Waiting for The Storm to Pass (Or: How Love and Fear Dance Together)

Posted by Anonymous at 11:48 PM

Some days change everything you thought you knew about yourself. Today, I learned what it means to love a man whose life is the kind of danger most people only see in movies.

Me: He’s been gone for hours

Megan: How are you holding up?

Me: His mum’s keeping me sane

Megan: Silver linings

Me: She knows this life

Me: I’m trying to learn

Jake’s mum and I spent the day in a strange dance of mutual distraction. She taught me her secret recipe for chicken soup (apparently passed down through generations of bikers’ mothers who, according to her, understand the healing power of homemade food). I showed her how to create music playlists on her phone.

 But underneath our casual conversation ran a current of shared worry. Every motorcycle sound had us both glancing out the window. Every distant rumble made my heart skip.

 “The waiting gets easier,” she said while showing me some family photos that Jake had helped her save on her phone a little while ago. “Or maybe you just get better at hiding the worry.”

 I stared at a photo of teenage Jake, all attitude and untamed energy, already wearing that look that would one day make men step back. “Does it ever stop being terrifying?”

 “No.” She swiped to a picture of Jake with his sister. “But you learn to trust them. To trust the brotherhood that keeps them safe.”

 Between cooking, looking through old photos, and talking, my mind kept circling back to the key Jake gave me before he left. It was a statement; one I had a lot of feelings about. But right now, I couldn’t afford to analyse any of them. Not while I was still waiting to hear that he was safe. Later, though? I’d dissect every pixel of meaning from that moment like I debug a stubborn line of code.

 Me: HE GAVE ME HIS KEY

Megan: OMG THIS IS NOT A DRILL

Me: Before he left for club business

Me: While his mum was settling in

Megan: Is it for while you’re helping his mum?

Me: No. He said it was “for as long as you want it”

Megan: EMERGENCY WINE NEEDED

Me: Can’t drink, need clear head

Me: BUT INTERNALLY SCREAMING

 When Jake finally called, my heart nearly broke through my ribs. He was okay. Everyone was okay. And he wanted to come and pick me up and take me to his clubhouse for the celebration. He wanted me there with him.

 Me: HE’S ALIVE

Me: AND WANTS ME AT THE CLUBHOUSE

Megan: Scale of 1 to spreadsheet meltdown?

Me: CANNOT MATH RIGHT NOW

Me: SYSTEM CRASH IMMINENT

Megan: Breathe, girl

 The mood at the Storm clubhouse was wild. Loud music, loud conversations, people everywhere. An actual whirlwind of leather, chrome, and enough testosterone to power Brisbane for a month. My usual social anxiety should have been cranked to eleven, but somehow the chaos felt energising.

 The men were friendly when Jake introduced me, and I wondered if I’d ever remember their names. There were so many of them. Jake must have sensed my overwhelm because at one point, he pulled me in close and said, “I know it’s a lot, darlin’, but there’s plenty of time to settle in.” I didn’t have time to respond before we were met by another biker, Nash, and were quickly engrossed in a conversation about how Jake and I met. Nash quickly became my favourite due to his ability to make me feel at ease. And then, he pulled his old lady in to introduce her to me, and I was quickly dragged across the room to meet the other old ladies.

 I met women with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who they are and where they belong. Madison with her infectious laugh, Velvet’s fierce protectiveness, Harlow’s quiet strength. There were others, but by then, my brain was so full of names that I couldn’t fit another one in—like trying to run too many programs on insufficient RAM. They welcomed me into their circle, asking about me and sharing stories about themselves.

 Social situations like this—meeting a lot of new people, trying to fit in—were never my thing. My code-all-night-alone personality usually failed spectacularly. But somehow, with these women, I felt like maybe I could belong.

 And Jake. The way his eyes kept finding mine across the room. The way his lips pulled into that sexy smile each time. The way I could feel how much he loved having me there. ERROR 404: EMOTIONAL STABILITY NOT FOUND.

 But because the universe loves testing new relationships, Sarah appeared and pulled Jake and some of the men away, disappearing down a hallway. They were gone for nearly ten minutes, and when they returned, their hard-set faces told me that maybe things weren’t as “handled” as they’d hoped.

 Then Sarah held Jake back for a private conversation. I tried so hard not to watch. Not to keep peeking like some insecure wreck. But I failed. Epic failed. The kind of failure that would make my “Maintain Your Dignity” spreadsheet weep.

 I trusted Jake. I really did. But this? This was hard. Watching him stand that close to the woman he’d slept with before me. Knowing they still had to work together. And knowing—because every woman just knows—that she still wanted him. It was written all over her face, in the subtle shifts of her body language, like a secret code only women could read. And every line of it screamed mine.

