Page 27 of Her Broken Biker
I whispered his name.
I may have whispered his name loud enough for him to hear.
I turn off the water and stand there dripping, staring at the curtain like it might have answers.
It does not.
The towels are stacked on a narrow shelf beside the sink, thank God. I grab the biggest one and wrap it around myself, tucking the corner tight under my arm.
Clean clothes are in the dresser outside the bathroom.
Naturally.
I consider living in this bathroom forever.
Then I remember Ace’s shoulder, the men in the woods, my phone, my life, and the fact that forever is a long time to spend hiding beside a toilet.
I open the door.
Ace is standing near the fireplace.
He has put on a clean pair of dark sweatpants, but his chest is still bare, the fresh bandage bright against all that tanned skin and ink. He turns when the door opens.
His eyes hit me and stop.
The air changes.
I know it before he says a word.
He heard me.
Heat floods my face so fast I feel dizzy.
“I, um.” My grip tightens on the towel. “The clothes?”
His gaze drags back to my face, but it takes effort.
I can see the effort.
That somehow makes it worse.
And better.
“Dresser,” he says.
His voice is rough.
I take one careful step into the room. “Right. You said that.”
“I did.”
“Forgot.”
“I noticed.”
My heart jumps.
His mouth curves.
