Page 70 of The Fire We Crave

I’ve read enough motorcycle club romances and watched biker shows on TV to know that if even fifty percent of that content is true, there would have been no excuses allowed.

A silence falls between us, and I’m overcome with shame that I’m behaving this way when he is looking at me with streaks ofdirt and sweat on his face. His shirt is wet, as is the hem of his jeans.

I’m making him stand here and explain himself, when less than an hour ago, I saw him collapse against the wall with a look of abject fear on his face as he sucked in air after he saved my bakery from the same fate as Ember’s bar.

I know exactly what it all means. “I’m not even sure why I was asking, beyond the hope that you’ll trust me as your confidant and share things that are happening in your life with me. I feel like I have big enough shoulders to handle the truth. I don’t want to be a naive bystander in your life. I’m worried about you.”

“There are some things you can’t be knowing, Quinn. You shouldn’t have watched. You gotta promise something—you won’t tell anyone what you saw or heard because I don’t want you mixed up in any of this. You weren’t there. You didn’t see.”

I make the sign of a cross over my heart with my index finger. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

Smoke shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a smile. “I feel like a pinkie promise might have been more binding than that.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Although, I’ll likely have to show the video to the insurance company.”

“Fine,” he says.

“I’m worried about you, though. How you coped after and?—”

The openness in his features, that was there only a moment ago, disappears completely. “Go to bed, Quinn,” he says. “I need a shower, but I’ll take you over to see the damage in the morning.”

And with that, he heads across the corridor to his room, and it’s hard to decipher the way the door shuts. Not quite a slam, but louder than a gentle closing.

I stand in the hallway in my nightshirt that reads,I stopped reading to come hereand wonder if I should go after him.

But I feel like I’ve already done enough damage for one night.

21

SMOKE

This isn’t a date.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when I pull up outside the bakery in a clean black shirt, polished boots, and my cut.

It’s simply two friends grabbing dinner after she’s been making a lot of the meals, even though I don’t really need her to anymore.

Oh, and I’m also still armed because you never know where the next fucker with a death wish is going to spring from.

But any thoughts that it’s not a date escape me, when Quinn, who is busy cleaning the cake cases, looks up and sees me, and smiles.

A really fucking pretty smile.

The kind that makes you forget that it’s not a date.

The kind that eases weary bones and inspires you to carry on when you feel like you can’t.

The kind that makes you forget you just emailed your boss and officially resigned from your career without reading his reply or any of his messages.

“Hey,” she says as I step inside. “The prospects really helped tidy the place up. It’s amazing how quickly it all came together with that many pairs of hands. I was wondering if they could help me move back in too. I’ve already cleaned up for the night, but if you want something and I have it, I can grab it out of the back and make it up quick.”

She says too many words. Too many for her, at least. And I can tell when a woman is nervous and rambling.

Our conversation after the fire last night was not my proudest moment. Not sure it was hers either. It left me feeling exhausted, but there was still too much adrenaline flooding through my veins to be rational. And I hate the idea that she saw me.

I hate that she saw that weakness.

This morning, as I lay in bed, listening to her as she moved around the kitchen, humming to herself, I thought about my mom. About how her depression overwhelmed us all. And I made a choice to dig myself out of the hole I’m in. Or, at least, realize I’m digging one, and stop.

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