Page 44 of Baby for the Bikers

18

ROWAN

My fingers hoverover the phone screen, hesitating before I finally hit send. The text to Brick is short and to the point:Not feeling well today. Can’t make it to the diner. Sorry for the short notice.

I toss the phone onto my couch like it’s suddenly turned hot, then immediately snatch it back up. What am I doing? The diner’s going to be slammed on a Sunday morning, and I’m leaving Ryder to handle it alone. But the thought of seeing him after what happened in the pantry last night makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with actual illness.

My phone rings, with Brick’s name flashing on the screen. Of course, he’d call instead of text back.

“Hello?” I try to inject some weakness into my voice.

“What’s wrong?” His tone is stern, but I catch the thread of concern underneath.

“Just feeling a bit under the weather.” I fake a slight cough. “I probably just need to rest. I’m super exhausted, and my body hurts all over.”

“What are your symptoms?”

“Headache, um, sore throat, joint pains…” I scramble to think of something that sounds legitimate but not serious enough to warrant an actual doctor. “Maybe a slight fever?”

“I’ll stop by the pharmacy and bring you some medicine,” he says decisively. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“That’s really not necessary—” I start to protest.

“Text me if you need anything specific. Otherwise, I’ll bring the basics.” And then he’s gone. The call ends before I can argue further.

I groan, dropping my phone onto the kitchen counter. Great. Now I’ve got Brick coming over to play nurse for an illness I don’t have, all because I’m too chickenshit to face his brother after having what was arguably the best sex of my life.

What I actually need is emergency contraception, not cold medicine. At least I was smart enough to make Ryder stop at a convenience store on the way home last night.

I pace around my apartment, feeling restless energy crawl beneath my skin. The memory of last night keeps replaying in high definition no matter how hard I try to push it away. The unexpected tenderness afterward that somehow felt more intimate than what we’d done.

I shouldn’t want more. I shouldn’t want any of it, really. Getting involved with my bosses, with men who have roots in this town I’m just passing through, is a complication I don’t need.

I head to the kitchen, pulling out flour, yeast, and salt. Bread is what I need right now. Something that requires my hands andattention. The rhythm of kneading dough is meditative, letting my mind drift.

Once the dough is smooth and elastic, I place it in a bowl and cover it with a damp cloth to rise. I’ve just finished washing my hands when a sharp knock on my door makes me jump.

It’s barely been forty minutes since I texted Brick—he couldn’t have gone to the pharmacy and gotten here that quickly. I open the door without checking the peephole, and my heart practically stops.

Ryder.

He stands in my doorway wearing dark jeans, motorcycle boots, and a simple black T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His dark blond hair is slightly tousled, and those gray eyes study me with an unnerving intensity.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, acutely aware that I’m in ratty sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and probably still have flour on my face. “I thought Brick was coming.”

Ryder steps inside without answering, his gaze sweeping over my apartment before settling back on me. His eyes drift to the kitchen, where my covered dough sits on the counter.

“You shouldn’t be baking if you’re sick,” he says finally, his voice that familiar low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

“I—” I start to protest, moving back toward the kitchen, but suddenly my feet leave the ground.

In one fluid motion, Ryder lifts me into his arms. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck as he carries me toward my bedroom. His body is solid and warm against mine,and I can feel the strength in his arms as he holds me like I weigh nothing.

He sets me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then kneels over me, his thighs bracketing mine without pressing down. I’m trapped beneath him, but it doesn’t feel threatening—it feels like exactly where I want to be.

Ryder takes both my hands in his, pinning them lightly above my head. His face hovers above mine, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips.

“So you were lying about being sick,” he says, his voice low. “You don’t look sick to me.”

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