Own the Wind(26)

He jerked his chin in the direction of the hall and ordered, “Go, change out of your scrubs. I’ll deal with this.”

“Righty ho, biker boss,” I mumbled, grinning at him, grabbing my beer and jumping off my stool.

I was nearly to the mouth of the hall when he called, “What are we havin’ with this?”

I stopped and looked at him. “Store-bought potato salad and chips.”

“Chips?” he asked.

“Chips,” I confirmed.

“You got potatoes?” he asked, and my grin became a smile.

“Only because you bought them for me the other day,” I answered.

“You got oil?” he went on, and my smile got bigger.

“Only because you bought it for me the other day.”

“Then we’ll have fries,” he muttered to the patties.

“Fries?” I asked, and his eyes came back to me.

“Fries,” he answered.

“Homemade fries?” I sought added information.

“You got potatoes, oil, and a knife. All you gotta do is cut ’em up, fry ’em up, and, if you’re feelin’ feisty, season them.”

“FYI, biker boss, I’m feelin’ feisty,” I threw out my thinly veiled order.

Shy grinned as he put the patty on the broiler pan and turned toward the sink, murmuring, “My girl’s feelin’ feisty, she’ll get seasoning.”

I buried how that made me feel too. Even so, I still strolled to my bedroom smiling.

I was changed into an old M?tley Crüe tee and cutoff jeans, and still smiling when I moved back toward the kitchen.

Shy was giving me back me. He was guiding me to healing. He was keeping me company in a way I liked. He treated me like me when I needed it, and he treated me as fragile when I needed that. He listened to me moan about work. He stocked my cupboards. And he made me homemade fries.

Seriously, I could love this guy.

I hit the kitchen, and Shy had the oil going and a small mountain of sliced potatoes on a cutting board. I walked to the fridge, got us two fresh cold ones, and put one on the counter beside him, then I moved around the bar and hefted myself up on a stool.

“Thank you for bringing me back to me.”

Yes, that was what came out of my mouth, and I knew my words weren’t a figment of my imagination (unfortunately) when his eyes came to me.

“Say again, honey?” he asked.

It was out there, I had to go for it. And anyway, this was Shy. He’d proven over the last two months he could take it, take anything from me and handle it with care.

“I’m coming back to me,” I told him. “And you’re helping me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been me, just me. I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to realize that even before Jason died, I was burying parts of me.”

Shy held my eyes, something working in his I didn’t quite get, but he didn’t speak, so I hurried on in case he got the wrong idea.

“Jason didn’t want me to bury it, just so you know. He wasn’t that kind of guy. It was me who buried it. All me. Now, looking back, I’m wondering if it would have surfaced. I’m wondering if he worried about it. I’m wondering if we might have—”

“Stop that, babe,” Shy commanded quietly and I blinked.

“Pardon?”

“Way you say it, you were into that guy and he was into you. Don’t ask questions that will never have answers. You’ll drive yourself crazy with that shit. Just remember you were into him, he was into you, it was all good, and don’t f*ck up good memories with questions that have no answers and never will.”

He was right. Totally.

My head tipped to the side and I felt my eyes go soft when I asked, “How’d you get so wise?”

“Had a good teacher,” he answered.

“Your dad before he died?”

“My dad before he died and your dad when I found him.”

I sucked in a sharp breath.

It was not lost on me that Shy liked my dad, he respected him, and I loved that because that was how I felt about my dad. Obviously more, since he was my dad, but I still loved it that Shy felt the same.

Yes, I totally could love this guy.

“You’re done rantin’ and got nothin’ to do but sit there and stare at me,” Shy began, “haul your ass off that stool, come around and help me with the fries.”

I was done ranting and it would probably burn out my retinas if I stared at him too long, so I grinned at him, hauled my ass off the stool, rounded the bar, and helped him with the fries.

* * *

“Sugar, you awake?”

I opened my eyes and blinked at the blank TV.

I didn’t know what time it was but it felt late. What I did know was that I’d fallen asleep with my head on Shy’s chest, my legs curled behind me on the couch, my arm resting over his abs, his arm around me.

The last thing I remembered was being sucked into a marathon of American Chopper.

I tipped my head back and looked up at him.

“Hey, is it late?” I asked.

“Yeah, you gotta work tomorrow?” he asked back.

“Yeah,” I answered.

He nodded, gave me a squeeze and shifted to move but my arm around him tightened and he stilled.

“Why?” I asked.