Page 45 of Baby for the Bikers

Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t want to see you,” I admit, unable to lie with him looking at me like this. “After what we did…”

“You realize that’s not the last time it’s going to happen, right?”

The straightforwardness of his statement knocks the air from my lungs. I look away, squeezing my eyes shut, unable to handle the certainty in his gaze.

“Are you scared?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’m not even sure what I’m most afraid of—how he makes me feel or how much I want to feel it again.

He releases my hands but doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers drift down to the hem of my T-shirt, just barely slipping underneath to trace patterns on the sensitive skin of my stomach.

“Ryder…” My voice is embarrassingly breathless.

“Shh.” His finger traces the curve of my hip bone, dipping just slightly beneath the waistband of my sweatpants before withdrawing again. “I’m not going to do anything to you.” His hand flattens against my stomach. “We’re going to sleep,” he says, his tone making it clear this isn’t a suggestion. “Just sleep. Nothing more.”

Before I can process this shift, he stretches out beside me and kicks off his boots. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his chest until my back is pressed to his front. I stiffen, confused by the sudden change.

“Just rest,” he murmurs against my hair. “We both need it.”

The tension slowly drains from my body as I realize he means exactly what he says. No demands, no expectations—just comfort. It’s almost more intimate than what we shared in the pantry.

“So you bailed on the diner too?” I ask, my voice small in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah.” His chest rumbles against my back. “My brothers are busting their asses there now.”

I should feel guilty, but the warmth of his body against mine and the steady rhythm of his breathing is lulling me into a comfort I haven’t felt in months.

“The bread dough—” I mumble half-heartedly.

“It’ll rise just fine,” he says, his arm tightening slightly around my waist. “Sleep now.”

And somehow, despite all my racing thoughts and the heat of his body against mine, I do.

I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, disoriented for a moment before I register the warm weight of Ryder’s arm still draped over me. I blink, trying to gauge how long we’ve slept. The angle of the sun suggests it’s early afternoon.

Ryder shifts behind me, his breathing changing in a way that tells me he’s awake too. Neither of us moves to break the contact.

“Your bread dough,” he says finally, his voice rough with sleep.

I laugh. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

He sits up, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You were worried about it.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at the simple consideration. He remembered my half-formed protest even as I was falling asleep.

“It’s probably overproofed by now,” I say, sitting up beside him. “But it’ll still bake.”

We move to the kitchen together, a strangely comfortable silence between us. The dough has indeed risen well past its optimal state, spilling slightly over the edges of the bowl.

I quickly shape the dough into two loaves and place them on a baking sheet. Ryder watches me work, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks.

I shrug, trying to seem casual. “Been baking a long time.”

“Professional training?”

“Self-taught, mostly.” The half-truth slides out easily. “My mom started teaching me, then I just kept learning.”

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