Page 4 of Worth the Heat
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Tablets?”
His grip tightens. “Yeah, you stupid cunt. Tablets. Pills. The fucking drugs you stole from me.”
“I swear I don’t know anything about —” I cry out when Rick squeezes enough to cut off the oxygen to my lungs. I see my phone, just a couple of inches out of reach, and as I’m about to lunge for it, a voice stops me.
“Get your motherfucking hands off her.”
SEBASTIAN
Inever come to Isabella’s bakery anymore. Sure, it’s mostly due to my own pride being incredibly beaten up by her consistent refusals to give me a chance. It’s become somewhat of a joke with my guys that I can’t get over Isabella, and certainly her brothers bust my balls about it on occasion. But it’s also because I’d never want to make her feel uncomfortable. So I send my VP, Trace, to pick up anything extra that we need at the Clubhouse if we run out of things from my Bake, Batter, and Bowl weekly standing order.
I’ve been President of the Rocky Mountain Range Riders Motorcycle Club for well over a decade. I started it after a buddy of mine spoke about how he wished he had a club to ride with. He’d deployed with the Marines a couple of times, and after receiving an honorable discharge, he had difficulty transitioning back into civilian life. Riding was one of the only things that gave him peace.
He took his own life a few months after our conversation.
I’ll never forgive myself for waiting to do something — anything — that may have helped him. But I’m determined to make sure no other returning veterans feel they have no one. While I have no military experience myself, I have two things on my side: money and time.
RMRRMC has a fully licensed therapist available via Telehealth, group therapy sessions whenever someone needs one, and we’re very active in the community. When asked how I’d describe the Club, I like to say we’re a step up from the movieWild Hogs. We’re definitely a little rowdier than Tim Allen and his friends, but the camaraderie and friendship is the same.
So here I am, walking into Isabella’s bakery, rehearsing the order I intend to place as quickly as possible so that Isabella doesn’t find the entire interaction unpleasant. Smile. No small talk. Don’t stare at her like a lovesick puppy. Get in, get out, and move the fuck on.
It would really be easier if I wasn’t half in love with the woman.
I’d have sent Trace in, but he took a call a moment ago. I promised mymamáI’d bring pastries for an event she’s hosting. Looking down at my feet as I open the door, I expect to hear Isabella call out her standard greeting. It’s been the same phrase since she began working here.Welcome in, what can I get started for you?When I don’t hear anything, my head pops up, and I fucking see red.
“Get your motherfucking hands off her,” I growl. The man holding Isabella by the neck doesn’t even turn around, and I quickly fire off a text to Trace, telling him to get his ass in here. He drove, intending on eating at least two donuts before we got back to the Clubhouse. I quietly slide my phone into my pocket as I look at Isabella. Her eyes are wide with panic, and I’m desperate to get her away from this guy. “I’d listen if I were you.”
“This doesn’t concern you,” the dude responds.
I chuckle sardonically. “Oh, it absolutely does concern me. You’re better off dealing with me than one of her brothers.”
His hand tightens on her neck, and she reflexively tries to take a jagged breath. “You remember what I told you. Get me back that Molly, or you’ll fucking pay.”
What the fuck? This dipshit must have her confused with someone else. No way is Isabella mixed up with drugs. As I’m about to say something, Trace barrels in through the door. The commotion as he stops next to me allows the man holding Belle a moment to push her backward, then take off into the kitchen.
“Chase him,” I command, as we both venture deeper into the bakery; Trace to follow the man, and me to get to Isabella. She fell to the ground when she was surprised by the shove, and I kneel next to her, gingerly placing my hand behind her head. Her beautiful brown eyes, now glassy with tears, latch onto mine, as her hand trembles against her neck. “What hurts,mi Cielo?”
“What?” she stammers. Shit. I just called her ‘my sky.’ It’s rare that I use a pet name for a woman, yet here I am laying all my cards on the table — er, floor — with Isabella like I always do. I’ve been a goner for her for so fucking long.
My parents, along with my grandmother, emigrated from Puerto Rico when my mother was pregnant with my oldest sister. Initially settling in Miami, my father was determined to experience as much of the country as possible. Only a few months after I was born, we began our slow migration to the west. Atlanta, New Orleans, and Albuquerque didn’t satisfy whatever feeling my dad was chasing. My mother fell in love with the Rocky Mountains, and we headed north until we arrived in Denver. They opened up a restaurant and bar,El Puerto Plate, and shoved my sisters and me into the local school district. After only speaking Spanish for the entirety of our lives, we were thrown to the wolves in our predominantly suburban area.
As a reward for surviving the entire school year, my parents treated us to a night in the mountains at a neat hotel they’d found on a day trip. That’s how I met the Santos. Everlasting Inn and Spa became a symbol of good times and successes. Every summer we’d return for one week. I learned to swim in one of the pools, and my two sisters, Elena and Catalina, learned how to do somekind of hair braid from one of the Santo kids. I’ll always remember roaming the property, with Luca mostly, and having deep conversations with Dominic about the business he was determined to take over one day. Even at a young age, Dom exuded power, control, and professionalism. Luca made faces behind Dom’s back, and I attempted not to give him away.
I failed often at the task.
I don’t really remember Isabella during those visits. Maybe she was the one who taught my sisters how to braid. Or, as I suspect is more likely, she stayed away, content in her own bubble. I don’t remember her until around ten years ago, when I came into this very bakery, and felt the world tilt on its axis.
She wore a yellow shirt under an apron covered in flour, with a line of flour across her face where she must have absentmindedly swiped at her skin. Black leggings looked painted on the most phenomenal curves I’d ever seen, and I felt the need to fall to my knees and worship them. Good fucking God, the woman was a knockout. And when she greeted me with a soft smile? If my mouth had been able to make sounds, I’d have asked her to marry me right then. Instead, I put my foot in my mouth and said something about her floured face, joking about how management must be on their break, and she bolted to the back of the store. An older woman came back out to take my order, and when I saw Isabella again a week later, a coolness had replaced the sweet innocence I’d witnessed before.
I’ve lost track at how many times I’ve asked Isabella out. Well into double digits. Somehow I end up saying things that upset or embarrass her, and I never get a chance to apologize. This woman unravels me. Thirty-six years old for fuck’s sake, and I can’t seem to get my act together.
Shaking my head, I grab Isabella’s hand, and pull her to standing. I gingerly touch the back of her head, asking, “Did you hit your head when you fellto the floor?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she murmurs. Her wide eyes connect with mine, and I realize this may be the closest I’ve ever stood to her. This close, I see her brown eyes have speckles of gold in them. The border of her iris is slightly darker, and I get lost in her gaze.
My other hand cups her cheek, and she ever so subtly leans into my touch. “Does anything hurt?”
“No,” Isabella responds quietly. Her gaze doesn’t veer from mine, and a hundred thoughts fly through my mind. She isn’t backing away from me. Her skin is so fucking smooth. So soft. One of her hands holds onto my forearm, and it feels like lightning on my skin. What if I leaned in to kiss her? Does she want me to? Would she kiss me back?
