Page 4 of My Protective Biker

But all I can see is the way he filled that doorway, the way his eyes held mine just a beat too long, the way his fingers felt against mine.

I lie there with my pulse too fast and my skin too warm, listening to cicadas through the open window, knowing with absolute certainty that this is not stopping.

That tomorrow when Zoe comes to check on Hamlet, I'm going to be hoping he comes with her.

And I don't know what to do with that want except feel it and tell myself that attraction is just chemistry, that chemistry doesn't have to mean anything, that I can keep my distance and let this fade.

Except I don't believe it.

Not even a little bit.

Chapter 2 — Roan

The light at Main turns green and Zoe is still talking about the cat.

How scared he looked, how gentle Carina was with him, how she didn't make Zoe feel stupid for not knowing what to do.

I make the appropriate sounds of agreement while my brain stays stuck on the moment our fingers touched and her breath caught loud enough for me to hear it across the exam table.

I felt it too. That's the problem.

I drive the familiar route home, hands steady on the wheel even though my head is somewhere else entirely.

This is tactical stupidity and I know it. She came through the wrong door, brought in by Zoe instead of arriving through any of the channels where I have defenses prepared.

Which means I can't decide she's a complication and simply not see her again, can't apply the distance I normally maintain, because Zoe already likes her and already trusts her and has already decided Carina is the person taking care of that cat.

I turn onto our street and pull into the driveway of the house I bought when Zoe was three months old, small and solid and nothing fancy but every repair ever done to it has been with my own hands.

We get out and the heat hasn't lifted even though it's after six, cicadas loud enough to drown thought.

Inside is cooler, the window units doing their job. Zoe drops her bag by the door and heads straight for the kitchen without needing to ask.

"Can we do spaghetti?"

"Yeah."

We fall into the routine we've had for years, no coordination necessary because we've done this enough times to know exactly how it works.

I fill the pot with water and set it on the stove while she pulls out the jar of sauce I made two weeks ago, the ground beef from the fridge, the pasta from the cabinet. The water heats and she browns the meat, and I lean against the counter watching her work while she talks about Carina's clinic.

How clean and organized it was, how there was another cat recovering in a cage, how Carina seemed to know exactly what she was doing without any hesitation or uncertainty.

"She's been there eighteen months," Zoe says, stirring the beef with the old wooden spoon. "I asked while you were parking. Moved from Harrisburg, bought the practice when Dr. Morris retired."

"You get someone's whole life story in five minutes now?"

She grins at me over her shoulder. "I'm friendly. You should try it sometime."

"I'm friendly when I need to be."

"You're terrifying is what you are." But she's still smiling, adding the sauce to the browned meat. "Carina wasn't scared of you though."

No, she wasn't. Nervous, I could see that in the way she fumbled the bills and the way her breath caught, but not scared. Just aware of me in the same way I was aware of her, and that awareness is what I can't stop thinking about.

The water boils and I add the pasta, set the timer.

The smell of sauce fills the kitchen, familiar and grounding, except it's not working tonight to center me the way it usually does.