“Sure.” She nodded, already moving around to the driver’s side of her vehicle. “Lead the way.”
I mounted my bike again, hyperaware of her watching me, of the engine’s rumble breaking the silence between us. Through the side mirror, I saw her slide into her sedan, both hands gripping the wheel. I pulled away slowly, conscious of her following at a careful distance.
I led her to the back of the main clubhouse where the kitchen entrance was, and led straight to a long counter I could set everything on before putting them away. I parked near the entrance and killed the engine, watching as she pulled in beside me.
When she emerged from her car, she moved with more confidence than before, popping the trunk and starting to unload.
“This is different,” she said, surveying the kitchen building. “I delivered to the main place last time.”
“Easier here.” I moved toward her trunk, noting the stacks of grocery bags. “I got it.”
I reached for the bags nearest to me, lifting several at once. Our fingers didn’t touch, but I felt her presence like a physical force, a gravity pulling at senses I’d thought long deadened. She grabbed bags of her own, following me to the kitchen’s rear entrance. I had the door propped open so she didn’t feel trapped. I noticed her hesitate briefly before entering.
Inside, industrial stainless steel gleamed under fluorescent lights. Walk-in refrigerator, freezer, commercial ranges. All donated or acquired through channels best not discussed with outsiders. Knuckles kept us in whatever equipment we wanted and, as it turned out, a few of the old ladies liked to cook. No one objected.
I set the bags on the center island, turning to take morefrom her. This time, our fingers did brush, a momentary contact that sent a jolt up my arm. Her eyes widened slightly, telling me she’d felt it too.
“Is all this for the club?”
I shook my head. “Some for here. Some to the shelter. Some to local families or homeless who need it.”
She paused, tilting her head as she studied me. “You feed people outside the club?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain about the families of incarcerated men we supported, the women rebuilding lives after abuse, the children who would otherwise go hungry. The club’s reputation served its purpose, but the reality was more complex than outsiders knew.
We fell into a rhythm, moving between her car and the kitchen, unloading, sorting. I doubted most delivery drivers helped unload beyond setting everything on the nearest flat surface, but the only time she hesitated was when she actually entered the clubhouse. Which is why I’d left the door open.
“You been doing deliveries long?” The question surprised me as much as her. I rarely initiated conversation and never with strangers.
She glanced up from a bag of onions she carried. “About three months. Since I lost my other job.”
I waited, giving her space to continue if she wanted. When she didn’t, I respected the boundary. We all had stories we kept to ourselves.
She’d worn a light jacket last time, but today in just the T-shirt, I could see lean muscle in her arms. Not gym-built. The kind that came from work. She moved like someone accustomed to carrying her own weight, expecting no help but competent enough not to need it.
When she set the last bag on the kitchen counter she pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. The gestureshouldn’t have caught my attention; instead, it made my fingers itch to follow the same path.
“That’s everything,” she said, dusting her hands against her jeans. Her gaze met mine fully now, more direct than before. She didn’t look quite comfortable, but no longer truly afraid.
I followed her back to her car. I have no idea why. She could make her way out of the compound on her own. Instead I found myself moving slowly after her, just… watching.
She reached up to shut the trunk of her car when she paused. Leaning in and reaching far in the back of the trunk, she dragged out two large boxes of eggs and hurried back to the kitchen entrance.
I stepped back from the door to give her room, but she stumbled. I’d intended to reach for the eggs, but it was either catch her or the box. Gravity took over from there. The floor caught the eggs. I had my arms full of warm woman.
“Shit!” Cora gasped, looking up at me in shock. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” She trailed off, her eyes wide as she gazed up at me.
I shook my head, not really sure why, only that I never wanted her to be sorry for being in my arms. No matter what the reason. I knew I should let her go. Thing was, she wasn’t fighting and I didn’t have the willpower to let her go on my own. She fit against me in a way that made my chest tighten. Warm. Solid. Real. Her hair smelled like vanilla and clean, bright sunshine that made me want to keep breathing her in. Her hands rested lightly on my shoulders, her fingers curling around the muscles she found.
I knew I should have stepped back the moment I caught her when I’d ensured she had her footing. I should have released her. Instead I held on, arms wrapped around her so she was secure and held like something precious to me. And she still didn’t fight. She didn’t push away or stiffen with fear. She simplylooked up at me with those impossibly blue eyes, breath coming fast, and her lips parted.
Around our feet, broken eggs spread in a yellow pool punctuated by shards of white shell. The mess didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the weight of her against me, the warmth seeping through my shirt into my very soul… the realization that I might not be as completely dead inside as I thought.
Her gaze traveled over my face with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. Her expression shifted. Softened. Something that looked almost like pain flickered across her features.
She lifted one hand with a slow, deliberate movement and reached up toward my face with fingers that trembled slightly. I held perfectly still, not breathing, as those fingers made contact with my skin just below my right eye on my cheek bone.
The touch was featherlight. Gentle in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. Her fingertips traced the small scar there, a pale line about two inches long that I’d stopped noticing a long damn time ago. Courtesy of a shiv in Terre Haute’s exercise yard, a fight that had established early in my sentence that I wouldn’t be an easy target.