 As soon as he finished with Sarah, he was at my side, his hand firm on my hip as he guided me away from the old ladies, steering me to a dark corner. Pressing me against the wall, he murmured against my lips, “Stay at mine tonight. I need you close.”

 At my nod, his lips claimed mine. Raw, demanding, taking everything I had to give. But there was no urgency, no rush. Just slow, deliberate possession. Like every second mattered, like he was anchoring himself to me.

 “What about club business?” I asked, breathless, when he ended the kiss.

 “It’s done for now.” His hands gripped my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones, his voice low and rough. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. Nothing else.”

 The ride home buzzed with anticipation. Jake’s hand kept finding my thigh, his grip firm, possessive. I clung to him, heat coiling between us, every touch a promise of what was coming.

 His mum was already asleep when we arrived, peaceful in the spare room. The quiet of the apartment wrapped around us like a cocoon, separating us from the chaos of the outside world.

 Jake didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. He guided me through the darkness, his fingers firm but gentle at the small of my back, like he was afraid to let go. Like he needed me close, just for a little longer, before reality crept back in.

 In his bedroom, he took his time. Each touch felt deliberate, meaningful. His fingers traced my body like he was discovering new territory, claiming every inch. But there was something different tonight—something unspoken in the way his hands lingered, in the way his breath caught against my skin.

 He was intoxicated. Not with lust, but with me.

 He dragged his lips along my collarbone, breathing me in. His tongue flicked over the pulse at my throat, slow, savouring, before his mouth found mine again, softer this time. A kiss meant to feel.

 “You undo me, Eden,” he said, his voice quiet, but thick with meaning..

 And when he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t with his usual fierce possession. It was intense, but tender, and every touch made me ache for more.

 “Eden,” he groaned. His eyes never leaving mine while he found the rhythm he wanted. And as he moved inside me, he kept those blues glued to mine. Like he needed me to see how much this meant—how much I meant. Like he was giving me something more than just his body, something he wasn’t used to handing over so freely.

 Afterwards, tucked against him, I ran my finger over the tattoos on his chest while he threaded his fingers through my hair. The domesticity of the moment struck me. How natural it felt to be here, to be his.

 “You know what this means?” he asked quietly, his fingers trailing down my spine.

 “What?”

 His arm tightened around me. “You’re mine now. That means you don’t do life alone anymore. You’ve got me. You’ve got the club.”

 I’m pretty sure the way he said “you’re mine now” should have been a red flag. A lot of women I knew would have balked at a man claiming them like that, like property. But me? No. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

 “Does that mean I get a cool nickname too?” I teased, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment.

 His laugh rumbled through his chest. “Darlin’, with your spreadsheets and coding skills, you’re in a league of your own. Though I gotta admit, watching you organise the Stormgirls into your mental database tonight was pretty fuckin’ adorable.”

 Current status: At Jake’s place, watching him sleep, trying to process the complexity of loving a man whose world is so different from mine. Also wondering if I should start a new spreadsheet titled “Biker Glossary: Understanding the Language of Leather and Loyalty.”

 UPDATE (2:11 AM): Just caught Jake watching me pretend to sleep. The way he whispered “mine” before pulling me closer . . . My internal hard drive may never recover from this emotional overload.

 UPDATE (5:22 AM) I may have tapped out a sneaky text to Megan while Jake was sleeping:

Me: HE’S SO GENTLE WHEN HE THINKS I’M SLEEPING

Megan: Savage not so savage?

Me: Only with me

Me: I’M HAVING FEELINGS ABOUT THIS

Megan: You’re allowed

Me: BUT SO MANY FEELINGS

Megan: That’s what love looks like, honey

 Comments: Still Disabled

 Share: Only if you want the Wine Club to start a new chapter in their romance novel research titled “When Dangerous Men Show Their Soft Side: A Study in Emotional Devastation”

 

When Spreadsheets and Leather Jackets Collide (Or: How I Became a Biker’s Girl)

 Posted by Anonymous at 10:26 AM

 There’s something surreal about waking up in your hot biker boyfriend’s bed on a Saturday morning, three weeks after he gave you a key, his arm draped possessively over your waist, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck. Like somehow, in the span of just three months, your entire life has shifted on its axis.

 Me: I MAYBE THINK I LIVE HERE NOW??

 Megan: List your reasons why and I will evaluate.

 Me: 1. My favourite coffee mug is in his kitchen

2. My toothbrush has a permanent spot next to his

3. I wear his shirt while coding on his couch

4. I haven’t slept in my own bed for nearly three weeks

 Megan: So, you definitely live there now. Girl math.

 Me: CODE RED: I THINK I’M HAPPY ABOUT IT

 Megan: And we didn’t even need Brad for this.

