Page 29 of Held-

“What are you doing?” I argue, but I don't resist as he leads me through the back door and into the parking lot.

“Getting you out of here.” His strides are long and purposeful, forcing me to jog to keep up.

“Brayden, wait.” I tug against his hold, making him pause. “My dad's meeting is about to start. I should be there to defend him—to defend us.”

He turns to face me, his expression grave. “The last place you need to be right now is in that room with Kincaid.”

“But my dad?—”

“Can handle himself.” His eyes soften slightly. “Remember when you asked about another ride?”

I hesitate, my heart thudding in my chest as I look back at the church where my father is about to face the board.

“Okay. Let's go.”

Relief flashes across Brayden's face, so brief I almost miss it. He releases my elbow but stays close as we walk toward his bike.

“Shit,” he mutters, giving me a once-over that makes heat bloom in my cheeks despite the chill in the air. “You'll freeze dressed like that.”

I glance down at my thin sweater and jeans. I’d rushed out without my heavier coat, and the December wind slips straight through the fabric without the slightest resistance.

“I'm fine,” I lie, even as a shiver betrays me.

Brayden gives me a look that says he's not buying it. “Hold on.” He strides over to his bike and flips open one of his saddlebags, rummaging through it before pulling out a dark gray hoodie. “Here.”

He holds it out to me, and I hesitate for just a moment before taking it. The fabric is soft and worn, clearly well-loved, and when I slip it over my head, I'm immediately enveloped in his scent.

The hoodie swallows me whole, sleeves covering my hands, the hem landing mid-thigh. Warmth settles around me, his scent woven into every inch of the fabric.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.” I push the sleeves up to free my hands, feeling oddly vulnerable and protected all at once, “Thanks.”

Brayden nods, then reaches for the helmet hanging from his handlebar. “Come here,” he says, gesturing me closer.

I step forward, and he gently places the helmet on my head, his fingers brushing my cheeks as he secures the strap. His touch is surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the strength I know those hands possess.

“Too tight?” he asks, adjusting the strap beneath my chin.

“No, it's perfect.” My voice sounds muffled inside the helmet, but I can't blame that for the breathlessness I hear in it.

He secures the strap under my chin. His eyes focused on the task but occasionally flicking up to meet mine. Something passes between us in those brief moments–a current of understanding, of want, that makes my skin prickle with awareness beneath his oversized hoodie.

“All set,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Ready to go?”

I nod. He swings his leg over the bike and pats the seat behind him. I climb on less awkwardly this time, already more confident as I slide onto the seat behind him. Without hesitation, my arms encircle his waist, fingers locking together over the hard planes of his stomach. I press closer than strictly necessary, telling myself it's just for warmth.

The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body in a way that sends my heart racing. I lean into him as we pull out of the church parking lot, watching my father's house of worship grow smaller in the side mirror until it disappears completely around a bend.

We don't take the main roads this time. Instead, Brayden guides us through back streets. The town looks different from the back of his bike—more beautiful somehow, less suffocating.

I'm so lost in the sensation of the wind and the solid warmth of Brayden's back against my chest that I don't immediately register where we're headed until we turn down a familiar tree-lined drive. Jillian's house appears through the branches, its gingerbread trim and wraparound porch exactly as I remember from childhood visits.

Brayden doesn't drive up to the main house, but to a small guest house on the back side of the property. He cuts the engine, and I reluctantly unwrap my arms from his waist as he dismounts, immediately missing his warmth.

“This is where you're staying?” I ask, pulling off the helmet and shaking out my hair.

“My aunt's kept this place ready for me since I was a teenager,” he says, taking the helmet from my hands. “Said I'd always have somewhere to come back to, even when I was at my worst.”