Page 53 of Cole

My face burned. The filthy words fell so easily from his mouth.

“Seems like you’re the kind of girl who would want to keep what happened between us last night secret. I didn’t want to deny you that opportunity.”

I had no idea what to say to that for a moment. My brain scrambled for a response.

“What kind of girl is that?”

He smirked. “A good little law-abiding citizen.”

“More like you don’t want anyone to know you hooked up with your little brother’s friend,” I finally managed. He pushed off the wall and stalked toward me. I backed up; I couldn’t help it. He was a wall of muscle, tattoos, and temptation. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust myself.

“I don’t run my mouth about women I take to bed,” he started.

“Very gentlemanly of you,” I cut in, backing around the sofa.

Cole paused, watching me with narrowed eyes, and then chuckled, turning slightly to walk into the open-plan kitchen.

“Not really,” he called. “I don’t run my mouth, but I wouldn’t lie about it for my sake either, only for yours.”

He switched the coffee maker on, and turned to brace his arms on the large kitchen island between us.

“Meaning?” I wandered closer, lured by the smell of brewing coffee.

“Meaning I don’t regret a damn thing I’ve done since meeting you, Goldilocks. I don’t do things I’m not ready to stand up and take accountability for.” He washed his hands in the island’s sink, slowly and methodically, then went for the refrigerator.

“I don’t fuck around with women I’m ashamed of being with. End of story. Then again, I don’t really fuck around, period.” He kicked the door to the refrigerator shut and came back to the counter, carrying eggs.

I was close enough now to touch the counter. I gripped it to steady myself against the effect of his words. He cracked the eggs into a bowl.

“Are you going to take me home now?” I wondered.

“After breakfast, sure,” he said. “You can stay for breakfast, can’t you? I’ll make it just right.” He grinned wickedly at me. He seemed like an entirely different man than the one I’d met at The Clutch. The one who was always aware of where his men were, and who they were talking to. The man who carried a gun in the back of his jeans and was ready to step between me and danger in a heartbeat.

I nodded slowly. My chest felt tight, my palms sweaty. Somehow, this felt more dangerous than anything else we’d done up to now. Very dangerous, indeed.

Who’d have thought it? The MC Pres could cook. He toasted sourdough, and topped it with avocado, and eggs, then crumbled chorizo sprinkled on top. The food was sublime, the coffee was just right, and the company was thrilling.

After a breakfast where I laughed too much, ate too much, and felt too much of everything, he took a call.

I cleaned the dishes, setting them in the wrought iron drying rack and wiping down the counters. The kitchen was beautiful. Hand designed, Cole had told me over breakfast. What kind of man was a criminal mechanic, motorcycle-riding woodworker? Cole was breaking out of any kind of box I tried to put him in inside my mind, and I wasn’t sure what to do about that.

I took my third cup of coffee out onto the deck. The morning sun slanted through the trees, warming me, though the pine air remained fresh and crisp. I walked the length of the deck. It was a stunning spot. With the way the cabin faced, it was pines after pines, framing a stunning view through the trees of the coastline.

I wandered down the steps at the side of the deck. Cole was pacing, still on the phone, on the other side of the floor-length sitting room windows, and I didn’t want him to think I was listening in.

I shuddered to think how he would feel if he knew I came to his bar carrying a listening device I’d hoped to plant, a device that I seemed to have misplaced somewhere. That was not a conversation I wanted to have.

I walked down the steps, and onto the forest floor. Thick borrowed socks cushioned my feet from pine needles. I was still only wearing the henley, though he’d also given me a plaid shirt of his to put on top. Which reached down to the back of my knees.

In the yard at the side of the house, there was a huge firepit area with seating all around. It looked cozy. I imagined the nights Cole had sat here. Had he been alone? Despite being surrounded by people most of the times I’d seen him, he seemed like a solitary man.

I wandered past the paved area of the firepit, spying a sizeable shed just behind. The door was ajar, and wood shavings littered the floor. Call it journalistic instincts, or just being a nosy bitch, but I was pushing the door open before I could stop myself. I belatedly realized that I probably should’ve been more apprehensive about poking around a dangerous MC president’s house. What if I saw a body? Crates of guns? Stacks of drugs? I had barely begun to spiral into those thoughts, before I took in the room.

It was a woodshop. Counters were lined with tools and small, carved pieces of wood. There were special lights strung up in places, and huge lumps of wood in various stages of development, sitting on stands around the space. I stopped at one. It was a mirror. The wood surrounding the glass was stunning. I ran my fingers across it. The glass showed me my face. I looked different this morning. I looked… relaxed. Content, even. Usually, I was stressed out, a buzzing ball of caffeine and anxiety, barreling through life. It was my reputation, and it was well earned. I barely ever slowed down. Somehow, this morning in Cole’s cabin had unclenched something deep inside me that was always wound tight. Or maybe that had just been the five orgasms last night.

Regardless, for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t hear the usual mental chatter I always lived with. My parents’ voices reminding me of their expectations, and my own internal critiquing. My editor at the newspaper putting me down, and my professors telling me that these things take time whenever I’d complained about the lack of opportunities at the Herald. It was just… silent.

Well, almost.