Page 6 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden

Cash killed the engine and stepped out, all fluid grace and raw strength in a simple black t-shirt despite the morning chill. My mouth went dry as he approached, and I took a quick sip of coffee to hide whatever embarrassing expression might have crossed my face.

"Morning," I called, well aware that my voice had come out far too cheerful for the hour. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate this, you have no idea.”

He grunted in response, eyes scanning my porch as if taking inventory. "Ready?"

I brandished my phone with its meticulously organized grocery app open. "All set. Thanks again for doing this."

Cash merely nodded, gesturing toward his truck with a tilt of his head.

The inside of the cab was immaculate—worn leather seats that had been carefully conditioned, a spotless dashboard, not a single wrapper or receipt in sight.

It smelled like leather and something distinctly masculine—Cash's cologne, maybe, or just Cash himself.

I sank into the passenger seat, acutely aware of how close we'd be sitting.

The bench seat left no center console between us, just a small space that would disappear if either of us shifted even slightly.

"Where to?”

“The Restaurant Depot on Colfax. Then the Saturday farmer’s market. Is that okay?”

He nodded once, then put the truck in gear. The engine rumbled beneath us, vibrating through the seat and up my spine in a way that felt oddly intimate.

Restaurant Depot was quiet this early, just a few other food trucks and restaurants getting their supplies for the day.

Cash grabbed a flatbed cart without being asked and followed me through the aisles, pushing it with one hand like it weighed nothing.

I tried not to stare at the way the movement made his bicep flex beneath his t-shirt sleeve, or how the fluorescent lights caught the edges of his tattoos, hinting at intricate designs I couldn't quite make out.

"How many of these?" he asked, hand hovering near a stack of egg flats.

"Six cases," I replied, rambling aimlessly about my planned recipes for the week, even though I was pretty sure he didn’t care. I watched as he effortlessly lifted the stack and placed it on the cart. I would have been struggling, but he handled them like they were feather light.

As we moved through the store, I found myself filling the silence with details about my life, my business, everything.

He didn’t say much, but I kept stealing glances at his profile, and I was pretty sure he was listening.

He had an expressive face—the strong line of his jaw, perpetually shadowed with stubble; the slight furrow between his brows that deepened when he was concentrating; the fullness of his lower lip that he occasionally caught between his teeth when considering something.

"We need bacon," I said, directing us toward the meat section. "Like, a lot of bacon."

Cash raised an eyebrow, and he eyed the shelf of bacon.

"Enough to give a cardiologist nightmares."

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, and my heart did a stupid little flip. Making Cash almost-smile felt like scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl.

In the meat section, I loaded twenty pounds of thick-cut bacon onto the cart, followed by sausage, ham, and a variety of cheeses.

Cash watched me with something like amusement in his eyes, as I told him about how popular the new breakfast burrito recipe I’d tried was, and how I was considering adding it to the regular menu.

"What?" I asked, suddenly realizing he was staring. “Sorry, am I talking too much? I tend to do that. We’re an odd couple, you know, I talk too much, you not enough… not that we’re a couple, I mean, just, you know.” I laughed awkwardly, wishing I could have stopped that verbal diarrhea a little sooner.

He didn’t reply, just shrugged.

"Don’t worry, I’m going to let you sample everything to make up for this. As much as you like, free of charge.”

There it was again—that almost-smile, gone as quickly as it appeared. But this time his eyes lingered on mine for a beat longer than necessary, and heat crawled up my neck.

Next came the heavy items—fifty-pound bags of potatoes, flour, sugar, cases of milk and cream.

Cash lifted each one with a fluid economy of movement that was mesmerizing to watch.

The muscles in his forearms shifted beneath his skin, veins standing out slightly with the effort.

When he reached for a particularly high shelf, his shirt rode up, revealing a strip of taut abdomen and the edge of what looked like a geometric tattoo disappearing beneath his waistband.

I swallowed hard and pretended to study my shopping list.