As Jake slept, I took a moment to catalogue the changes in my life since that first day he moved into this building three months ago, mentally sorting them into categories like I would lines of code:

 CATEGORY: Things That Are Different Now

- Sleep schedule (currently aligned with a hot biker’s rather than my laptop’s)

- Primary residence (effectively moved from 4A to 4C)

- Default relationship status (previously: chronically single; currently: his)

- Vocabulary (now includes terms like “old lady,” “church” (the club meeting kind), and “patches”)

- Heart condition (formerly stable, now prone to racing whenever he walks into a room)

 

CATEGORY: Things That Are Surprisingly The Same

- My obsession with spreadsheets

- Coffee dependency

- Johnson’s terrible code still needing debugging

- My inability to form coherent sentences when Jake does that thing with his mouth

 

Jake stirred beside me, his arm tightening around my waist before he was fully awake. That possessive instinct never seemed to rest.

 “Mornin’, darlin’,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep as he pulled me closer. “Been awake long?”

 “Just mentally organising my new life into categories,” I admitted, rolling over to face him.

 His hand slid under my (his) shirt, palm warm against my lower back. “That so? And what category am I in?”

 “‘Things That Make Me Question My Sanity But That I Want Anyway.’“

He laughed, the low rumble now one of my favourite sounds. “Sounds about right.” His fingers moved lazily over my skin. “Speaking of things we want, we should probably talk about this.”

My heart stuttered. In my experience, “we should talk” was usually followed by “it’s not working” or “I met someone else” or “your code has too many comments.” But the way Jake was looking at me didn’t match any of those scenarios, so I tried to calm my heart.

 “About what exactly?” I aimed to sound casual while my brain ran doomsday simulations.

 “About the fact that you’ve basically moved in.”

 I swallowed. “And?” Was he about to tell me it was too much, too soon?

 “And”—he curved his arm over my waist and pulled me tightly against him—”I fuckin’ like it.”

 Oh. OH.

 “So, we’re really doing this? You want me to be here as much as I have been?” The questions tumbled out before I could stop them, and I immediately wanted to dive under the covers.

 But Jake just smiled, that slow, dangerous curve of his lips that made my insides melt. “Sweetheart, I haven’t looked at another woman since the day we met. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only you.”

 The relief that flooded through me was embarrassingly intense. “Good. Because I don’t share well.”

 “I’ve noticed.” His eyes darkened as his hand glided over my hip.

 I winced. “That obvious, huh?”

 “You practically marked your territory at the clubhouse last night.”

 “I did not!” (I really did.)

 “Darlin’, you strategically placed yourself between me and Sarah three separate times. And you practically hissed the last time.”

 Heat flooded my cheeks. “In my defence, she tries to get close to you a lot for someone who supposedly got the ‘we’re done’ memo.”

 Jake’s expression turned serious. “Sarah knows exactly where I stand, and you have nothing to worry about on my end. But you need to understand something about club life.” He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbow. “There are complications I can’t always explain. People I have to work with even when it’s not ideal.”

 “Including ex-friends-with-benefits who clearly want to upgrade back to benefits?”

 “Sarah’s helping the club with something important. Something dangerous. I can’t cut those ties completely. Not yet.”

 “And once it’s handled?”

 “Once it’s handled, she goes back to Stone Security full-time, and her reasons to be around the club become a lot less frequent.”

I nodded, trying to process what being with Jake truly meant. “So, this is really what dating a biker is like? Complicated alliances, rivals breaking into your mum’s house, car park fights?”

“That’s the hard part, yeah. But there’s more to it. The brotherhood, the loyalty, the family we build.” His eyes held mine. “The way we protect what’s ours.”

The possessiveness in those last words sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m starting to understand that.”

“And it doesn’t scare you off?”

I thought about everything I’d seen since I met Jake. The violence. The danger. But also, the way Jake treated his mother and those he cared about. How the club rallied around their own. The fierce protection they offered to those they considered family.

“I’m not saying it doesn’t scare me,” I admitted. “But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe some things are worth the worry.”

His features softened in a way that made my heart squeeze. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I smiled, leaning in to press my lips to his. “Usually by people frustrated with my coding style.”

Jake laughed against my mouth before deepening the kiss, his hand sliding up my side beneath the shirt I’d stolen from him. “I’ve got a much better appreciation for your . . . style.”

We might have stayed there all morning, lost in each other, if his phone hadn’t buzzed on the bedside table. Jake groaned when he checked the screen.

“It’s Scott,” he said, mentioning his president. “I need to take this.”

“I’ll make coffee,” I offered, pressing one last kiss to his lips before sliding out of bed.

He caught my wrist, eyes dark with promise. “We’ll be finishing this.”

