Page 18 of The Biker’s Guilty Pleasur

Chapter Seven

Maybe this wasn’t the greatest of her ideas.

Grace put on her most full-coverage pajamas because she didn’t want him to think she was a whore and trying to have a one-night stand or something. She was grateful he was there under the circumstances, but the sleeping arrangements were going to be rough.

As she was pulling down the extra pillows and bedding from her closet, she realized the one thing that never entered her mind was being taken advantage of. It should be the only thing in her head. He was a biker. They inherently had no values. But she would bet her life on him being a gentleman all night long.

Once she was on her side of the bed with her own set of blankets, she awkwardly waited for him to get on his side. She watched him as he put his belongings on the nightside table and then proceeded to pull his t-shirt up over his head. The movement of every tattoo-covered muscle caught her attention. His body was a work of male art. It was hard to believe the man was real.

But she also saw the scars.

There were a lot of old scars, some thin white lines and others larger and jagged. She had a lot of questions but kept her mouth shut. When he started to turn around, she averted her eyes.

“What is this? A double?”

“Yeah.”

He grumbled his displeasure as he squeezed his oversized body next to her. The entire mattress dipped.

“Are you used to something bigger?” she asked.

“Hell, yeah. I have a king-size bed.”

“For one person? Sounds like a waste.”

“It’s not,” he said.

“For one person?” Part of her wanted him to tell her he’d never had a woman in his bed, but that would be a joke. Those motorcycle clubs were teeming with loose women ready to screw the entire crew day and night. The thought made her nauseous. She didn’t want to think about Reaper with anyone else but her. She made her own self blush. Idiot.

“I like my space,” he said. “Didn’t know people still bought doubles.”

Grace scoffed. “Some of us are still living paycheck to paycheck. This is the biggest apartment I can afford, and as you can see, I don’t have another inch of space to spare in my bedroom.”

“True.” He rolled to his side to face her. “So, what are your plans? I mean, besides the coffee shop and volunteering?”

“It’s a bubble tea shop,” she corrected. “And the only plans I have are getting enough shifts to pay the bills.”

His simple question made her feel defensive. She’d forgotten about dreams years ago. Her daily grind was all that mattered. The only pleasure she had in life was her volunteering and her cat. Oh, crap, her life sounded pathetic.

“Not those kinds of plans. What did you want to be when you grew up?” he asked.

“That’s silly,” she said. “Childhood dreams don’t mean anything now.”

“I just want to know. Humor me.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay, I wanted to have my own café. There was a diner near our home when I was little, and I loved when we’d go there. The atmosphere, the staff who treated you like family, and the delicious food. Silly, I know.”

He was staring at her. She felt it before she even looked at him.

“Not silly at all.” His voice had changed. The words soft, almost a whisper. She felt like he really got her, cared, and it made her feel emotional. It had been so long since she’d been alone in life, and it was refreshing to have someone who gave a damn.

“What about you? Did you always dream of being a biker? Were you the little boy who played with toy cars and bikes?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Sometimes people don’t have a lot of choices. Sometimes circumstances choose for you,” he said.