Page 38 of Egg Me On
"He asked if it was just sex," I said finally, the words scraping my throat raw. "And I couldn't—I didn't know how to—" I broke off, frustrated at my own inability to express what was trapped inside me.
"Couldn't say it was more?" Silas finished for me. His voice softened fractionally. "Even though it obviously is."
I nodded once, sharp and jerky, the closest I could come to admission.
Silas sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If it’s more, maybe you need to find a way to say that. Maybe there’s another way than talking to him. Maybe you can write him a fucking love letter. I don’t give a shit what you do, just fix this. And that’s me as your boss talking. I won’t be happy if I lose my snacks. And clearly that boy needs someone to look out for him. He told me the other day he’d just learned that you could replace windshield wiper blades when you did it for him. Apparently, his window has never been so clean.”
I choked on a laugh, rubbing my hand over my eyes. “That tracks.”
The thought of Aiden gone—his truck missing from the lot, his laugh no longer echoing through the shop when he brought mecoffee, his body no longer pressed against mine on the Harley—created a hollowness in my chest I couldn't name.
I’d probably still show up at his place and replace his windshield wiper blades, though, because fuck.
But I knew I wanted more than that. And it wasn't just about the sex. Wasn't about the convenience of having him near. It was about the way he made the shop brighter just by being in it. The way he made me feel like a better version of myself, someone who could laugh, who could touch without hesitation, who could dream of something beyond engines and chrome.
"Fuck," I breathed, the word inadequate to encompass the storm building inside me.
"Eloquent as always," Silas said dryly.
I stood abruptly, the stool scraping against concrete with an ugly screech. My mind raced, replaying every moment with Aiden—the tent, the mornings in his bed, the rides through the mountains. His face in that bathroom mirror, hope draining from his eyes when I couldn't answer his simple question.
Is this just sex?
No. It wasn't. Had never been. Not from that first ride to the campground, maybe not even from that first day when he'd shown up with his truck, all sunshine smile and terrible egg puns.
"Where are you going?" Silas called as I strode toward the door.
I didn't answer. Couldn't spare the breath for words when every second was driving Aiden further away, when he might be signing a new agreement right now, making plans that didn't include me or FRMC or mornings on the back of my bike.
The Harley waited in its usual spot, chrome gleaming in the afternoon sun. I swung my leg over it, keys already in hand, my body moving with the focused precision I usually reserved for high-pressure mechanical work. The engine roared to life beneath me, the vibration familiar and steadying. I pulled my helmet on, adjusted the mirror, and saw my own eyes staring back at me—determined in a way they hadn't been before.
Aiden had asked for words. I didn't know if I could give him that. But I could show him—had been showing him all along, if the photos were any evidence. Now I just needed to make him see it too, make him understand that whatever was happening between us, it was anything but "just sex."
I threw the bike into gear and tore out of the lot, heart hammering against my ribs, mind already searching for the words I'd need when I found him. They wouldn't come easily. Maybe wouldn't come at all. But I had to try. Had to find some way to tell him what the photos had shown me—that he'd cracked something open inside me, something I'd kept sealed shut for so long I'd forgotten it existed.
Because the thought of him gone—of that empty space in the parking lot becoming permanent—was a weight heavier thananything I'd carried before. And if there was one thing I'd learned from motorcycles, it was this: sometimes the only way to fix what's broken is to tear it all the way down and rebuild from scratch.
Chapter 15
Aiden
The rental at CopperKettle was highway robbery—three times what I'd budgeted when I'd first bought the food truck, when I'd still thought business ownership was all creativity and freedom instead of spreadsheets and panic attacks. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as I navigated afternoon traffic, the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue. Four thousand a month for a spot in their "artisanal food corridor." The owner had said it with such pride, like I should be grateful for the opportunity to bleed myself dry for the privilege of selling breakfast sandwiches to craft beer enthusiasts.
Fuck that. My bank account was already anemic, gasping for oxygen between equipment repairs and ingredient costs. The only reason I'd stayed afloat these past months was Silas and Marcus letting me park at FRMC for free, bringing in steady breakfast and lunch crowds of hungry mechanics and motorcycle enthusiasts.
But staying meant seeing Cash every day. Meant catching glimpses of those tattooed arms that had held me with such surprising tenderness, that mouth that had mapped every inch of my body, those amber eyes that said everything his voice wouldn't. Meant remembering him frozen in that bathroom, silent when I'd asked the simplest fucking question. Is this just sex?
I flipped on my turn signal, muscle memory guiding me toward FRMC despite my conflicted heart. My Subaru's engine protested with a whine as I accelerated, but at least it was running—another gift from Cash, who'd fixed it when I couldn't afford to. One more complication in the tangled mess between us.
The screech of tires jerked me from my thoughts. A motorcycle tore out of the FRMC lot, engine roaring like a beast unleashed. Even from a distance, I recognized the rider—the broad shoulders, the distinctive black helmet, the fluid grace of his movements as he leaned into the turn. Cash.
He gunned it toward the intersection, weaving through traffic with a recklessness that made my breath catch, then suddenly, he looked my way, as if he’d only just noticed my car and braked hard. He threw the bike into a tight U-turn that had cars honking and swerving. My heart lodged in my throat as he cut across two lanes, ignoring the blaring horns, and raced back toward me.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I yelled, watching as he pulled alongside my car, gesturing for me to pull over. I shook my head, pointing toward the lot ahead. Whatever dramatic bullshit hewas pulling could wait until I was parked and he was safe and out of traffic.
I pulled into my usual spot, next to my food truck. Cash screeched to a halt beside me, kicking down the stand and dismounting in one fluid motion that still made my traitorous body respond despite everything.
I climbed out slowly, giving myself time to build walls against whatever this was. When I glanced up, Cash stood directly in my path, helmet in hand, jaw set, eyes burning with an intensity that would have knocked me back a step if I weren't so damn tired of his hot-and-cold routine.
