Page 1 of The Biker's Second Chance
1
GINA
Iscrape the empty food into the trash and slam the plate into the sink. Water splashes onto the counter, and a chip of porcelain flies off the plate as it splits in two.
"Damnit."
The sink’s full of water and I plunge my hand in, fishing around for the broken pieces. My finger nicks something sharp, and I jerk my hand out of the water. Blood oozes out of a small cut.
“God damnit.”
This night couldn’t get any worse.
Sucking on the end of my finger, I yank the plug out with my other hand. But I pull the damn thing too hard, sending more water cascading over the edge of the sink to slop onto the floor.
“Mother fucker…”
I don’t usually curse this much, but then I don’t usually have ghosts from my past turning up to dinner.
Of all the people to walk in the clubhouse door, it had to be Sean bloody O’Leary.
Now I’m all flustered and annoyed and doing stupid things like breaking plates and cutting myself and splashing water all over the kitchen.
I’m down on my knees mopping up with a dishcloth when the kitchen door swings open.
By the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright, I know it's Sean.
I stand up immediately, knocking my hip painfully against the edge of a cupboard. But damned if I’m going to be on my knees for my first encounter with Sean O’Leary in seven years.
“Hello Gina.”
My name said in his Irish lilt makes my knees feel weak, and I grip the kitchen counter for support. It’s beyond annoying that after all these years he can still make me weak in the knees like some giddy schoolgirl.
But I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman, and I’m not going to let this man have the satisfaction of knowing the effect he’s having on me.
“Hello Sean.”
I plaster on a smile that I hope gives nothing away about my thumping heart and the weak knee situation.
The bleeding’s stopped in my finger, and I retrieve the broken plate and toss it in the trash.
Plates are piled up on the counter after the club dinner, and I make myself busy rinsing dishes and loading up the dishwasher. It gives me something to do rather than look at his annoyingly handsome face.
“How have you been?” he asks casually, as if it's been a few days since we saw each other and not seven years.
“I’ve been good, Sean, and you?” If he wants to play it casual, fine. Two can play at that game.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been good.”
I bend over to get the dishwashing detergent from under the sink.
“You look as good as I remember.”
I straighten up abruptly when I realize that he’s checking out my substantial ass.
I’ve always been a big girl, but in the last seven years I finally gave into my weight. If I crave chocolate cake, I eat it. If I want to eat ice cream straight out of the carton while watching Desperate Housewives or wherever, I do.
Because seven years ago, I made a pact with myself. I would never, ever let a man hurt me again. And with that came a sense of freedom. I no longer try to look a certain way to please a man. I do what I want, I eat what I want, and I don’t give a damn what clothing size I am.
