Page 23 of Held-
“Morning, princess.” His voice carries across the parking lot as I step out of my car, the nickname making my cheeks warm despite the December chill.
“What are you doing here?”
“Figured I’d save you the trouble of sending me that grocery list. We can go get it together.”
“Go get it together?” I repeat, sounding a bit dazed even to my own ears. “I haven't even made the list yet.”
“Even better. We can figure it out while we shop.” He pushes off his bike with that easy grace that seems unfair for someone his size. “Unless you've got other plans this morning.”
I should say yes. I should tell him that I have a dozen church-related responsibilities to attend to, a meeting with my father about the toy distribution, maybe even a job interview to pretend to care about. But the truth is, I've spent the last three days hoping he'd message me again, jumping every time my phone buzzed.
“No other plans,” I admit, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I'm pretty sure the only grocery store in town won't let you through the door. The Millers have been very clear about their 'no bikers' policy since that incident in '08.”
“What incident?”
“Some guys from a passing club decided to redecorate their produce section with watermelons. It wasn't pretty.”
His lips twitch. “Sounds artistic.”
“The police report called it fruit-based vandalism.”
“Creative cops in this town.” He steps closer, and I catch his scent again. How good he smells should be illegal. “Good thing I wasn't planning on Miller's. There's a warehouse club about twenty minutes outside town. Better prices, bulk quantities, and good selection.”
“You planning to hitch a wagon to your bike?”
“Nah,” he grins. “Think your dad will let you borrow it?” He jerks his head towards the church’s passenger van.
I blink at him, processing what he just suggested. “You want me to ask my father if I can take the church van on a grocery run with a member of a motorcycle club?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds unreasonable.”
“Because it is unreasonable.” I cross my arms, trying to ignore how the morning light catches the blue flecks in his eyes. “My father barely tolerated you bringing the toys. If I ask to borrow church property to go shopping with you, he'll probably have me committed.”
“Or he could see it as his daughter doing charitable work.” Brayden's expression shifts to something more serious. “Look, we need to get food for nearly four hundred families. Your Honda's not gonna cut it, and my bike definitely won't. The van makes sense.”
He’s right, damn him. The practical part of my brain knows we need a bigger vehicle, but the part of me that’s already caused enough scandal this week is sounding every alarm. Richard kept his promise and contacted the church executive board about Brayden’s club donating to the toy drive. He conveniently omitted our run-in at the coffee shop, but the rumor mill handled that for him. My father was spitting nails after I got home from my ride with Brayden. The last time he lectured me that harshly was when I was five minutes late coming home from a high school party. Three days have passed, and he’s still down to single word replies.
“Besides,” he adds, that hint of a smile returning, “what's the worst that could happen?”
I stare at him. “Did you just ask me what's the worst that could happen? In my experience, that's usually when everything goes spectacularly wrong.”
“You worried about being seen with me?”
The question catches me off guard with its directness. Am I worried about being seen with him? Yes. But not for the reasons he probably thinks.
“I'm worried about my father having a stroke.”
“He'll survive. He’s got the Lord on his side, right?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it up further. “Sometimes doing the right thing means pissing off the wrong people.”
The irony isn’t lost on me that he’s quoting something that sounds suspiciously close to sermon material. “Did you just give me a moral lesson?”
“Maybe I picked up a few things sitting in the back pew all those years.”
Despite everything—the scandal, my father’s disapproval, the voice in my head that sounds almost exactly like my mother warning me about boys of his caliber—I find myself nodding. “Fine. But you’re the one explaining to my father why we need the van.”
“Deal.” He extends his hand as though we’re finalizing a business agreement. When I take it, his palm is warm and rough against mine, sending that familiar jolt up my arm. “Where is he?”
“Probably in his office, preparing for this afternoon's emergency board meeting.” I don't let go of his hand immediately, and neither does he. “The one where they'll discuss whether accepting donations from your club was appropriate.”