Page 9 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

My voice comes out steady. Controlled. The voice of a president, not a friend. Not a man drowning in guilt.

"He was loyal. Brave. He had a heart bigger than anyone I've ever known, and he loved without reservation. The club. This town. His family." My eyes find Mara in the crowd. She's crying silently, mascara tracks on her cheeks, and I have to look away before I lose my composure. "He loved fiercely. And he made everyone around him better for knowing him."

I talk about the good times. The runs we took together, the bar fights we survived, the nights we sat on the clubhouse roof and talked about everything and nothing. I don't mention the ambush. Don't mention that I was leading that night. Don't mention that my best friend died because I made the wrong call.

Don't mention that I've been in love with his wife for seven years.

"Marco asked me to take care of things when he was gone." My throat tightens. "I've tried. I'm still trying. And I hope—" My voice cracks. I pause, breathe, force myself to continue. "I hope I'm making him proud."

When I finish, the applause is muted. Respectful. People come up to shake my hand, to tell me Marco was a good man, to share their own memories. I accept it all with the same controlled expression I've worn for twenty years.

But my eyes keep finding Mara. And hers keep finding mine.

The crowd thins around ten.

I should leave. Should go back to the clubhouse, drink until I pass out, and spend another night not sleeping. Instead, I find myself in the back office, sitting in Marco's chair, staring at the photo of him and Mara on their wedding day.

He looks so goddamn happy.

The door opens.

"Hiding?"

Mara's voice is soft. Tired. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, watching me with those dark eyes that have haunted my dreams for years.

"Something like that." I set down the photo. "You should be out there. People want to see you."

"People have seen me for four hours. I needed a break." She doesn't move from the door. "We need to talk about last night."

"Mara—"

"Don't." There's steel in her voice now. "Don't shut me out again. You kissed me like... like that, and then you walked away without a word. You left me standing there with no explanation."

"It shouldn't have happened."

"But it did." She pushes off the door, moving closer. "And you don't get to just disappear again. Not this time. I'm leaving in a week, Pope. If you have something to say to me, say it now. Because I can't spend the rest of my life wondering what the hell that was."

The room tilts. She's really leaving. Walking away from this town, this restaurant, this life. Walking away from me.

"You can't leave."

"Why not?" She's standing right in front of me now, close enough to touch. "Give me one real reason to stay."

My control shatters.

"Because I've spent two years staying away from you and it's been killing me." The words pour out before I can stop them. "Because kissing you last night was the first time I've felt alive since Marco died. Because if you leave, I don't know how to⁠—"

She kisses me.

Her mouth crashes into mine, swallowing my words, and every barrier I've built for seven years crumbles to dust. I pull her onto my lap without thinking, hands gripping her hips, kissing her back with all the desperation I've been choking on since the day I met her.

She tastes like wine and tears and something sweet I can't name. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and I groan against her lips. Two years of staying away. Seven years of loving her. A lifetime of wanting this woman I couldn't have.

"Take me home," she breathes against my mouth. "Not to talk."

I don't need to be told twice.

The ride to my place is torture.