Page 85 of The Biker and the Baker
I'm stumbling out of the bathroom in a towel, skin still stinging from a scorching hot shower, when sounds from the kitchen snags my attention. When I glance down the RV, Onyx’s presence in the kitchen unpacking groceries catches me off guard. I didn’t hear him come in. Then again, I’d had my head buried under the steaming water.
When Cookie came back into the RV today, she told me not to talk to her about Onyx. So I didn’t. We watched old episodes ofSweet Geniusinstead. She left rather abruptly about thirty minutes ago. Now I’m realizing it’s probably because she knew Onyx was on his way home.
Although the joint aches have numbed and some vitality has returned, my throat is still sore and the congestion hasn’t cleared, so I’m still miserable
Chewing on my lip, I stare at Onyx's back. I have no idea what to say to him, so, like a cowardly mouse, I scurry to his bedroom. He's no doubt pissed I'm still here. The man has a fiancé, for crying out loud.
As I dress into yet another of his tee and sweatpants, I wish there was a secret door that I could sneak out through, so I don’t have to face him. But that's what I always do, isn’t it? Run.
Why can’t I ever push against the fear and cowardice and fight for my relationships like I do for literally everything else in my life? Onyx makes me deliriously happy. And Ienjoybeing happy. So why am I not doing everything I can to reclaim that happiness?
Once I'm dressed, I pad out of the room and find him in the same spot I'd been in all day, eating peanut butter from the jar, while gazing down at his phone screen between his splayed thighs. His eyes flick up to me when I’m near, and my heart does that back-flipping thing it always does whenever his attention is on me.
"Hey," I say, sitting down beside him.
He stares at me for just a beat, then lowers his gaze back to his phone, which is playing sports highlights, ignoring me.
With a sniffle, I pull my socked feet up on the couch and tuck them beneath me, trying to restrain myself from pouncing and straddling him. "Does she know I'm here?"
He snorts at that. "You want her number? You could call her and tell her."
"All your friends know I'm here," I point out. "Who are nowherfriends. Wouldn’t one of them have told her?"
No response.
"Would you like me to leave, Onyx?"
"You're good at that, aren’t you?"
I deserve that.
"I'll leave if you tell me to," I say. "But I don't want to." After a long pause, I ask, "Do youwantme to?"
He picks up his phone and shoves himself to his feet. "Fuck off, Pia."
He leaves the peanut butter on the kitchen counter then heads straight to the bathroom. Minutes later, the shower’s running.
While he showers, I make yet another cup of tea. He didn't ask me to leave, he told me to fuck off. Not the same thing in my book. He's said that to me in jest many times. Onyx is straightforward; if he wanted me to leave, he would’ve said it outright.
After sending off a couple rounds of texts to my family and friends so they know I'm alive and well, I pace the length of the RV while I sip hot tea and intermittently blow my nose.
When Onyx finally leaves the bathroom, I set the teacup down and stalk him into the bedroom. Instead of being wrapped around him, his towel is thrown over his shoulder, so I’m blessed with a glorious view of his lickable ass.
As I enter the room behind him, he glances over his shoulder at me and arches a brow.
"Do you want me to tell you why you're not gonna marry her?"
Slowly, he turns to give me his full attention, and I'm momentarily distracted by his taut abs and semi-hard cock.
Focus, Pia. This is important. Grudgingly, I drag my eyes up to his face. The ghost of a smirk shadows his lips. He knows I'm affected and I’m not ashamed about it. I’m attracted to every inch of this beautiful man.
I forge on, "You won’t marry her because of that, and that, and that, and those, and that over there." I point out all of themethat’s still all over his bedroom. "There's so much of me—your ex—still here, and not even a trace of her."
When he just blinks at me, I ask, "Has she ever even been here?"
"Don't flatter yourself." He shakes his head and turns to the dresser, opening his boxer drawer. "Your shit's still around 'cause I'm hardly ever here, and I don’t give enough of a shit to throw them out."
"You wouldn'thaveto if she had ever been here,” I rejoin. “She would have tossed them out herself. Women are territorial like that."
