Page 22 of Held-

I stare at her message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The smart thing would be to play it cool, maybe wait a few minutes before responding. But apparently my brain has checked out for the evening.

I will never be too busy to take a beautiful woman for a ride.

I hit send and immediately want to punch myself in the face. Way to sound desperate, asshole.

But her response comes back almost immediately.

How much have you had to drink?

Why?

Think I need to be under the influence to call you beautiful, princess?

No.

I just…

Just what, princess?

Nevermind. Forget it.

There’s nothing forgettable about you, Cece. Tell me what you we’re going to say.

Nothing. Have a great time at your party.

I pocket my phone and head back toward the clubhouse door, but the thought of going back to that noise and chaos makes my skin crawl. Instead, I walk to my bike, running my hand over the familiar leather seat.

The engine turns over with a satisfying growl, and I'm already backing out of my parking spot when Big appears in the doorway, shaking his head like he knows exactly where I'm headed.

He's not wrong.

The ride to San Salona takes just under an hour at the speed I'm going, pushing the bike harder than I probably should on these back roads. But I need the cold air, need the focus that comes with handling a machine that could kill me if I make one wrong move.

By the time I reach the city limits, it’s past 2 AM and the streets are empty except for the occasional cop car on patrol. I take a familiar turn down the winding driveway that leads to my aunt’s place, the headlight of my bike cutting through the night in a sharp, narrow beam. The sprawling Victorian house sits quiet on the hill, no lights in the windows, but I’m not headed there. My destination is the smaller building tucked behind a row of oak trees at the edge of the property.

The guesthouse has been my refuge since I was sixteen. Even after I patched in with the Rejects, even after I became someone my aunt probably had every right to be afraid of, she’s kept it ready. “Your home,” she calls it, though I’ve never stayed more than a few nights at a time.

I kill the engine before I get too close, coasting the last hundred feet to avoid waking her. Stealing sleep from her is the last thing I’d do, not while her husband is still in the hospital. The garage door opens with a soft click from the remote I’ve kept on my keychain for years, and I ease the bike inside.

The familiar scent hits me the moment I step through the side door—cinnamon and pine. She keeps the place festive all year, but December is when she really leans in. The small Christmas tree in the corner is already lit, multicolored bulbs glowing gently in the dim room. She must have been out here earlier, hoping I’d show up.

I flip on a lamp and survey the space. Nothing's changed. I grab a beer from the fridge, popping the cap and taking a long pull while I wander through the familiar space. It's like stepping into a time capsule, everything exactly where I left it last time. My aunt's touch is everywhere, from the neatly folded throw blanket on the couch to the fresh towels in the bathroom. The woman's been taking care of me for fifteen years, even when I didn't deserve it.

I sink onto the couch, setting my beer on the coffee table. My phone feels heavy in my pocket, a constant reminder of the message I shouldn't have sent. What the hell am I doing? I should be back at the clubhouse, not sitting in my aunt's guest house, thinking about a woman who belongs to a world I left behind years ago.

But Cece's not like the rest of them. There's something about her–a fire that wasn't there when we were kids. Divorce has hardened her edges, given her a sharpness that catches the light differently. Makes me wonder what else it's changed about her.

I take another swig of beer, leaning my head back against the cushions. The clock on the wall reads 2:47 AM. In a few hours, my phone will buzz with her list of food items, and I'llhave an excuse to see her again. The thought sends a current of anticipation through me that I haven't felt in years.

I should be sleeping, shutting this down before it ever starts. Instead, I find myself waiting for morning like a kid on Christmas, restless with the thought of seeing her again.

CECE

I've always thoughtthe worst sin was envy, but this morning I'm redefining temptation as I pull into the church parking lot and spot him. Brayden Cole, leaning against his motorcycle, his thick dark hair slightly messy under a beanie. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with the coffee I gulped down earlier and everything to do with the way his steel-gray eyes lock onto mine through my windshield.

Temptation, thy name is leather cut and bad decisions.

I take a deep breath before killing the engine, trying to calm the rapid flutter of my pulse.