Page 50 of Rage's Heart

“Don’t give me that look,” I warned, setting the bags down. “You know you’re not allowed to have people food.”

Diesel lowered his head, his big brown eyes blinking up at me before he let out a dramatic sigh and hopped down.

He was so dramatic.

“Good boy,” I laughed, scratching behind his ears. “Nice try, though.”

It was amazing how quickly I’d fallen into this routine of grocery shopping for two, scolding the dog about counter surfing, making myself at home in Rage’s kitchen. It had been nearly two weeks since the shooting at the clubhouse, and I hadn’t slept at my apartment once in that time.

I started unpacking the groceries, arranging things in what I thought of as my side of the fridge. Rage was surprisingly very particular about the way things were organized. Meticulous even. Proteins went on the top shelf, condiments in the door, vegetables washed and then arranged just so in the crisper.

For a man who lived life full throttle, he was oddly systematic in certain areas of his life.

“This is getting ridiculous,” I muttered to Diesel, who had plopped down at my feet, his eyes tracking my every move in case I dropped something edible.

His head tilted.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true.” I sighed, pulling out a carton of eggs. “I’m living in limbo. Half my clothes are still at the apartment, my bills still go there, I buy groceries for here and there. Sarah probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped…”

Diesel yawned widely, clearly unimpressed with my existential crisis.

“Thanks for the support.” I rolled my eyes.

Truth was, I hadn’t really discussed what we were doing with Rage. After the shooting, he’d simply assumed I would stay at his place, and I hadn’t argued.

At first, I assumed it’d had been about safety. He didn’t want me alone while the Talons were still a threat. But days had turned into weeks, and now most of my toiletries had migrated to his bathroom, my scrubs were in his laundry, and I knew exactly how he took his coffee.

Yet we’d never had The Talk.

I reached into the last bag, pulling out a package I’d hidden underneath the vegetables, and smiled. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were Rage’s not-so-secret weakness. The man was strict as hell about lean protein and vegetables (he tracked his macros, for heaven’s sake). And then there was his love for these processed sugar bombs.

I laughed as I tossed them in drawer.

Diesel’s head shot up and his tail immediately thumped against the floor at the sound of a motorcycle coming up the driveway.

“Yeah, I know,” I told him. “Your daddy’s home.”

A few seconds later, the front door swung open, and Rage strode inside. His eyes found me immediately, mouth curving into that lazy smile that still made my heart skip a beat.

“Hey, baby,” he said, coming right to where I was standing at the counter.

Before I could respond, his hands were framing my face and his mouth was on mine, hot, demanding, and tasting faintly of coffee.

I melted into him, my hands sliding up his chest to grip the front of his cut.

When he finally pulled back, I was breathless and slightly dazed. “Hi yourself,” I managed.

He smirked, clearly pleased with my reaction. “Missed you today.”

“You saw me this morning,” I reminded him, though I couldn’t help smiling.

“Too long ago.” He pressed another quick kiss to my lips before moving toward the refrigerator, Diesel trailing happily in his wake.

I watched as he grabbed a beer, effortlessly twisting off the cap.

He was in a good mood, which meant things at the shop had gone well.

“So,” I started, leaning against the counter. “What exactly are we doing?”

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