, I’m carrying Ainsley inside. I settle her on the couch and cover her with a blanket. The house is warm compared to the garage, but I still shiver.
Torque closes the garage door for me and notices my reaction. “Hot cocoa?”
“You know it.” I join him in the kitchen and go to the little station I keep stocked year-round.
There’s a sign that reads “Hot Cocoa Bar” that I bought from Hobby Lobby, and cute little ceramic dishes with matching lids. Each one is labeled with Marshmallows, Chocolate Chips, Sprinkles, and Candy Canes. I keep a few containers of various hot cocoa mixes along with flavored syrups, creamers, and chocolate spoons for stirring. There are whole candy canes, too, instead of the chopped ones in the ceramic dish.
“Wow,” Torque observes. “I think I might have underestimated your dedication.”
“I’m very serious about my cocoa,” I inform him.
