He nods, his eyebrows pulling together. “Maybe his minions come and get her for him?"
I love that he's taking this as seriously as I am.
"I want him to come himself. Like, he instantly sees her, and then that's it, he has to have her.”
Paul nods. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."
He slides a glass of orange juice over to me and I take a sip, still thinking about my story.
"I think I've got an idea.” I slide off the barstool before realizing it might be rude to expect him to cook while I write. “Do you mind?"
He shakes his head. "You keep writing. I'll let you know when dinner’s ready."
I go back to my laptop and type up a few notes, then get going on the next chapter. It feels like no time at all when Paul puts two plates down on the kitchen counter.
“Do you want this now, or do you want to keep working?"
I shake my head. "I'll stop."
It feels great to have written. I feel bold. I feel confident, like maybe I can do this. Maybe all I needed was to get out of my parents’ house.
Paul has made Bolognese, and it’s delicious. The sauce is thick and tasty with all the herbs he's put into it. I curl the pasta around my fork.
“It’s homemade pasta," he says.
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. This man is full of surprises. “You can make it yourself?"
Paul chuckles. "Yeah, it's really easy. I do a batch at the start of the week and it lasts all week. I like making things from scratch."
There's a lot I'm learning about this quiet biker, and all of it makes me fall for him a little more. He is not what you’d expect a veteran member of an MC to be like.
"I can't imagine you in the military. What did you do?"
Paul pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I was a financial manager. There’s a lot of support staff that work in the site office. I didn't have the glamor of running out and shooting bad guys, but it suited me fine.”
I imagine Paul in his military gear sitting in a heated office with a paperback stuffed in his pocket.
“I started like everyone else in basic training, but they saw something in me and trained me in accountancy. I’m grateful for that.”
He looks away and smiles when he talks about the military. It was obviously a good part of his life, which makes me wonder why he’s not still there.
“Why did you come out?"
Paul twirls pasta around his fork. “My mom got sick."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say quietly.
"She beat the cancer. My mom’s a tough old bird.” He pops the forkful of pasta in his mouth and chews thoughtfully before swallowing. “I'm going to see her tomorrow. Would you like to come?"
I look down at my plate. I hate meeting new people, but it’s an honor to be invited, and I’m curious about Paul’s family.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
He beams at me, and I’m glad I’ve made him happy.
After dinner we clear up the dishes and then settle down to read quietly in the armchairs.
The only sound is the crackling of the fire and the wind outside as the trees scrape against the windows. Paul thought I wouldn't like the coziness of it, but the truth is, I love it here. It’s peaceful and inspiring.
