He walks straight to the counter, orders coffee, and plants himself with his back half-turned like he’s waiting on somebody else.
My throat tightens so fast it hurts.
Elijah watches me, and I hate that he can see it. Hate that my reaction is written all over my face like I’m thirteen again and crushes still make me stupid.
“You like him,” Elijah says quietly.
“I don’t,” I lie.
Elijah’s eyes flick toward Oaks, then back to me. “He likes you.”
I clench my jaw. “No. He doesn’t.”
Elijah leans forward, voice gentler. “Brittany. You’re shaking.”
I realize my hands are trembling on the edge of my fries basket like I’m about to snap the plastic.
I force them still. “I’m fine.”
Elijah’s gaze sharpens. “Then why is everyone whispering about it.”
I don’t answer.
Because what the hell can I say?
Yes, the married biker with the wedding ring and dangerous eyes saw me once and now this whole county thinks I’m a slut and his wife wants to rip my hair out.
Yes, he warned me to watch my back and then disappeared like he never existed.
Yes, I hate him for ignoring me and I hate myself for caring.
Elijah shifts, and his hand finally touches mine. Just a gentle press like he’s grounding me.
Oaks sees it.
I know he sees it because his posture changes, barely. A tension in his shoulders. A stillness that wasn’t there a second ago.
He doesn’t turn around.
He doesn’t come over.
He doesn’t do a damn thing.
But the air gets colder.
Elijah’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, a small reassuring movement.
Oaks’ jaw flexes.
I can see it from across the room.
That’s when the anger that’s been simmering all week crawls up my throat and finally shows its teeth.
I stand so fast it moves the booth and it scrapes loud on the tile.
Every head turns.
I don’t care.
