Page 52 of Her Broken Biker
“You go to work, I go with you. I’ll keep out of your way as much as I can.”
Her brows lift.
“As much as you can?”
“I’m not a miracle worker.”
That gets me a small smile.
It hits harder than it should.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I kiss her forehead because her mouth is a bad idea and I’m already short on discipline.
“Call your supervisor,” I say. “Then we eat. Then we stop by your place for clothes.”
“You’re feeding me now?”
“You worked twelve hours, got kidnapped, saved a man who didn’t deserve it, stitched me up, and rode me hard enough to make that chair beg for mercy.”
Her mouth falls open.
“Ace.”
“What?”
“You cannot just say things like that.”
“I just did.”
Her face goes so red I nearly forget every damn problem outside this cabin.
Nearly.
I pull on jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt carefully enough not to piss off my shoulder more than I already have.
Reina digs through my dresser and comes out wearing my gray sweatpants rolled twice at the waist, my shirt still hanging loose over her curves.
Then she calls her supervisor from the corner near the bed, voice steady in that nurse way of hers, all calm edges over a body I know is still shaking inside.
She says emergency.
She says late.
She says she’ll be there.
I hate every word after that.
But I make sandwiches anyway.
Turkey, cheese, mustard, bread. Nothing fancy. Food meant to keep a body moving. I put one in front of her, and she looks at it like she forgot breakfast was a thing people do.
“Eat.”
Her eyes narrow. “You are bossy too.”
“Eat, Reina.”
