“Like opening a bakery?”
“Like opening a bakery,” she echoes, and this time the grin wins, breaking free in a flash of teeth and relief.
I smile as she leans sideways into me before I can react, forehead knocking lightly against my shoulder, energy finally spilling somewhere instead of ricocheting inside her. “I did it,” she murmurs, as if the words are still new enough to test their shape. “I have a meeting at nine,” she says, and the folder shakes slightly in her grip.
I look at her for one long second. “I’ll drive you.”
She blinks. “I was going to get a ride share—”
“Brightside.”
She closes her mouth, nods, and goes to make coffee, a smile she is trying very hard to keep from taking over her entire face, and failing at that, too.
Fuck she’s beautiful—even at six in the morning.
***
The signing takes forty-five minutes.
I sit outside the notary’s office on a wooden bench, drink bad coffee from a paper cup, and watch through the glass as she leans over the table with a pen in her hand and signs her name in the places the agent indicates, and something in my throat tightens, catching me off guard. She signs the last page and sits back and does the thing she does when something matters so much she doesn’t trust herself to react to it in a room full of strangers. She goes very still, very composed, and blinks twice, and then she collects herself, shakes the agent’s hand, and thanks him like she signs papers for bakeries every Tuesday of her life.
She comes out into the hallway, stands in front of me, and her composure lasts approximately three more seconds. “It’s r-real,” she says. Her voice breaks just slightly on the word.
I stand up, then set my coffee down. “It’s real.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like it has been sitting in her chest for about three years. “You think Sin will be okay continuing to help me with the mine while I also run my bakery?”
I pull her against me, her face pressed into my chest, while my arms wrap around her shoulders, and I hold onto her for a second right there in the hallway while the paperwork behind us finishes turning everything permanent. “Your dad knew,Brightside. He knew you wanted a hand in both worlds. It’s why he gave a portion of the mine to the club. So, you could do exactly this… he also knew the club would have your back while doing it,” I tell her.
She nods against my shirt.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t need to.
***
I lead her to my bike.
She’s been on the back of my Harley more times than either of us has bothered to count, but today she pauses beside it like she’s recalibrating the meaning of the machine. Her arms fold loosely, not defensive, just containing something she hasn’t decided how to name yet.
I hand her the helmet.
She takes it without saying anything, turning it once in her hands before shrugging it on in one smooth movement. No fumbling, no hesitation, just that steady, locked-in control she brings to anything important.
It isn’t nerves.
It’s awareness.
Of what this ride is.
Of what it means now.
When she swings her leg over the seat, it’s smooth, instinctive, her hands settling at my waist as if they’ve always belonged there. But her grip tightens a fraction sooner than usual, and I feel the difference immediately.
Not fear.
Just…more.
