Page 11 of My Wild Biker

"Only to someone paying attention." She touches her own neck in the same spot. "He treats you well, I hope?"

"It was just one night. Nothing serious."

She makes a sound that suggests she doesn't quite believe me but won't push. "If you say so."

The workshop runs until noon. Fifteen local nonprofit staff learning database systems and communication strategies. I walk them through templates, answer questions, troubleshoot their specific situations. This is the work I'm good at and it pulls my focus away from everything else for three solid hours.

During lunch break I eat a sandwich from the diner down the street and try not to think about Chuck telling me it has the best breakfast in Bloomfield. Try not to wonder if he's eaten there today, if he thought about me at all this morning, if leaving was easy for him.

The afternoon is one-on-one meetings with organizations wrapping up consultations. I review grant applications, give feedback on strategic plans, help a small arts collective figure out their budget projections for next year. Useful work. Concrete problems with concrete solutions.

Around four I'm done and the center is empty except for Mrs. Jones locking up the supply closet.

"That's everything?" she asks.

"For this rotation. I'll be back in six months for follow-up."

She studies me for a moment. "You seem distracted today."

"Just thinking about the next town. Millbrook."

"Mm." She doesn't sound convinced. "When do you leave?"

"Sunday morning."

"Three more days." She says it like she's commenting on weather. Then she looks at me. "Everything okay? You look like you didn't sleep much."

I didn't. Spent half the night replaying Thursday, and the other half trying not to think about it.

"I'm fine. Just a long week."

She nods but doesn't push. "The Anchor's open by five if you need dinner. Walt makes a decent burger."

The mention of The Anchor makes my stomach flip. "Maybe. We'll see."

I grab my bag. "Thanks for everything this week!"

"Drive safe, Isla."

The walk back to my rental is ten minutes in heat that hasn't broken since yesterday.

Inside I change into a clean tank top and stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking at the mark on my neck again.

I could stay here tonight. Order takeout. Avoid The Anchor entirely. Avoid any chance of seeing Chuck.

That would be the sensible thing.

I grab my keys and get in my car before I've consciously decided.

The Anchor's parking lot has three motorcycles when I pull in. One of them is Chuck's.

Inside it's darker after the bright sun, cooler from the AC running. My eyes adjust and I scan the room automatically. Two men playing pool in back. An older couple at a corner table. Walt behind the bar.

Chuck sitting on the same stool as last night, whiskey in front of him, looking at his phone.

He looks up when the door closes behind me.

Our eyes meet and something passes between us that I feel in my stomach, in my thighs, in the mark on my neck.