Page 28 of Egg Me On

I busied myself with cleanup, unable to meet Silas's eyes. After a moment, he sighed.

"Don't give up on him so quick," he said before pushing away from the window. "He's worth the effort."

I didn't respond, continuing to scrub at a spot on the counter that was already clean. When I looked up again, Silas was gone, and the parking lot had emptied of the morning rush crowd.

I leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted. My bladder protested, reminding me I'd been mainlining coffee since 5 a.m. without a bathroom break. Usually, I used the facilities in the shop rather than the tiny, cramped toilet in the food truck.

Which meant potentially running into Cash.

I debated holding it, but my body had other ideas. With a resigned sigh, I flipped the "Back in 15 Minutes" sign onto the service window and locked up. The walk across the parking lot felt like marching to my execution, each step bringing me closer to the possibility of an encounter I wasn't prepared for.

The shop was quiet when I entered; most of the mechanics busy with repairs in their individual bays. I kept my head down, making a beeline for the restroom at the back. Just get in, take care of business, get out. No need to—

I slammed into a solid wall of muscle as I rounded the corner, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Strong hands gripped my upper arms, steadying me before I could stagger backward.

"Shit, sorry, I wasn't looking—" The words died in my throat as I looked up into familiar amber eyes.

Cash stood frozen, his hands still on my arms, his face inches from mine. This close, I could see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the slight chapping of his lower lip where he'd been biting it—a nervous habit I'd noticed during our weekend together.

He smelled the same—motor oil and that subtle cologne that had clung to my skin for hours after we'd parted. His fingers were warm through the fabric of my shirt, the same fingers that had mapped every inch of my body with devastating precision.

"Aiden," he said, my name emerging rough and low, like it had been dragged across gravel.

"Cash," I replied, hating how breathless I sounded, how my body instinctively leaned toward his.

We stood like that, suspended in the narrow hallway, neither moving away nor stepping closer. His eyes searched mine, looking for something I couldn't name. My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud I was certain he could hear it. The urge to reach up, to touch his face, to reclaim what we'd had in the mountains was nearly overwhelming.

I waited, holding my breath, wanting—needing—him to say something, anything, that would explain the distance he'd put between us. That would tell me the weekend had meant something to him, too. That would make the ache in my chest subside.

But as the silence stretched between us, his hands slowly dropped from my arms, leaving cold spots where his warmth had been. And I turned and walked away. If he couldn’t even tell me what he was thinking, how could this ever work?

Chapter 11

Cash

I killed the Harley'sengine outside Aiden's house, the sudden silence ringing in my ears like an accusation. I’d arrived 12 hours early for our usual pickup time because I couldn't fucking stand another day of watching him through the shop window, pretending I didn't want to cross that parking lot and drag him into my arms. The morning's encounter in the hallway—his expectant face, my paralyzed tongue—replayed in my head on an endless loop. Words had failed me then. They always did. But I knew other ways to tell him what I couldn't say.

The lights were on, warm yellow squares against the darkening sky. I sat astride my bike for a moment, wrestling with the unfamiliar tightness in my chest. He'd driven to work without me. Left early, deliberately avoiding me. The thought burned like acid, feeding the possessive hunger that had been growing since that first night in the tent.

I stalked up the walkway, each step fueled by a desperation I'd never felt before, and knocked on the door.

Footsteps approached. Not Aiden's—too light, too measured. The door swung open to reveal a younger woman with Aiden's eyes and none of his warmth. His sister. Mira.

She crossed her arms, blocking the doorway with her slight frame. "Can I help you?" She knew exactly who I was, but was pretending not to.

"Aiden here?" My voice emerged rougher than intended.

"He's been weird since he got back from that camping trip," she said, eyeing me like I was something dangerous she'd found on her shoe. "Something to do with you, I assume? Were you an asshole?"

I met her glare with one of my own. "I need to talk to him."

She snorted. "Talk? That's a first."

The barb struck home with painful accuracy. I clenched my jaw, refusing to flinch. Her eyes swept over me—taking in the leather jacket, the boots, the tension radiating from every line of my body.

"He's in his room," she finally said, stepping aside reluctantly. "Down the hall, last door on the left." As I brushed past her, she added, "Hurt him again and I'll key your precious motorcycle."

I didn't respond, already moving down the hallway, drawn toward him like metal to a magnet. The last door stood slightly ajar, a thin slice of light spilling into the dim corridor. I didn't knock. Couldn't wait that extra second. Just pushed the door open and stepped inside.