Page 79 of Colt
“This okay?” he asked. “You used to like jazz.”
“Did I?” I searched for the memory but came up empty. “I don’t remember.”
“Let’s find out if you still do.”
We ordered drinks—whiskey for him, wine for me—and sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the music fill the space between us.
“Can I ask you something?” I said finally.
“Anything.”
“What made you fall in love with me?”
Colt was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “We met at a gas station.” A quiet smile crossed his face. “Off the highway. I stopped to fill up my bike and you were standing next to your car staring at the steam coming out from under the hood.”
“My car broke down?”
“Blown head gasket. Thing was done.” His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand. “You looked up at me—a six-two biker wearing a Death’s Head cut, not exactly approachable—and said, ‘Please tell me you know something about cars, because I think mine just died.’”
I sat with that for a second. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. No hesitation. Most people saw the cut and crossed the street. You just asked me for help.” He shook his head slowly. “I called a brother to tow it and offered you a ride. You told me you’d taken three years of karate as a kid and you weren’t afraid to use it.”
I laughed despite myself. “Now that sounds like me.”
“It was exactly you.” His expression softened. “I knew right then I was going to marry you. Took me six months before you’d agree to let me take you on a date.”
“I made you wait that long?”
“You made me earn it.” He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. “I’ve never worked so hard for anything in my life. And it was worth every second.”
“Can I tell you something?” I said.
He waited.
“Losing seven years—” I paused, choosing the words carefully. “It taught me not to let things sit. Not to wait for theright moment or until I feel certain enough. There is no certain enough. There’s just now.”
Colt was very still.
“I want more time with you. Not at Betty’s, not with the boys as buffer.” I felt heat rise in my face and looked down at our hands. “I want to come to the clubhouse. I want to see where you live, your room, your actual life.” The next part was harder. “I want to be your old lady again.” I said it quietly, almost shy about it. “If you’d still have me.”
Silence.
I made myself look up.
The expression on his face stopped me. Not surprise—something much more focused than surprise. His eyes had darkened, and the hand covering mine had gone completely still in a way that felt deliberate, like he was keeping himself carefully in check.
“You know what you’re asking.” His voice had dropped a register.
“I think so.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. He exhaled slowly through his nose and looked away for a moment—out toward the bar, the middle distance, somewhere that wasn’t directly at me. When he looked back, he had himself under control again. Mostly.
“Come by in a few days,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He said it evenly. But his thumb had started moving against the back of my hand—slow, small circles—and I didn’t think he knew he was doing it.
We sat like that for a while longer. His hand around mine, the music soft around us, the night going on outside the windows.
