Page 17 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

"Something like that," I muttered, sliding his correctly cooked breakfast sandwich across the counter. "Extra hot sauce."

My hands wouldn't stop trembling. I'd already broken three eggs, spilled an entire carton of milk, and burned myself twice—all things that never happened when I was working. The food truck was my domain, the one place where I was completely in control. Until now.

I kept glancing toward the shop, heart skipping painfully every time the door opened.

A few times, I caught glimpses of Cash—his dark head bent over a motorcycle, his distinctive silhouette as he crossed from one bay to another.

Each sighting was a sucker punch to my solar plexus, leaving me breathless and dizzy.

The line finally thinned around ten, giving me a moment to breathe. I leaned against the counter, pressing my forehead to the cool metal surface. My skin felt too tight, like I might crawl out of it at any moment.

"You look like shit."

I jerked upright to find Silas leaning in the service window, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were sharp, assessing. Was everyone in the damn FRMC going to stop by to check on me?

"Thanks," I replied dryly. "Just what every food service worker wants to hear."

"Rough morning?" he asked, though the quirk of his eyebrow suggested he already knew the answer.

I shrugged, busying myself with wiping down the already-clean counter. "Nothing unusual. What can I get you?"

"The usual." He drummed his fingers against the counter. "Cash is having a hard day, too."

The egg carton I'd been reaching for tumbled from my hands. I managed to catch it before it hit the floor, but not before Silas noticed my reaction. I felt heat flood my face, betraying me further.

I cracked an egg with too much force, shell fragments falling into the bowl. "Fuck," I muttered, fishing them out with trembling fingers.

"He's been watching you all morning," Silas said quietly.

My head snapped up. "What?"

Silas nodded toward the shop. "Every time the door opens. Every time someone approaches your truck. He's watching. Maybe he’s waiting for you to do something at the same time that you’re waiting for him to do something, you know? And you’re both left waiting."

I followed his gaze across the lot. Through the large windows of the garage, I could see the shadow of Cash standing beside a dismantled motorcycle. As if sensing our attention, he looked up and turned our way.

For one breathless moment, everything else fell away—the noise of the food truck, Silas's knowing presence, the entire parking lot. Just me and Cash, connected by a look that contained all the hunger and heat of our weekend together.

Then he turned away, shoulders stiffening as he bent over the motorcycle, the connection broken as suddenly as it had formed.

My chest ached like he'd reached across the lot and physically ripped something out of me. I turned back to the grill, blinking rapidly against the stinging in my eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, voice a little too high-pitched.

Silas's expression softened. "Cash isn't great with... feelings. Or people, generally." He accepted the wrapped sandwich I handed him. "But he doesn't share his bike. With anyone. Ever."

I swallowed hard. That was the second time someone had told me that this morning. Had they planned the meddling together? "Well, there's a first time for everything, right? And probably a last."

I busied myself with cleanup, unable to meet Silas's eyes. After a moment, he sighed.

"Don't give up on him so quick," he said before pushing away from the window. "He's worth the effort."

I didn't respond, continuing to scrub at a spot on the counter that was already clean. When I looked up again, Silas was gone, and the parking lot had emptied of the morning rush crowd.

I leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted. My bladder protested, reminding me I'd been mainlining coffee since 5 a.m. without a bathroom break. Usually, I used the facilities in the shop rather than the tiny, cramped toilet in the food truck.

Which meant potentially running into Cash.

I debated holding it, but my body had other ideas.

With a resigned sigh, I flipped the "Back in 15 Minutes" sign onto the service window and locked up.

The walk across the parking lot felt like marching to my execution, each step bringing me closer to the possibility of an encounter I wasn't prepared for.

The shop was quiet when I entered; most of the mechanics busy with repairs in their individual bays. I kept my head down, making a beeline for the restroom at the back. Just get in, take care of business, get out. No need to—

I slammed into a solid wall of muscle as I rounded the corner, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Strong hands gripped my upper arms, steadying me before I could stagger backward.

"Shit, sorry, I wasn't looking—" The words died in my throat as I looked up into familiar amber eyes.

Cash stood frozen, his hands still on my arms, his face inches from mine. This close, I could see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the slight chapping of his lower lip where he'd been biting it—a nervous habit I'd noticed during our weekend together.

He smelled the same—motor oil and that subtle cologne that had clung to my skin for hours after we'd parted. His fingers were warm through the fabric of my shirt, the same fingers that had mapped every inch of my body with devastating precision.

"Aiden," he said, my name emerging rough and low, like it had been dragged across gravel.

"Cash," I replied, hating how breathless I sounded, how my body instinctively leaned toward his.

We stood like that, suspended in the narrow hallway, neither moving away nor stepping closer.

His eyes searched mine, looking for something I couldn't name.

My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud I was certain he could hear it.

The urge to reach up, to touch his face, to reclaim what we'd had in the mountains was nearly overwhelming.

I waited, holding my breath, wanting—needing—him to say something, anything, that would explain the distance he'd put between us. That would tell me the weekend had meant something to him, too. That would make the ache in my chest subside.

But as the silence stretched between us, his hands slowly dropped from my arms, leaving cold spots where his warmth had been. And I turned and walked away. If he couldn’t even tell me what he was thinking, how could this ever work?