Page 23 of Hash

The sneaky bastard.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Except this time it isn’t going to work.

I’m anxiously pacing back and forth in my living room as I wait for Hash to arrive.

Frankie was more than happy to pick Cormac up from daycare after work and watch him for the night, the traitor. I can’t figure out why she’s pushing this so much after seeing everything I went through with him. However, as much as I hate to admit it, the bitch is right, and I need to have a conversation with him. She’s the only one who I trust with Cormac’s life, and she one hundred percent played that against me.

I put a bottle of champagne in the fridge, knowing I would need something to take the edge off, but I’m thinking I might need to start now.

Just as I set the bottle on the counter, a heavy knock sounds at my front door, scaring the shit out of me and making me jump.

“Jesus Christ.” I rub my hand over my chest.

I look between the bottle of champagne and the hallway leading to the front door, debating if I have enough time to pop this baby open and take a swig before this shitstorm begins.

Just as I start unwrapping the foil around the cork, the knocking starts again, this time even louder than before.

“I’m coming!” I yell, leaving the bottle and heading toward the door.

This is off to a great start. He’s already pissing me off.

Flipping the locks, I open the door to reveal a nervous-looking Hash. He has one hand half in his front pocket while his other hand holds a brown paper bag of takeout food. He still has the same mullet and the gauges I always found incredibly hot. His worn Levi jeans are hugging his thighs, and his white tee is making me wish I could be back in those arms. His cut adding that extra bad boy flair that made me fall for him the second I laid eyes on it.

He looks damn good.

“I picked up food from that Irish place I remember you liking. I got you shepherd’s pie,” Hash says sheepishly as he motions to the bag in his hand containing one of my favorite dishes.

All I can do is stare at him.

He looks as nervous as I feel, and in some fucked-up way, him being nervous is calming me down. I have the upper hand here.

“You going to let me in?” he asks softly.

Taking the bag out of his hand, I head back toward the kitchen. “How did you remember I liked that place?” Let alone the shepherd’s pie is my favorite.

“I remember everything about you, Aisling,” I hear Hash answer after the front door shuts.

But you couldn’t remember to text me back.

I need champagne before I need food.

Ripping off the rest of the foil and unscrewing the little metal twist cap, I pop the cork. “Want a glass?”

“I’ll never turn down the chance to have a glass of champagne with you.”

I snort to myself.

He’s laying it on thick tonight.

Champagne has always been my drink of choice, whether it’s cheap or expensive. As long as it’s dry and bubbly, I’m happy. If you had told me that a one-percenter biker like Hash liked champagne almost as much as I do, I would have laughed in your face. But without fail, whenever I would be drinking it, he would be drinking it right along with me.

I stretch my hand out, offering Hash his glass, but he isn’t paying attention to me. Instead, he’s looking around my place, lingering on the baby bouncer I have shoved in the corner of the living room and the bin of baby toys I have next to that.

Clearing my throat, I draw his attention back to me. I can see the unasked question swirling in his bright green eyes as he takes the glass, his eyes still darting around the room.

“He’s not here. I figured it would be best to talk without him around, you know, in case things get heated or out of hand.”