Page 16 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
Me: channelling my inner functional human “Yeah, just . . . gravity, you know? It’s got a personal vendetta against me lately.”
He laughed. And it was the kind of laugh that made him seem just like your average guy rather than Savage the hot biker who flusters me every time I see him.
“Everything okay?” I asked. “You looked ready to throw that phone through a wall.”
I expected him to brush me off. Instead, he ran a hand down his face and said, “My mum’s not doing great. She had a bad day with her chemo.”
Oh.
OH.
“On days like today, I’m glad I moved here from the Coast to be near her,” he continued, like he hadn’t just completely reorganised everything I thought I knew about him. “But still, it’s fucking hard watching her go through this.”
“That’s . . . not what I expected.”
That damn smirk returned, but it was softer somehow. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Territory expansion? Secret underground fight club? Witness protection?” I bit my lip to stop myself from mentioning the Wine Club’s latest theories. “This building has a very active rumour mill.”
He laughed again, and look, I’m going to need him to stop doing that because I already have enough stability issues without adding auditory-induced weakness to the mix.
“Yeah, I noticed the old ladies with their ‘plant watering’ schedule. Always seems to coincide with my comings and goings.”
“Those are some very well-hydrated plastic plants,” I said before I could stop myself.
His shoulder brushed mine as he shifted, and suddenly I was very aware of how close we were sitting. “Life’s not always that exciting, sweetheart. Sometimes a man just needs to be where his family needs him.” He paused, looking down at his phone again. “She’s usually stronger than this. Her treatments are hitting harder lately.”
That alpha swagger he usually wore was gone. In its place was unexpected softness that had no business being so disarming, or so likely to ruin the integrity of my entire spreadsheet on him.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You’re doing it.” When I looked confused, he elaborated, “Giving me a reason to smile on a shit day.”
Hold up. Time out. System error.
Did Brisbane’s most dangerous man just say I make him smile? While doing that thing with his eyes that scrambles my entire operating system? I need someone to explain how I’m supposed to function when he’s combining emotional vulnerability with those arms and that face and those tattoos that I want to spend hours getting to know.
ERROR 404: Cognitive Function Not Found.
“I just hate seeing her struggle,” he continued. “She’s always been the strong one, you know? Raised me and my sister alone after Dad bailed. Worked three jobs. Never complained. And now I can’t fix this for her.”
The way his voice roughened on those last words hit me right in the chest. Without thinking, I touched his arm. “You moved cities to be closer to her. That’s not nothing.”
He looked at where my hand rested on his arm, and for a moment I thought I’d overstepped. But he just carried on with our conversation like it was perfectly normal for a practical stranger to touch him.
“I’ve been taking her to treatments three times a week,” he said quietly. “She tries to act like it’s not taking a toll, but . . .” He shook his head. “She keeps insisting she can take the bus. Says I’ve got better things to do than sit in hospital waiting rooms.”
“But you don’t.”
“No,” he agreed, a fierce expression crossing his face. “I don’t.”
And that’s when I fully processed:
1. This man who terrifies half of Brisbane moved here to take care of his mum
2. He was letting me see this side of him
3. The way he was watching me so intently while sharing something so personal was making it hard to think
