“I don’t have any food in the house,” I told him, and his brows went up.

“You don’t have any food in the house?”

“Well,” I did a quick mental inventory, figured he wouldn’t want tuna or ranch-style beans for breakfast then suggested, “We could have Pop-Tarts.”

His lips twitched and he shook his head. “Not sure Pop-Tarts are good sittin’ on mountain of Christmas candy. I’ll take you out.”

My belly flipped again.

He’d take me out?

For breakfast?

“Pardon?” I asked.

He tossed the ball of foil on my coffee table, it bounced off the other side, went rolling across the floor, and stopped a few feet in front of the TV.

“I’ll take you out for breakfast,” he mostly repeated.

My eyes left the ball of foil and shot to him.

“Uh…” I started then found, for once, my mouth couldn’t go on.

“Tab, babe.” He came at me. “Get a move on. Once you get dressed, we’ll go.” He made it to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the mouth of the hall.

He stopped us there and I looked up at him, still frozen.

“Get,” he ordered softly. “Breakfast.”

Then he put a hand in the small of my back and gave me a gentle push.

Seeing as he pushed me, however gently, and my body’s momentum was taking me down the hall, I “got” and scurried to my bedroom wondering if I could have breakfast with Shy or even if I should.

But the fact of the matter was, he’d shown at my house after I hadn’t talked to him in six weeks, and he wasn’t pissed or in my face. He was concerned and wanted to take me out for breakfast.

So I hit the shower thinking I not only could do this, I should.

He’d faced our history straight on, guided us around it, and obviously, with the way he was being now, he intended to keep us firmly on that path.

And Tyra was right. He was Chaos, a brother, family. He’d done what any of the brothers would do that night, looking out for me.

Yeah, I definitely should do this.

Forty-five minutes later, I decided not only that I shouldn’t but I couldn’t.

This was because, even though I gave my legs a close shave last night while getting ready for the hog roast, I did it again.

I also couldn’t because I pulled out my favorite Harley tee. One that was buried in a drawer. One that I hadn’t worn in years. One that fit great and since it was tight at my breasts that made it even better.

And further because I had on faded jeans, a fabulous riveted belt, and high-heeled boots, and I’d fluffed my hair out and spritzed it with that stuff that made it look all beachy and cool. I’d also put on makeup even though I didn’t intend to. I had put on a hint of makeup, just blush and mascara, but I decided on liner. Then decided liner looked stupid without eye shadow, so I put on eye shadow. After all this, I decided makeup didn’t look good without appropriate accessories, so I layered on the silver and now I was totally made up, done up and (mostly) tricked out.

Which was stupid (again).

And wrong.

And it meant I should not, could not, go to breakfast with Shy.

The problem was, he’d been waiting for forty-five minutes, and I knew from a lifetime of experience that bikers weren’t all that patient. To fix the damage, I’d need a new outfit and a face rubdown, and I didn’t have time to select a new outfit. That could take twenty minutes alone.

For that reason, I knew I had to do this.

He was being cool and sweet.

It was just breakfast.

So I walked out of my bedroom in order to do it.

I turned the corner at the end of the hall and saw Shy leaning into his arm at the bar, head bowed, hand scratching on a piece of paper.

My first thought was he was left-handed.

My second thought was that I found that extremely interesting.

My third thought was that Shy looked perfectly at ease in my kitchen, like he’d been there dozens of times before. Like he was comfortable there. Like he belonged there.

Crap.

My apartment was in a decent complex that was well taken care of. However, it was old, though not that old. It was also worn but not that worn. And the appliances weren’t great but they weren’t that bad.

It was as good a place as any to wait it out until my new life started. I wasn’t going to be there long (or so I thought), the rent was superaffordable, so why not?

That said, I moved in and made it mine with funky stuff I liked, and I had to admit I was comfortable there. It was small, cozy, took very little time to clean, and was close to the hospital and Chaos.

Jason lived in a three-bedroom town house that he bought for us to move in together when our lives started. The town house was not worn or old, and the appliances were awesome.

Jason had grown up in a suburb of Denver, and his parents and one of his sisters still lived there. He’d never had worn or old. Anytime something got too old or broke down, his father replaced it.

