Page 42 of Contracted to the Bikers

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” I ask quietly.

She nods against my shoulder. “Can I have some ice cream later?”

I let out a soft laugh. “I’m sure we can do that.”

Satisfied, she runs back to the others. I watch her go for longer than I should. Forcing myself to tear my gaze away, I turn and head back toward the clubhouse, back upstairs to work, back to the one thing that makes me feel like I’m in control.

***

I don’t hear him come in, but I feel the air shift and change to accommodate him, Rook. “You’re burning out.” I can hear the concern in his voice, but I don’t look up. I don’t need to see him to know his handsome face is knotted with worry.

My fingers dance across the keys, clacking furiously. “I’m working.”

“You’re breaking.”

The anguish in his voice makes me glance at him. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes too sharp.

“I don’t have time to break,” I say.

A muscle dances in his jaw. “You can’t afford not to.”

I look back at the screen, not wanting to see the pain I’m causing reflected in his face. “I’m close.”

“You’ve said that for three days.”

“And I’ve been right every time,” I snap, not wanting to admit defeat.

He steps into the room, throwing open the drapes and bathing the room in bright sunlight that makes me wince. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I have.” I gesture to the half-finished sandwich, molding on the side.

He folds his arms, not falling for my trick. “When?”

I don’t answer because I don’t remember. I resume my furious typing, ignoring him completely. After a moment, he sighs, and I hear the steady footfall of his steps walking away. I think he’s given up, decided I’m a lost cause, but moments later, he returns, the smell of roasted garlic and tomatoes wafting through the air. My mouth waters as he sets the plate down beside me on the desk. Real food, not the coffee, chips, and rushed mouthfuls of junk I’ve been subsisting on. I blink at it.

My eyes flick to him. “You cooked?”

His mouth shifts slightly. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”

“My mom taught me,” he says. The words are quiet, softer. I look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll reveal some information about his youth, which I know so little about. He nods his head toward the plate. “Eat.” I do as I’m told, digging into the plate of spaghetti, suddenly ravenous. It’s good, really good. By obeying him and eating, I earn the right to hear more.

“She died when I was young,” he adds, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter, but of course it does. An old wound, freshly opened. I see it in the way his jaw tightens. The way his gaze shifts away from mine just slightly.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the platitude insufficient.

He shrugs. “She made sure I could take care of myself.”

Something in my chest softens a little. “She did a good job,” I say.

His eyes come back to me. “You need to take care of yourself, too.”

I huff a quiet breath. “I’m fine.”

“That’s debatable.” He reaches out and takes my hand. “You’re not alone, Sloane. Let me help you, let us help you.”

The room settles—something unspoken sitting between us.