Page 16 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"But you couldn't."

"No." The word comes out broken. "I couldn't. I tried, Mara. God, I tried so fucking hard. Every time you came to the clubhouse, every time I saw you together, every time Marco talked about how much he loved you—I smiled and nodded and pretended my chest wasn't caving in."

I hear her move behind me, feel the warmth of her presence at my back, but I can't turn around. Not yet.

"I've been in love with you for seven years," I say to the wall. "Since before you even knew my name. Since before you were ever Marco's. And I never said a word. Never acted on it. Never let myself even hope—because you were his, and he was my brother, and some lines you don't cross. No matter how much it kills you."

"Ryder." Her hand touches my shoulder, gentle. "Look at me."

I turn.

She's crying. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks, her eyes wide with something that looks like wonder and heartbreak mixed together.

"Marco knew," I tell her, because I'm in this far—might as well finish the confession. "He figured it out about three years into your marriage. Said he caught me looking at you during Sunday dinner, and he just... knew."

"He confronted you?"

"Pulled me aside after church the next week." The memory surfaces, sharp and painful. "Asked me straight out if I was in love with his wife. And I couldn't lie to him. Not Marco. So I told him the truth—that I loved you. That I always would. That I would never, under any circumstances, act on it, because you were his wife and he was my brother and I'd rather cut off my own arm than betray either of you."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing at first. Just stood there looking at me with this expression I couldn't read." I swallow hard. "Then he nodded and said, 'I know you won't. That's why we're still brothers.' And we never talked about it again."

Mara's hand is still on my shoulder, her grip tightening.

"When he was dying," I continue, my voice cracking, "he told me to take care of you. But that wasn't all he said."

"Tell me."

"He said—" I have to stop, breathe, force the words past the tightness in my throat. "'I always knew. And I forgive you. She deserves someone who'll love her like that. Let yourself have something good.'"

The sound Mara makes is somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

"He gave me permission," I say. "With his dying breath, he gave me permission to love you. And I've spent two years feeling like I stole something anyway. Like accepting his blessing would be the ultimate betrayal. Like I don't deserve⁠—"

"Stop."

She steps in front of me, cupping my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her.

"Stop," she says again, softer. "You've been carrying this for seven years. Torturing yourself for feelings you couldn't control. And Marco—" Her voice breaks. "Marco knew. He knew and he forgave you and he wanted this for us. Don't you see? You're not betraying him by loving me. You're honoring his last wish."

"Mara—"

"I felt it too."

The words stop me cold.

"The pull toward you," she continues, her thumbs stroking my cheekbones, wiping away tears I didn't realize I'd shed. "Even when I loved Marco, even when I was happy with him, there was something about you that I couldn't explain. Every time you walked into a room, I felt it. This... gravity. Like you were the sun and I couldn't help but orbit."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you." A sad smile curves her lips. "I buried it so deep I almost convinced myself it wasn't real. Told myself I was imagining things. That I was a terrible person for feeling anything for my husband's best friend." She shakes her head. "But it was real. It's always been real."

"I don't deserve you," I whisper.

"Maybe not." She rises on her toes, bringing her face close to mine. "But I'm choosing you anyway. The way you should have chosen me seven years ago."

"I was too old for you then. I'm still too old for you now."