Page 40 of My Wild Biker

His hand finds my hip and pulls me closer. "Best thing I was ever wrong about."

The waitress watches us from behind the counter with a knowing smile and I'm suddenly aware we're the only customers and we're taking up space. I pull back and grab his hand, tugging him toward the door.

Back in the truck I climb in first and slide to the middle seat instead of staying passenger side. He raises an eyebrow when he gets in.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting here. Problem?"

"No ma'am." He starts the engine and his right hand immediately finds my thigh again. "No problem at all."

The last hour of highway passes in comfortable quiet. I doze against his shoulder and wake up when he slows for the Bloomfield exit. Late afternoon has shifted to early evening, the sun low and orange through the windshield.

"We're almost home," he says.

Home. Four years and the word still does something to my chest. Not because it's new but because it means something it never meant before. Not a place you leave from but a place you come back to.

We drive through town and everything looks exactly right. The Anchor as we pass it. The turn onto residential streets where houses have porch lights coming on. The community center where I still keep an office three days a week.

Our driveway appears and Chuck pulls in. The house lights are on—we set them on timers before we left—and the sight of those lit windows makes something in me settle.

He kills the engine and we sit there for a second.

"Long week," I say.

"Good week though."

"Yeah. Good week." I turn to look at him. "Thank you for coming with me."

"Always do when I can."

"I know. But still." I lean in and kiss him properly this time. "Thank you."

His hand slides into my hair and he deepens the kiss until I'm breathless. When we break apart, he's grinning.

"Welcome home, darlin'."

We unload the truck together, both of us moving slowly because we're tired and there's no rush. My consulting work bag. His duffel. The container of leftovers from the family dinner Tuesday night that we meant to eat and forgot about.

Inside the house is exactly how we left it. Clean dishes in the rack. Mail on the counter—Chuck's brother Knox must have brought it in. The couch still has the throw blanket I was using Sunday morning before we left.

I drop everything by the door and head straight for the bedroom. Kick off my shoes and fall face-first onto the bed.

"I'm never moving again," I announce into the pillow.

"That so?" Chuck's voice comes from the doorway.

"Completely serious. This is my life now."

The bed dips as he sits next to me. His hand runs down my back, slow and warm. "You got work tomorrow?"

"Not till Tuesday. Monday's my day off."

"Good. We can sleep in."

I roll over to look at him. He's already pulled off his boots and his cut, down to jeans and a tee shirt that's seen better days. Four years and he still looks at me the exact same way he did that first Thursday night at The Anchor. Like I'm the best thing he's seen all day.

"Stop looking at me like that," I say.