Page 13 of My Ex-Military Biker

"Tate."

"I'm Natalie."

He nods like he already assumed I had a name but appreciates the confirmation.

"What do you do?" I ask. "I mean, besides..." I gesture vaguely at his shirt where the wound is underneath.

"I work part-time at a bike shop in town. Rest of the time I'm with the club."

"The motorcycle club?"

"Yeah."

"Isn’t that dangerous?"

He looks at me for a moment before answering.

"Sometimes."

"Is today's wound from that?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Does that happen a lot?"

"More than I'd like. Less than it used to."

I finish the sandwich. He takes both plates to the sink.

I watch his back while he washes them.

He turns around, leaning against the counter.

We look at each other across the kitchen.

The charge is still there. Has been there since the bathroom. Maybe since the bike. Building with every minute we're in the same space.

"What's your plan?" he asks.

"I don't have one."

"Where were you going when the car died?"

"I don't know. I wasn't going anywhere specific. I was just driving."

"You got anyone you need to call?"

The question makes my stomach drop.

"My phone's in my car," I remember. "But no. I mean, yes, there are people I should probably call. My parents. My..." I can't say fiancé. "Tyler. The man I was supposed to marry. But I don't want to."

"Then don't."

Like it's that simple.

Well, maybe it is that simple.

"I should probably figure out what to do about my car," I say.