Page 26 of Sabre’s Guard

I end up standing beside Sabre as he sears his salmon. He’s just about to scorch it, so I put my hand over his on the pan handle and flip it, showing him how if you sear it skin down, you get a nice crispy skin, and the heat slowly cooks the flesh. His smile is warm, and there’s a moment when we’re staring into each other’s eyes and I begin to think that maybe we could have something special. The couple starts whispering to each other. They both look delighted. I’m getting the stink eye from the new girl, though.

Somehow, we all make it to our plates. While we’re all sampling each other’s cooking, one of the women wearing our chef’s whites whispers to me, “We like this one. We think he’s a keeper.” The other one waggles her eyebrows like we’re having girl talk.

I mumble, “You two are too much.”

Even when all the others wander off, Sabre doesn’t. Once again, he stays to help me clean up.

“So,” he says, working a towel around a sauté pan. “If I asked you to grade me, what would it be?”

After thinking it over, I say, “I’d give you a B-plus. Your fillet work was amazing, but you almost scorched your salmon.”

“Almost is another way of saying I didn’t scorch anything,” he shoots back playfully.

When I reach over to grab a towel, he takes my hands in his and looks down into my eyes. “What would it take for me to earn an A in your class, Chef?”

I know exactly where he’s going with this, but I don’t fall into his little trap.

“That’s a terrible line,” I tell him. But then I can’t resist kissing him because he’s a great kisser and I love it when he’s flirty like this. The kiss starts slow but gets heated fast. He pulls me closer and lifts me at the same time. I spread my legs shamelessly and wrap them around his waist.

One big hand slides up my back and wraps gently around the back of my neck as he deepens the kiss. My fingers move up to slide through his hair, and the next thing I know, my back is against the wall, and I want this to continue until I’m forced to come up for air.

He pulls back just far enough to look at me. His blue eyes are practically sparkling with heated interest. His voice comes out rough and needy.

“Come home with me, Linsey. I want you, and I know you want me too.”

He wants me to come to his house and spend the night. I think that over for a minute, admittedly loving the idea.

“Don’t overthink it. We’re mature, consenting adults. Why be alone tonight when we can be together?”

He’s right. There is no reason in the world we can’t be together tonight. I’ve been denying myself sex for ten years, too worried about bringing another man into our lives who might turn out to be like my ex. The thing is, I know Sabre is nothing like Dylan. I trust him in ways I’ve never trusted my ex.

This big biker might be dangerous, but not to us. He’d definitely break anyone who tried to hurt me or Noah. I know that all the way down to my bones. And it doesn’t bother me because I’d also break someone who tried to hurt me or my son. The only real difference between the two of us is that Sabre is a much better breaker than me.

It’s time I stopped just being a mom, a niece, and a chef and started being a woman again. I truly want this, so why shouldn’t I reach out and grab what I want, just this once?

Pushing him back, I say, “Give me a minute. I need to make sure Aunt Carol is okay with watching Noah tonight.” I whip out my phone and text her.

Me: Is Noah asleep? I’m with Sabre and going to be out late, maybe all night, if that’s okay with you?

The reply comes back within seconds.

Carol: He was out by nine. His alarm’s set. The security alarm is set. Go have a night to yourself. You deserve it.

“Well, what did she say?” Sabre asks.

“She said for me to have fun.”

The look on his face says it all. He’s thrilled, excited, eager, and aroused all at the same time, which explains the bulge in his jeans.

“Want to ride on the back of my bike? I can drop you off in the morning to pick up your car on my way to pick up Noah.”

I glance out the window at his motorcycle and snatch up all my courage. If my nine-year-old can ride on the back of his bike, surely I can too. “Yes. I want to ride on the back of your bike.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here, darlin’.”

Sabre’s Indian motorcycle is beautiful. The chrome gleams in the moonlight. He gives me a spare helmet he pulls out of the storage compartment on his bike to wear.

It takes ten minutes of late-night riding on the back of his bike, with my arms wrapped around his waist, to reach his place. It’s never been more apparent than at this moment that Sabre is all leather and muscle. At one point, one of my hands drifts innocently a little lower than I intend, and I feel him laugh more than I hear it.