Page 5 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"You need rescuing?" His voice was low, meant only for me.

"From what?"

"Hammer's about to start telling war stories. Trust me, you don't want to be within earshot."

I laughed—a real laugh, the kind I didn't give Marco anymore—and Pope's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. He put his hand on my lower back to guide me through the crowd, and I⁠—

I felt more from that single touch than I had from months of Marco's affection.

His palm was warm through my dress. His fingers splayed across my spine like he was claiming something. And when we reached the other side of the room and he dropped his hand, I felt the loss of it like a physical ache.

I didn't look at him for the rest of the night. Couldn't. Because if I did, he might see the truth written all over my face.

Marco was safe. Marco was kind. Marco was the steady warmth of a fireplace on a cold night.

But Pope was the fire itself. And I was terrified of getting burned.

The afternoon crawls by. I send Gina home early—no point paying her to stand around when we both know tonight will be dead—and start setting up for the memorial myself. Tomorrow, this place will be full of people who loved Marco, sharing stories and raising glasses and pretending that grief has an expiration date.

I'm draping a black tablecloth over the main table when the front door opens.

"We're closed for⁠—"

The words die in my throat.

Pope stands in the doorway, afternoon light silhouetting his broad shoulders. He's wearing the same leather cut as always, the President patch catching the light. But something's different today. The hard lines of his face look softer. Uncertain.

"Came to help," he says. "With the setup."

I stare at him. "You came to help."

"If you'll let me."

A thousand responses crowd my tongue. Where was this help six months ago? A year ago? Two years ago when I was drowning and you couldn't be bothered to throw me a rope?

But I'm tired. So goddamn tired of being angry, of being alone, of carrying everything by myself.

"Fine," I hear myself say. "Tablecloths are in the back."

We work in silence for the first hour.

It should be awkward—two people with this much history, this much unspoken tension, moving around each other in a space that suddenly feels too small. But Pope has always been comfortable with silence. He doesn't fill the air with meaningless chatter the way Marco used to. He just... exists. Solid and steady and impossible to ignore.

I try anyway.

I focus on the task at hand: arranging photos of Marco on the memorial table, positioning candles, making sure everything is perfect for tomorrow. But I keep catching myself watching Pope out of the corner of my eye. The way his hands dwarf the wine glasses he's polishing. The silver threading through his dark hair that wasn't there two years ago. The controlled way he moves, like he's always holding himself back from something.

"Ladder," he says, and I blink.

"What?"

He nods toward the corner where I've been trying to hang a banner for the past ten minutes, stretching on my tiptoes and failing miserably. "You need the ladder. I'll hold it steady."

"I'm fine."

"Mara."

The way he says my name—patient, exasperated, like I'm being deliberately difficult—makes something flutter in my chest. I hate it.