I watched Tyler’s face light up, watched him practically bounce on his toes with excitement. “Okay! Thanks, Popeye!”
After Tyler left, I walked over to Stephen’s table. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” He looked up at me, his expression serious. “Kid needs someone to show up for him. I can do that.”
The next afternoon, I watched them leave together—Stephen’s hand on Tyler’s shoulder as they headed toward the hardware store, Tyler chattering excitedly about volcanoesand baking soda. Stephen listened patiently, asking questions, genuinely engaged.
And I realized, standing there in the bakery watching them go, that this wasn’t just about me. Wasn’t just about sex or romance or even love.
Stephen was building something real.
A family.
A life.
He was serious about fitting into Diamond Creek.
The week had been full of moments like that—Grace and King at my dinner table, Tyler’s hand in Stephen’s as they headed out for the afternoon, the way he looked at me across the room. Stolen kisses between those moments, heated touches in the kitchen, nights that bled into mornings. We’d gone to dinner at a steakhouse where he’d ordered for both of us without asking, his hand possessively on my thigh under the table. We’d spent an entire Sunday in bed, only leaving long enough to order takeout. He’d fixed the loose hinge on my kitchen cabinet without being asked, then fucked me against the counter while the coffee brewed.
He was everywhere, and I was drowning in him.
But there was one thing he kept asking for that I kept refusing.
“Come on, darlin’,” he said on Thursday morning, leaning against his motorcycle in my driveway. “Just one ride.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because those things are death traps.”
He grinned. “Lived my whole life on this bike. Still here.”
“Congratulations on your luck. I’m not testing mine.”
“Scared?”
“Smart.”
“Same thing.” He pushed off the bike and walked toward me. “What if I promise to keep you safe?”
“What if I promise to keep saying no?”
His grin widened. “You’re gonna say yes eventually.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
But he kept asking. Every day. Sometimes twice a day. And every time, I refused with some variation of sass and stubbornness.
Until Monday.
“One ride,” he said, standing in my kitchen with his coffee cup in hand. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m saying no. Again.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
