“Good,” she says. “I made arroz con pollo and that flan you like, so don’t be late.”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “You're always trying to bribe me with food.”
“It works,” she fires back. “And bring an appetite, I made more than enough. Even if Rafa keeps sneaking bites.”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I push the bike into the shade. “Alright. I’ll shower and head that way in a bit.”
“Drive safe,” she adds automatically, the same words she’s been saying since I was sixteen and thought I was invincible on two wheels.
“Always,” I say, and hang up.
I push through the front door and step into the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind. The empty kind.
The house is dark except for the thin strip of late afternoon light cutting across the hardwood from the front window, dust drifting lazy in the beam. Big couch. Big chair. Heavy wood coffee table. A massive TV mounted on the wall that I barely use. Everything solid. Everything comfortable. Everything chosen more for function than feeling.
It’s not a bad place. It’s just… not much of a place.
I’m not here enough for it to ever really feel like home. Most nights I’m at the shop, the clubhouse, crashing wherever I land after long days and longer nights. This place exists because I needed somewhere that was mine, somewhere quiet when I needed to shut the world off.
I kick off my boots by the door and move deeper into the house, the quiet following me like a shadow, and for the first time since I bought the place, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I drop my keys on the counter and the sound echoes too loud in the stillness. I drift into the kitchen and pull open the fridge, the cool air washing over my face for half a second before I grab a beer from the top shelf. The bottle cap twists off with a soft crack in my hand, metal biting into my palm just enough to register, and I take a long pull, the cold bitterness grounding and sharp against my tongue.
Better.
I lean back against the counter and stare into the quiet again, the house still too big for one person, too empty for how loud my head feels right now. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space like fake company, the only thing moving in the room.
I’ve never brought a woman here. Not once. Not hookups. Not mistakes. Not anyone I didn’t plan on keeping at arm’s length.This place has always been mine alone, clean and controlled and untouched by anyone else’s mess or expectations.
My eyes drift automatically to the couch and for half a second I can picture her there, curled into the corner with her knees tucked up, that soft little furrow between her brows when she’s thinking too hard about something. The image hits harder than it should.
I shake my head once and scrub a hand over my jaw. Going down that line of thought is dangerous. But after the last forty-eight hours that’s the only line my brain can go down. She’s all I can think about.
TWELVE
BROOKE
Everyone finally leftyesterday after I convinced them several times that I’d be okay on my own. I love them for caring, but I’m relieved to have the house to myself again, to breathe without feeling watched or hovered over. They leave all the food behind, which I’m definitely not complaining about since it means I won’t have to cook for a few days. Not that I would have.
I don’t normally eat like this. Carbs usually come with at least a little guilt attached. Right now though, I honestly don’t care. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone actually attacked me, and if leftovers help keep me upright while I sort through that, so be it.
Knowing I’m still a mess, I do something I’ve never done before. I pull up Mark Reynolds’ contact and stare at his name longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the call button while my stomach twists. I almost talk myself out of it. Almost. Then I hit call and bring the phone to my ear before I can change my mind.
My phone feels heavier than it should in my hand as it rings, my foot bouncing against the leg of the kitchen chair like it’s got a mind of its own.
“Brooke?” Mark, my boss, answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, then wince because that’s a lie I say way too easily. I clear my throat. “Actually… I’m calling because I need to take the week off. Personal stuff.”
There’s a brief pause on the line. Not the bad kind. The processing kind. “You?” Mark says, surprised but not annoyed. “Taking time off?”
I huff a quiet, nervous laugh. “I know. I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud before.”
“You haven’t,” he says dryly. “I usually have to force you to leave your desk.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “I’ve just got some things I need to deal with. I can reroute my clients to the team and push the listings I was supposed to handle.”