Jason hated my apartment. Not frequently but often enough to make his point, when we were cuddling on the couch watching TV or he was sitting on a stool at the bar watching me ruin dinner, he’d say something like, “Can’t wait until we can get you out of this pit.”

It wasn’t a pit. It was old and worn, but it wasn’t a pit.

Jason thought it was a pit.

Looking at Shy leaning into the counter, he didn’t look like he thought my place was a pit. He didn’t look like he thought anything except whatever he was scratching on the paper.

“We’ll go to Racine’s on my bike,” he muttered, not looking up. “Tug’s bringing your ride back later. When we get back, we’ll take it and get you to the store. I did an inventory and seriously, Tab, you need to stock up.”

That was when he lifted his head and looked at me. Two beats after his eyes hit my face, they moved over my hair before they went down then they went back up. They did this slowly with a certain look in them that made my belly flip again.

On the way back up, I saw a muscle jump in his jaw.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t do this.

His eyes were on another downward run, caught around the area of my breasts when I forced out: “Racine’s?”

His eyes changed direction and came to mine. He pushed away from the counter, pulled the top paper off the pad and, shoving it in his back pocket, he said, “Yeah, Racine’s. Ready?”

It hit me then he said he was taking me to Racine’s on his bike.

I liked this.

First, Racine’s was awesome, especially for breakfast.

Second, he was taking me on his bike.

I had to admit, as much as it killed, that was something I had missed with Jason.

Bikes.

I loved riding on the back of a bike, always did. Loved the growl of Harley pipes. I loved even looking at them.

Jason didn’t do bikes, and as our wedding drew nearer, I’d begun to plot how I was going to talk him around to getting one.

I hadn’t held high hopes for my plotting.

This was because he’d once declared, though gently, “I know that was your life, sweetheart, how you grew up. It’s just not my thing and, no offense to your family, it also isn’t real safe.”

Well, he was in a car when he died, so apparently they weren’t real safe either.

“Tab, babe, you ready?” Shy asked, and I looked at him. He’d come closer during my minitrance, but he took one look at my face, dipped his close and asked quietly, “Hey, you okay?”

I sucked in breath, nodded, and answered, “I will be when I’m on the back of your bike.”

His eyes moved over my face, then his lips turned up, and, finally, he caught my hand and moved me to the door.

He held my hand as we moved to his bike. He climbed on. I climbed on. His Dyna Glide roared to life, and I found I was right.

I was okay now that I was on the back of his bike.

I was even better when the wind was rushing through my hair, my front tight to his back, my arms around him, feeling the same things I felt when he came and got me out of trouble six weeks before.

Free.

Right.

I didn’t let my mind go to how free and right I felt or why. I just let myself feel it, let the wind whip away my worries, let the pipes drown out anything in my head. I held on and enjoyed the ride.

We got to Racine’s all too soon. Shy parked, I swung a leg over, he swung a leg over, and he grabbed my hand. He held it as we walked to the restaurant, and he kept hold of it as we were shown to our table. He only let me go when we were seated.

We got our coffee and ordered before Shy spoke.

“So what was it?” he asked.

I put my coffee cup down on the table and asked back, “What was what?”

“You feelin’ shit,” he said. “Headache, flu, what?”

I looked him in the eye and decided on honesty.

“It was nothing. Tyra made excuses. I just didn’t feel up to a hog roast and I didn’t feel up to anyone poking and prodding about why I wasn’t up for a hog roast. So I stayed home.”

He held my eyes a beat before he said softly, “That’s cool.”

It was cool he thought that was cool.

He was just plain cool.

And sweet.

Him being so cool and sweet, I decided it was time so I went for it.

“Now that I’ve got you, I just wanted to say, belatedly, thank you for dropping everything and coming to get me that night. You… I… well, I needed that night to go a certain way, it was going the wrong way, and you were there for me. I… everyone… well, I needed to get drunk and play pool and sing songs from musicals and you made that safe for me. It was what I needed, and ever since you gave it to me, I’ve wanted to say thank you and now… well, now I can. So thank you.”