Page 13 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

The kitchen feels too small. Too quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming, the distant sound of a car passing outside, the harsh rhythm of Pope's breathing.

I should be shocked. Should be reeling, processing, struggling to absorb this revelation.

But I'm not.

"I know."

Pope's head snaps up. "What?"

"I know you were leading that night. I know you blame yourself."

He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "How⁠—"

"Hammer." The confession comes easier than I expected. "About a year ago. He came in late one night after closing—I was still here doing inventory, and he looked like he needed a drink more than I needed to go home. So I poured him one. And then another. And then..." I shrug. "He didn't mean to say as much as he did. But I asked the right questions, and once he started talking, it all came out. The route. The ambush. The fact that you've been carrying the blame ever since."

"I'll kill him."

"No, you won't. He was hurting, Ryder. Missing Marco. And I think part of him knew I needed to understand what really happened that night." I wrap my hands around my own mug, needing the warmth. "I never said anything because what was the point? You were already avoiding me. Already carrying enough guilt to crush a lesser man. Was I supposed to hunt you down and demand answers you clearly weren't ready to give?"

"You should hate me." The words come out ragged. "I got your husband killed."

"No." I say it firmly, leaving no room for argument. "The Iron Serpents got my husband killed. The men who set up that ambush, who opened fire on people who weren't expecting a fight—they killed Marco. You made a strategic decision with the information you had. Any leader would have done the same."

"But—"

"I don't blame you for Marco's death, Ryder." I hold his gaze, willing him to believe me. "I never have. I never will."

Something cracks in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or the first hint of forgiveness he's never allowed himself to feel.

But there's something else, too. Something darker, lurking behind the gratitude.

"And you still..." He gestures vaguely between us, and at the bedroom door standing open. "After knowing that..."

"Yes." I don't hesitate. "After knowing that."

The relief on his face is almost painful to witness. Like a man who's been holding his breath for years finally being allowed to exhale.

But he's still not meeting my eyes. Still holding something back.

"There's more, isn't there?" I ask softly. "Something you're not telling me."

His jaw tightens. The walls I watched crumble last night are rebuilding themselves right in front of me, brick by brick.

"Ryder—"

"I can't." He pushes back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor. "Not yet. I'm not—I need time, Mara. Please."

I should push. Should demand the whole truth, refuse to let him retreat back behind his defenses.

But the rawness in his voice stops me. He's given me more this morning than he's probably given anyone in years. Pushing harder might break something that can't be fixed.

"Okay," I say. "Okay. But this conversation isn't over."

"I know."

He walks me to the door, and the goodbye is awkward—both of us wanting something neither of us knows how to ask for. He brushes a kiss across my forehead, tender and tentative, and I leave with the taste of coffee on my lips and more questions than answers.

The restaurant is quiet when I let myself in.