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The sun sneaks through the thin motel curtains, casting a sliver of light across the bed.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the morning.
Jordyn’s beside me, her chocolate brown hair sprawled out like a halo on the pillow.
Each strand catches the light, accentuating the golden highlights she has in some places.
I’m caught for a moment, just watching her breathe, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Her face is peaceful, her lips slightly parted, and she looks nothing like the firecracker she is when awake.
It’s these moments that get me. Moments where the world outside—bikes, club business, danger—doesn’t matter.
I shift, trying not to disturb her.
My arm’s gone numb from having it under her all night, but hell, if I’d move it sooner.
Jordyn stirs, murmuring something unintelligible before settling back into stillness.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the mix of her floral shampoo and the lingering scent of last night’s whiskey.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping me out of my reverie.
I reach over, careful not to wake her, and grab it.
The screen lights up, and I see the time.
8:00 a.m.
Shit.
I’ve got to be at the clubhouse soon, or Blackjack and Zane will have my hide.
“Jordyn,” I whisper, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
She doesn’t stir. I don’t really want to wake her since she looks so damn peaceful. But duty calls and the club waits for no one.
“Jordyn,” I try again, a bit louder this time.
Her eyes flutter open, those hazel depths slowly focusing on me.
“Morning, beautiful,” I say, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.
She smiles sleepily, but then I watch realization hit her like a freight train.
“Shit, what time is it?” she asks, suddenly wide awake, the tranquility of moments ago shattered.
“Eight-oh-five,” I reply. “We need to go. I’ve got to get back to the clubhouse.”
“Fuck!” she mutters under her breath, throwing the covers off and scrambling to find her clothes from last night, scattered around the room like breadcrumbs leading to our wild evening.
“Late to something?” I ask, already knowing she must be.
“Yeah,” she says, pulling on her jeans. “Tara’s gonna kill me. I’m late for my shift at Tart.”
She grabs her phone and dials Tara, pacing the room while waiting for her to pick up.
I start getting dressed too, pulling on my jeans and a black t-shirt, the fabric feeling rough but familiar against my skin.
