Page 42 of Caution to the Wind

I was interrupted from my boredom and morose contemplation by the buzz of my phone in my black clutch.

Henning: Cleo told me about that asshole. You doin’ okay?

My smile was instantaneous, so wide it ached in my cheeks.

Mei: No “I told you so”?

Henning: I figured it went without sayin’.

I laughed then caught eyes with a guy I recognized from the soccer team and transformed my features into a glare lest he think I was beckoning him over.

Henning: Seriously, though, you good?

Fuck, he was such a good guy. It always amused me, the sidelong looks people gave him when he was wearing his club leathers, the patches boldly declaring him a 1%er, an outlaw. Henning didn’t give a shit, though, and neither did Cleo or me. He was the best man we knew, bar none. A white knight didn’t just come in shining armour. My knight came in leather.

Mei: Fine. Just a little annoyed because I don’t put on a dress for just anyone, and this dance is criminally boring.

Henning: Thought you’d say that. Go outside.

Mei: ??

Henning: For once, do as you’re told without askin’ questions, Rocky.

A little tremor of desire slid down my spine. I was a rebel at heart, but that didn’t mean I objected to Henning’s occasionally bossy ways.

I slid off the table and landed on my high heels easily. Cleo caught my eye from the dance floor, concerned that I needed her. I waved her off with a little smile before turning to make my way out of the gymnasium through the exit in the girl’s locker room.

A couple made out against the lockers, but I ignored them, heels clicking against the floor as I walked through and pushed into the warm, humid summer air. The sun had set long ago, but the parking lot was lit with yellow streetlamps, and the dance committee had strung lights through the trellis leading down the main walkway.

It was more than enough light to see Henning leaning against his gleaming white and black Harley-Davidson Road King. He’d changed out of the suit he’d worn to drop us off into his usual dark wash jeans, heavy leather boots, cut, and long-sleeved white tee. With his wavy, overlong hair shifting like gold wheat in the summer breeze, he looked like a rebel loitering outside a bar, just waiting to cause trouble.

Every inch of me throbbed as I took him in, every molecule attuned to the wild beat of my heart yearning for him. How strange and powerful it was, the wayknowingchanged my every atom from yesterday to today. I knew I could never go back to before when he was just my best friend’s dad. Just my sort-of friend. Just Hen.

Now, I’d never think of him or see him without a wish attached to his name.

“Hi,” I said, lame and soft because I wasn’t used to this.

To the shyness that came from loving a man so far out of my league.

He grinned at me, white teeth flashing against his dark gold stubble as he pushed off the bike and strolled over to me.

“Hey, Rocky,” he murmured, low and slow in that way that made my blood heat.

“What’re you doing here?”

He shrugged, but amusement crinkled the sides of those too-bright blue-green eyes. “I figured I’d better check in, make sure you weren’t huntin’ down Brian to give him a piece of your mind…or fists.” He paused when I laughed a little. “And I figured, if you were still here, you’d spend the whole time watchin’ over Cleo and not havin’ any fun for yourself.”

I bit my lip because of course, he was right. Zander was a good guy as far as I could tell, but Cleo seemed to draw some serious jerks into her orbit because they wanted to leech out some of her sweetness. It didn’t hurt to be careful.

“You know, we’re both gonna have to learn to let her have more independence,” he mused, a wry twist of his mouth. “She’s eighteen, and it’s a good age to make mistakes. She hasn’t done much of that yet.”

“She can make mistakes,” I argued. “I’ll just be there to help her with the aftermath.”

He stared down at me, expression gone soft. “Yeah. Yeah, I figure you will be.”

Understanding passed between us, a gentle current of loyalty that spoke of our shared love for Cleo and, maybe a little, for each other.

“Still,” he said finally, straightening a little and then raising his hand between us. It was huge; long, thick fingers and a broad palm. There were scars across the back of it from land mine shrapnel and a tattoo of the Norse god, Thor, on the inside of his forearm. It was a mean-looking hand, a threat wrapped in skin, but it was all softness as I automatically slid my hand into his. “It would be a fuckin’ crime not to have at least one dance with you in that red dress.”