Page 39 of The Biker and the Loner
A distant noisewakes me. It takes me a moment to recall my surroundings. I’m curled up in the middle of a bed, on fresh, clean, cloudy sheets in an airy room with flowing powder-blue drapes—sheets and drapes that I’d picked out.
It’s darkening outside the windows.
“Peach?”
Scratch.He’s back.
He’d called me around five to tell me he’d gotten caught up running some errands and that I shouldn’t leave. That’s around the time I’d decided to take a nap, as I’d not been in a rush to get home anyway.
I don’t want to be the girl who looks to a man to save her, but as much as I’m fighting it, this place is already starting to feel like a haven.
Yawning, I shimmy off the bed and head downstairs. Scratch is two steps up the stairs when he spots me and halts, waiting for me at the bottom.
“Hey,” I say when I get to him, rubbing my eyes.
“Didn’t know you were napping. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s fine.” I lock my arms around his neck. “You were gone a while…”
He circles his arms around my waist. “Yeah. Some wannabe bad boys were making trouble for the girls down at Cookie’s spot. A couple of us rallied to go take care of it.”
“What? Was anyone hurt?”
“Nah. Everyone’s fine. Those idiots will think twice next time before stepping foot into Cookie’s Treat.”
I relax. “Well, I’m glad the girls are okay.”
One thick, dark eyebrow kicks up in indignation. “What about me?”
I shrug. “Meh.”
He spanks my ass before letting me go. “Just for that, you won’t be getting anymore kisses for twenty-four hours.”
“Eh. Those were meh, too.”
He narrows his eyes and points a threatening finger at me before turning to walk away. I cackle at his back.
“Brought dinner,” he says. “C’mon.”
I follow him into the kitchen where two takeout containers sit on the breakfast bar. He asks, “You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you?”
“Nope. Allergy wise, I’m good on all food fronts except for mushrooms. I’m mildly allergic.”
“Great, because I got us peanut sauce chicken and broccoli with seasoned brown rice. And I hate mushrooms so we’re good there.”
I hike up on one of the stools. “Sounds yummy.”
He opens my container for me and unwraps the plastic knife and fork. He then heads to the fridge and grabs a beer for himself and a Sprite Zero for me. All the Sprites and Cokes in the fridge and pantry are mine, and all the beers, stouts, and yucky tomato juices are his. They’re the only items he’d put in the cart when we went grocery shopping yesterday.
“You want this in a glass or…?” he asks, holding up the bottle of Sprite.
“The bottle’s fine.”
Once he’s next to me again, I twist the cap off and take a slow sip as I watch him attack the food like a wolf. As I eat, one piece of broccoli, one dice of chicken, one forkful of rice at a time, I can’t help watching him. He’s so focused on devouring his meal, it’s as if I’m not even here. In no time, the container is empty, every last morsel of food safely tucked away in his gut.
And that’s when I burst out laughing. “Why do you always eat like you’re starving?”
He punches his biceps alternatively. “See these? It takes a lot to maintain them. They demolish anything I put in my body, so I gotta feed 'em often.”
