Page 13 of My Wild Biker

"So, what does this look like?" I ask. "If we do this?"

"Honestly? I don't know. I've never been good at staying anywhere. You've built your whole life around leaving. Neither of us is exactly relationship material."

"That's a pretty bleak assessment."

"It's honest." He shifts on his stool. "But I do know I haven't wanted someone like this in years. Maybe ever. And three days is better than walking away now wondering what could've happened."

I consider that. Consider him. Consider how my body is already responding to being near him again, how the attraction hasn't dimmed at all, how something in me relaxed the moment I walked in and saw him here.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"Three days. Whatever this is. Then Sunday I leave and we both move on."

"Three days."

The word settles between us, warm and decided. Something that's been tight in my chest all day finally releases.

Walt materializes at the end of the bar. "You two eating?"

Chuck looks at me.

"Yeah," I say. "We're eating."

Chapter 4 — Chuck

The burgers Walt brings smell better than they have any right to.

Isla unwraps the paper and takes a bite without ceremony and I find myself watching her instead of my own food. She's talking about the arts collective she worked with this afternoon — a board chair undermining the executive director in front of volunteers, budget projections that wouldn't close no matter how she arranged the numbers. Her hands move when she talks. Precise little gestures that match how she thinks.

I pick up my burger and let her go.

There's a pause. She looks at me. "How was your day?"

I take a drink. "Walt called Clint last night. Apparently, the moment we walked out of here together, Walt went straight to the phone."

She blinks. "Walt called your president??"

"Walt's been trying to get me to settle down for years." I turn the glass between my fingers. "Clint was waiting when I got to the clubhouse this morning. Read the situation off my face before I said a word."

"What did he say?"

"Asked if you knew what I was. What the club does." I look at her. "Told me not to lie to you. Said women handle the truth better than they handle finding out you've been lying."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "And?"

"And then one of my brothers sat across from me at noon and told me three days wasn't enough time to know if something was real or if I was just using it to fill the hole Perry left."

Isla sets her beer down. "The friend who died alone."

"Yeah."

"He thinks that's what this is."

"He thinks it might be." I meet her eyes. "He's not wrong to ask. I've been asking myself the same thing since I left the clubhouse."

"And?"