Was that a note of disappointment in his voice? I couldn’t tell. His face was turned away from me as he got dressed, pulling his shirt over his head. Even though I was barely decent, I couldn’t stand to be in this suddenly claustrophobic car anymore. The scent of sex filled the air, and Wingman was so close that I kept brushing up against him.
I needed space. I needed to breathe.
Grabbing my coat, I pushed the door open and stepped out. Snowflakes spilled down the collar of my shirt with icy littlestings. Shivering, I huddled into my coat as fast as possible, frantically buttoning it closed.
Wingman stepped out after me.
“Are you going to the charity ride tomorrow?”
I completely forgot about it since I wasn’t scheduled to work at the clubhouse. Every year, the Reckless Order hosted a holiday charity ride through town. The proceeds were donated to the local food bank to fund their Christmas feast kits that they gave out to families in need. For such big, tough bikers, they were surprisingly thoughtful and generous people.
“Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought,” I replied, focused on fixing up my buttons. “I’ve been so busy with Christmas and it completely slipped my mind—”
I broke off as Wingman stepped forward and cupped my chin, tilting my head up. He pressed a light, sweet kiss to my lips. A whimper escaped me.
Fuck, I never wanted this to end. I rose on tiptoe, sliding my arms around his neck and kissed him back.
It means nothing,I insisted.
“I’m not asking you out on a date, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Wingman said. He barely broke away to speak, and his breath was warm against my mouth. “It’s just…an invitation. Take it or leave it.”
The urge to say yes sprang to the tip of my tongue. But I swallowed it down and forced myself to move away, fishing my gloves out of my coat pocket.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
Wingman nodded, tucking his hands under his arms to warm them.
“Well then,” he hedged. “If I don’t see you again…Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
My throat tightened. I stepped closer, grabbed his belt, and kissed him one last time. I’d forgotten how good it felt to sharethat intimacy with someone. I would be forever grateful to him that he gave me that gift, soothing the lonely ache of being a single mom for just a few precious minutes.
On Christmas morning, my door slid open on squeaky hinges. The soft pitter-pat of socked feet tiptoed into my room. I cracked one eye open.
“Did Santa leave one of his elves behind?”
Mikey climbed up onto my bed with a serious expression, wearing his favorite Lightning McQueen pajamas. He balanced a plate of holiday cookies in his little hands with studious concentration.
“Santa isn’t real.”
I brushed his wispy blond curls away from his forehead and took the plate from him, setting it aside safely on my nightstand. He figured out that Santa wasn’t real all on his own when he was three years old. It broke my heart that he couldn’t hold onto that child-like wonder a little while longer.
“Are you sure?” I replied. “Didn’t you see all those presents under the Christmas tree before you came in here?”
“You did that, Mom,” he said with a patiently exasperated tone that said,do I have to explain everything to you?
I selected a cookie—a lumpy little snowman with a top hat, doused in sprinkles—and broke it in half, holding out the bigger portion to Mikey. He accepted it politely.
“So…” I pushed back the covers and patted the bed. He burrowed in next to me. “What do you want to do today after we open presents?”
Mikey’s little fingers mapped the pale blue cornflowers and daisies that dotted my comforter.
“Can we build a race track in the living room for my toy cars?”
I smiled and pulled him into my arms for a hug, kissing his forehead. We did that every year, and he spent hours zooming his miniature hot rods and mustangs over couches and under the Christmas tree, careening through the kitchen, veering in and out of bedrooms.
Wingman’s invitation to the charity ride lingered in the back of my mind. Honestly, Mikey would love it. To see all those motorcycles up close would be heaven for him.
But it would mean vulnerability on my part. Exposing an aspect of my life that I’d kept largely hidden from the club.