The farmers' market was our last stop, where I carefully selected fresh produce—tomatoes, avocados, peppers, herbs—while Cash trailed behind, carrying the increasingly heavy boxes without complaint.

The morning sun had fully risen now, bathing everything in golden light, including Cash.

It caught in his dark eyes, warming them to amber, highlighting the angles of his face.

"These need to go on top," I said, holding up the cartons of berries I'd selected for my special French toast. "They'll get crushed otherwise."

Cash nodded, rearranging the boxes in his arms to accommodate my request. I couldn't help but notice how his shirt stretched across his chest as he did so, the fabric pulling taut over muscle.

My fingers itched to trace the lines of the tattoo visible on his bicep—some kind of mechanical design interwoven with geometric patterns.

"What?" he asked, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just... thanks. For all this. I really appreciate how much you’ve been doing for me, when you don’t even need to. I promise I’ll keep you well-fed all week.”

He stared at me for a long moment, and I was sure he was going to say something, but then he turned and headed back toward the truck, leaving me staring after him like an idiot. Why did he keep doing that? Was he messing with me?

Hell, maybe he didn’t even like my food. Though he did show up like clockwork for his bagel sandwiches. I would add more of his favorite bagels to the order with the baker.

I walked over to where he was neatly stacking boxes in his truck, and started to help.

By the time we finished, the truck bed was filled with most of what I needed for the next week at the food truck—eggs, meat, cheese, produce, and specialty ingredients.

Usually, I shopped a bit more often, and got fewer things, but without a car, I’d been running short on pretty much everything.

I might need to run to the local store in Mira’s Jeep a few times during the week to stock up on fresh produce, but the rest of this would get me through until my car was fixed.

Cash secured everything with practiced efficiency, tying down the load with straps he’d produced from somewhere in the truck bed.

I watched his hands—strong, capable, calloused from years of mechanical work. More and more, I’d started to imagine those hands on my body. And this time, while he was doing something so unbelievably kind, the thought hit me with such force that I had to look away, heat flooding my face.

We climbed back into the cab, the worn leather seats creaking beneath our weight. The space felt smaller now, charged with something I couldn't quite name. Or maybe didn't want to name.

As he pulled away from the curb, his hand brushed mine on the seat between us, just barely—a whisper of contact that sent electricity racing up my arm. He didn't acknowledge it, eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I could have sworn his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

He stayed silent as always, and as always, I got nervous and started filling the air with inane chatter about my meal plans for the week — the new special I was making with all those berries, and the Benedict that I knew was his favorite, though he never actually said so.

As I talked, Cash remained silent, and I couldn’t tell if my chatter was annoying him, but couldn’t seem to stop myself from talking, either.

He shifted gears with practiced precision, his large hand wrapped around the gearshift in a way that made my mouth go dry.

I pretended to watch the morning traffic while actually stealing glances at his profile, the strong line of his jaw working slightly as if he was chewing on words he wouldn't say.

Cash's phone, sitting face-up on the seat between us, lit up with a notification.

Then another. And another. The blue light illuminated the leather briefly before fading, only to glow again seconds later.

I tried not to look—really, I did—but it was like telling someone not to think about elephants.

My eyes kept drifting toward the screen.

Social media notifications. A lot of them. In the quick flashes of light, I caught glimpses of usernames, heart emojis, comments.

"Popular guy," I said lightly, nodding toward his phone.

“Social media,” Cash grunted and rolled his eyes, reaching over to flip the phone face-down. His fingers brushed against my thigh as he did so, a brief, electric touch that sent heat spiraling through my body. If he noticed my sharp intake of breath, he didn't show it.

He reached for the radio, turning the dial until he found something with guitars and a driving beat, a song I instantly recognized and started singing along with, earning me a raised eyebrow and a half smile.

“What? I like your taste in music!” I said. He reached over and turned it up. The movement stretched his t-shirt across his chest, revealing the definition of muscle beneath thin cotton. My fingers itched to trace the contours.

When his phone lit up again, this time with a call, he glanced down at it and silenced it without answering. But not before I caught the social media notifications, and the username displayed on the screen.