Page 30 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Biker

“I want to make sure I’ll always have what you need.”

She was quiet for a few minutes, and I let her be.

"Evan."

She'd used my real name in bed the night before, when it had felt like the most intimate thing she could have done. She hadn't used it since.

I looked at her.

"I love you too," she said. "I have for years. I didn't say it Thursday night because I didn't know I was saying it to you. I should have said it at the door just now, instead of making you say the hard parts first."

I wrapped my hand around hers. “You had reason to make me say the hard parts."

"I know." She squeezed her fingers. Her hand was warmer than mine, which shouldn't have surprised me. She'd always been warmer than I was. "I'm still mad. I might still be mad at you next week, even maybe a little next month.”

"Yeah."

"But I love you. That's not the part I'm angry about. That part isn't going anywhere."

I turned her hand over and pressed my mouth to her palm. “I can work with that.”

“Good. Now, I need to finish packing before the cleaning crew comes in and kicks me out.”

“Do you have to go back to Dallas tonight? Can you stay with me?”

She tilted her head and studied me like she was trying to find the right words. “Just for tonight?”

I shook my head. “I’d prefer forever, but tonight would be a good start.”

“Is that what you really want?”

My breath hitched as I reached up to cup her cheek. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, Hannah.”

She nodded. “Then we’ll make it happen.”

I smoothed my hand over her hair. Something settled into place in my chest… something that had been missing for a damn long time.

Her fingers squeezed mine. “The number might have been wrong, but this… you and me… is just right."

EPILOGUE

HANNAH

Six months later, and Mama Mae's Sunday suppers still felt like barely controlled chaos.

I moved my laptop bag off the kitchen chair to make room for another casserole dish. Someone—Kane, probably—asked if I'd wrapped the Dallas project yet, and I told him two days ago, already invoiced. Freelance writing paid the bills from anywhere. Broken Bend worked as well as Dallas had.

Better, actually.

Through the window above the sink, the weather vane on top of the barn caught the last of the evening light, silhouetted against a sky going soft and purple.

The kitchen was full. More people than Grim would choose on his own, but he was here anyway, leaning against the counter with a beer, listening to Fuse tell some story about a busted clutch. Kane stood nearby, arms crossed, looking skeptical. A few other Lonestar Riders had shown up. Mama Mae fed anyone who wandered through her door, and the club knew it.

Everett sat on the couch with his boots off, flipping through something on his phone. He glanced up when I walked past, smiled, then shot Grim a look that said he still wasn't entirely used to this. The look was habit now. Performance. He'd stopped meaning it months ago.

Hank sprawled under the table, accepting scraps from Mama Mae, who swore she wasn't feeding him.

Grim looked up from Fuse’s story and met my eyes across the room.