Page 6 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"Fine," I mutter, and go get the ladder.

He positions it beneath the banner, one hand braced against the frame while I climb. The rungs creak under my weight, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close he is. If I fell, he'd catch me. I know that with absolute certainty, the same way I know the sun will rise tomorrow.

I reach up to hook the banner into place, stretching further than I should, and the ladder wobbles.

Pope's hand clamps around my hip.

"Careful." His voice is rough.

I freeze. His fingers are warm through my jeans, steadying me with an easy strength that makes my pulse stutter. I can feel the heat of his body behind me, close enough that if I leaned back, I'd be pressed against his chest.

I don't lean back. But I want to. God help me, I want to.

"Got it," I manage, and practically throw myself off the ladder.

He lets me go immediately, stepping back like he's been burned. The distance between us feels both necessary and unbearable.

"I should finish the kitchen prep," I say, not looking at him.

"I'll handle the rest out here."

We retreat to opposite sides of the restaurant like fighters going to their corners. But the ghost of his touch lingers on my hip for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time we finish, the sun has set and the restaurant is empty except for the two of us. The memorial setup looks beautiful—Marco would have loved it, all warm candlelight and photos of him grinning at the camera, surrounded by the people who mattered most.

I should feel proud. Instead, I just feel hollow.

Pope finds me behind the bar, pouring myself a glass of wine I probably shouldn't have. He doesn't say anything, just settles onto the stool across from me, his presence filling up the space.

"Why did you really come today?" I ask.

"Told you. To help."

"Bullshit." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "You've spent two years avoiding me. You had Hammer and Diesel check in, but you? Never. So why now? Why today?"

He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is low. "Made a promise to Marco."

"It's been two years. You've kept your distance for two years." I lean forward, searching his face for something—anything—that explains the man in front of me. "What changed?"

"You're leaving."

The words land like stones.

"So that's it? I announce I'm selling the restaurant and suddenly you show up?" I laugh, but it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "Unbelievable. Two years of nothing, and the thing that finally breaks through is me leaving."

"Mara—"

"No." I set down my wine glass hard enough that it sloshes over the rim. "You don't get to 'Mara' me. You don't get to show up now and act like you care when you couldn't be bothered to⁠—"

"I couldn't be near you!"

The confession cracks through the air like thunder. Pope's jaw is tight, his hands clenched on the bar, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks... undone.

"What?"

"I couldn't be near you," he repeats, quieter this time. "After Marco—every time I looked at you, all I saw was him. Dying. Bleeding out while I—" He stops, shakes his head. "I stayed away because I couldn't handle it. Not because I didn't care."

The anger drains out of me, leaving something raw and aching in its place. "Pope..."