The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,68

to think I shouldn’t have done that. Being home waiting around is driving me batty.

Where did he even go for training? Did he leave the state? Wait, should I be at the airport for him? Gah! I don't know because he hasn’t told me anything!

To distract myself, I head upstairs to the second bedroom and begin unpacking my things. Sometime in the last few weeks, I'd collected all my clothes, jewelry, mementos and valuables from my house in Cherry Hills and dumped them in the second bedroom upstairs when I realized the closet in our room was much too small to hold all my stuff.

I’d bought some clothes racks and organizers and have been working on converting the room into a makeshift closet for the time being. Organizing has been taking some time, though. I do a little each day. But now that I have all this free time waiting for a man who might not even come home, what better way to kill it?

Four hours later, I have a fully organized bedroom-sized closet. Time well spent. But most of all, it did the trick—distracted me.

I prepare a fancy dinner. Shower, sweeten up, and slip into a sexy dress. And I wait.

And wait.

Me: I don't think he's coming.

Kendra doesn't reply, which means she’s busy getting it on with her man, as that's the only time she ignores my calls or messages. She's head over heels in love with her game developer boyfriend. On the outside, they seem like the most unlikely pair, but hell if they aren’t made for each other.

Twisting the cap off a Sprite Zero, I pad dejectedly to the living room and plop down on the couch. I pluck up the remote from the side table and begin mindlessly switching through channels. Settling on a telenovela, I pull my feet up on the couch and curl myself around a throw pillow, blocking out all the anxious, negative thoughts swirling around in my head and pushing Kendra's words to the forefront.

Chill. You're his woman. For good. Trust me.

Muting my thoughts, I chill.

~

Something wakes me. I don't know what it is. Intuition, maybe? Because when I open my eyes, he's there. Leaned against the wall at the opening of the hall, a half-empty beer bottle in hand, watching me.

At his feet, is a stuffed travel bag with the unmistakable "RCI" logo. Is that his new job? He’s with Red Cage Investigations now?

I flick my bleary gaze back to him and salivate. Maybe it's because I haven't seen him in a while, but he seems… hotter. Sexier. Calmer. Slightly less broody.

Something's changed.

Combat boots, black cargo pants, a hunter-green tee that clings tightly to his defining muscles, his beard groomed, and his rapidly growing hair tied back.

My insides come alive. God, this man…

"You're back," I whisper.

"You're here," he replies.

"I-I am." A pinch of unease under my skin, I push up on my elbows. "Is that okay?"

He takes a swig of his beer and eyes me warily. "You okay now?"

Why is he wary of me? Oh, right, I sent him for soup then moved out and ghosted him for two months.

I sit up and swing my legs off the couch. "I'm getting there. I'm seeing a therapist once a week."

“Good.” He nods. “That’s good.”

Nervous, I fiddle with the corner of a throw pillow. “So, um, how was training?”

“Easy.” His eyes darts to the kitchen then back to me. “You were waiting up for me?”

Twisting, I glance over the back of the couch to the kitchen, to the dining table set with cutlery, to the pots on the stove and the oven on warm.

“Uh, yeah…I didn’t know what time you’d be back...I made dinner.”

“Sorry. We had to give up our phones for the duration of the training,” he says. “Only got it back once two days ago for ten minutes, and just got it back for good a few hours ago. I texted you.”

“I didn’t…” I glance around, searching for my phone, spotting it a few seconds later on the area rug. It must have fallen off the couch when I fell asleep. I pick it up and check the screen.

Scratch: ON MY WAY HOME. HOPING YOU’RE THERE.

Scratch: REALLY MISS YOU, YAMS.

Hope blooms in my chest. He misses me. He misses me! And I don’t even care that he used that hideous nickname he gave me the night he stalked me at the bar. It feels so special to me now.

“Ley.”

“Hmm?” I look up from the phone, the apprehension slowly leaving me. There’s