“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom.”
“Anytime. Now, drink your caffeine and tell me about the case you crushed today. I need to live vicariously through your professional dominance.”
I snort, nearly choking. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’mbalanced,” she says, raising her cup in mock salute. “Caffeine, chaos, and a healthy fear of men with cuts.”
We laugh a real, belly-deep laughter, the kind that almost hides the tremor in my chest.
But when I leave, her warning stays with me like the taste of bitter coffee.You step back into that world, and it’ll chew you up.
Early the next morning, snow starts falling before I hit the back roads. Light at first, then heavier fat flakes that smear against the windshield and dissolve into silence.
I didn’t sleep much last night, nervous energy skirted through my body, making sleep impossible. Will Steel tell me to leave? Will he look at me with the same longing and want as the night of the General’s memorial, only to shut me down and force me to walk away?
Leah’s text lights my phone:
Don’t crash. Or fall back in love.
I laugh under my breath. “Too late.”
The road to the clubhouse is an old, familiar, faint scar, but it still throbs when touched. Pines blur past, black against white. The heater hums low.
If Steel opens the door, I’ll tell him it’s business. If he looks at me like he used to, I’ll keep my distance. If he says my name,Aria, in that voice that makes promises sound like confessions, I’ll remember why I left.
That’s the plan. Except every mile closer feels like stripping away another piece of armor.
By the time I reach the clubhouse and the fadedSaint Motorssign appears through the storm, my hands are trembling on the wheel. I kill the engine and stare at the faint light spilling under the garage door. My breath fogs the windshield.
Business, I remind myself. Just business.
I step out on shaking legs.
Thick, metallic heat hits as soon as I open the garage door with the scent of oil and smoke. Music hums low from an old speaker.
Steel’s bent over a Harley, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he tightens a bolt. His cut hangs on a hook behind him, the “President” rocker catching the light.
I forget to breathe.
He looks up slowly, like he already knows I’m here. Beautiful dark eyes, as I remember, stare at me. Dark circles hang heavy under them.
“Didn’t expect you this early,” he says, voice steady but rough around the edges.
I hold up the folder. “Figured I’d get the paperwork out of your way.”
He wipes his hands on a rag, and I want to reach for him. Stupid, reflexive, but the memory of leaving him in the rain freezes me mid-step. “Draft send you?”
“I volunteered.” That earns me a long, slow look that does things to my pulse I don’t want to name.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” The air thickens. Neither of us moves.
“You keeping busy?” he asks, like small talk can hide the ache.
“Trying,” I say. “Law doesn’t stop for grief.”
He nods once. “Neither does the club.” Something soft in his tone cracks, and exhaustion makes my throat tighten.
