“He sounds like a good man,” Thorne says quietly.
“The best,” I agree. “He always says that loving someone means choosing them every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. I think being abandoned gave him this fierce determination to never let me down.” I pick up an onion ring and put it back on my plate. “What about your father? Beyond what we know from the documents.”
I want to ask if he was as terrible as people say, but that seems cruel. The man was Thorne’s dad.
Thorne’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Louis Blackstone was exactly what you’d expect. He was a brilliant businessman, ruthless negotiator, and country club member who knew which fork to use for salad.”
“And as a dad?”
A shadow crosses his face. “He might have thought his ‘lessons’ were teaching us the ways of the world, but …they were harsh. And if you crossed him—family, friend, or enemy, he’d make you pay.” He took a long drink of water. “He taught me well.”
My heart aches for the little boy Thorne was. “That sounds intense,” I say, but the words are hollow, inadequate for the weight of what he’s shared.
A tightness squeezes my chest as I imagine a young Thorne enduring those “lessons,” learning to bury his emotions so deeply that even now they rarely surface. It explains his coldness, his control, the walls he’s built. I resist the urge to reach across the table again, to offer comfort he’d probably reject.
“It was educational,” Thorne replies, his voice carefully neutral. “I learned early that weakness and disobedience weren’t tolerated.”
I touch his hand from across the table. “Emotion isn’t weakness, Thorne.”
His eyes darken as he looks at our hands. “In my world, it is.” After a moment, he turns his hand to briefly squeeze mine before pulling away and holding up his hand for the check, clearly stating this line of conversation is over. And honestly, I’m surprised he shared as much as he did.
The ride back is different. There is an ease between us, as if a wall between us is down.
The final stretch of our journey winds through countryside bathed in twilight. As we cruise along the empty roads, Thorne reaches back, wrapping his fingers gently but firmly around my ankle where it rests against the bike. The gesture, so casually intimate, sends a shock through my system more powerful than any thrill the motorcycle provides.
His thumb traces small circles against my skin just above my boot, and I lean closer, my cheek against his shoulder blade. We stay like that, connected in that small, significant way, until the road demands his attention again.
All too soon, the empty country road is dotted with a few houses, then more. Before long, his estate comes into view. A strange mix of anticipation and apprehension settles in my stomach. The house will be empty except for the staff—and us. No Madison, no Lillianna, no Sebastian. Just Thorne and me, alone in that sprawling mansion with all its secrets and shadows.
Chapter Thirteen
Thorne
The ride back is a blur of wind and want.
She leans against me, all soft curves and quiet strength, and every bump in the road just drives her closer. I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care. But I do. I feel every breath she takes. Every time she shifts, the scent of her hair slips under my helmet and into my bloodstream.
By the time we reach the garage, my pulse is a live wire.
The engine dies, leaving only the crackle of cooling metal and the feeling of Ivy pressed against me. I don’t move. I need a second—just one—to get my body back under control and my head to stop replaying everything I said over lunch. She is too easy to talk to, too easy to make me believe in impossible things like trust and belonging.
Ivy’s arms slip from around my waist as she dismounts. She leans against my Arch motorcycle parked next to us, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. Why is that simple move so sexy?
“That was exhilarating,” she says, sounding slightly breathless.
“The bike or the company?”
“Maybe both,” she replies, her eyes holding mine with a challenging look that’s half dare, half invitation that sends heat straight through me.
I should keep my distance and maintain boundaries, but instead, I step closer. Taking her helmet, I hang it and mine on the handlebars of the motorcycle behind her. We are inches apart, close enough that her warmth radiates from her skin, calling to me. I can see the rapid pulse at her throat, smell the intoxicating mix of leather and her perfume or shampoo of wildflowers. My body responds, every nerve ending alive and aware of exactly how close she is.
“I’m certain I could lose myself in both,” I tell her.
She doesn’t retreat. “That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve never been afraid of danger.”
The air between us tightens, turns electric. My fingers brush the edge of her jaw. Then her mouth is on mine. And everything I’ve been holding back snaps.