In the kitchen, I moved with the easy familiarity of someone who’d made coffee here dozens of times over the past few weeks. It still amazed me how quickly Jake’s space had become mine too, how his initially sparse apartment now contained traces of me everywhere. My laptop on the coffee table. My favourite blanket over the couch. My colour-coded meal planning calendar stuck to his fridge.

I heard his deep voice from the bedroom, the serious tone telling me this wasn’t just a casual check-in with his president. After what happened with Jake’s mum and the confrontation in the car park three weeks ago, things with the Black Deeds MC had been tense but manageable. I hoped this call didn’t mean that was changing.

Jake emerged a few minutes later, his expression giving nothing away as he joined me in the kitchen. I handed him his coffee and waited.

“Everything okay?” I asked when he’d taken a sip. I never expected details about the club, but I always liked to check in to ask if things were okay. To make sure he was okay.

“Just club business.” His free hand found my hip, drawing me closer. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“That’s what you always say,” I pointed out. “And then I end up worrying anyway.”

His mouth curved into a smile. “That’s because you like to analyse every possible scenario.”

“It’s called being prepared.”

“It’s called overthinking, darlin’.” His eyes held a smile. “But I love that about you.”

The casual declaration hit me like a lightning bolt. In the month we’d been together, Jake had been very clear about me being his, from the terms of endearment he used, to the filthy words he growled in my ear while he fucked me, to the possessive way his hands were on me while out in public, but he’d never used the word “love” in any way.

Before I could process this development, he said, “I have to go out for a couple of hours, but I was thinking that when I get back, we could take a ride up the coast if you don’t have any work you need to do today.”

“I’d love that, and I have the perfect route for us!”

Jake grinned. “I don’t fuckin’ doubt it, darlin’.”

Jake had helped me choose my own helmet the day after he gave me a key to his apartment, and we’d spent a lot of time together on his bike since then. If you’d told me three months ago that I’d be creating a spreadsheet called “Optimal Motorcycle Routes: A Data-Driven Analysis” with columns for “Adrenaline Factor,” “Thigh Squeeze Frequency,” and “Post-Ride Endorphin Levels,” I would have laughed in your face. Yet here I was, with exactly that. The spreadsheet even had a heat map showing the correlation between route duration and my ability to concentrate at work the next day. I’d also created a decision-tree algorithm that factored in weather conditions, traffic patterns, and the likelihood of finding a good coffee stop. Data doesn’t lie, people.

Five minutes later, after a kiss that threatened my ability to think straight for the next couple of hours, Jake was gone and I found myself alone in his apartment—our apartment?—with my laptop open and a new spreadsheet staring back at me.

“THE GIRLFRIEND’S GUIDE TO DATING A BIKER: PHASE 2”

I was just about to start filling it in when Jake’s mum texted me.

Mags: Love, I’ve been thinking about those scones you made last week. Want my secret recipe for making them extra fluffy? The boys at the club go crazy for them. X

Mags and I had become close since the night she ended up in hospital. She was a tough woman who’d seen some things in her life having grown up in the MC world with a father and brother who were bikers, and then marrying one and having kids with him. She was the kind of woman who could tell embarrassing stories about her son while simultaneously letting you know she’d end you if you hurt him. All with a smile that explained exactly where Jake got his dimples from.

But I was sure she loved me like a daughter and knew I would never hurt her son. And so, we exchanged movie and TV show recommendations, spent hours together during her chemotherapy chatting about the books we were reading, and she did her best to help me find my feet in my new life with her son and the club. Also, recipes. She’d started helping me out with baking. It turned out that stress baking was my new preferred way of coping whenever I thought Jake was in danger.

Me: OMG yes, please text it!

Mags: Did you see that I rearranged Jake’s pantry yesterday?

Mags was often at her son’s apartment, and while I’d had friends in the past who complained about their boyfriend’s mother interfering in their relationship, I didn’t feel this way. I loved that Mags and Jake were close enough for her to visit often, and I loved that she spent time getting to know me.

Me: No. What did you do?

Mags: I created a baking shelf for your ingredients and brought some things over that I thought you might be able to use. I’m going to email you my mother’s recipes to add to your baking spreadsheet too.

Me: Wow. Thank you.

I was lost for words. Mags might have thought she was just making space for a few things in the pantry, but to me, this was so much more than that. She’d already welcomed me into her son’s life, but this was a deeper welcome.

Mags: You’re not just visiting anymore, love. You belong there and you need your own spaces to fill with your things. X.

Belong. The word hit me squarely in the chest. When was the last time I’d truly felt I belonged somewhere other than with my own family? In friendships, I usually felt awkward and out of place. Not into the same things as other women. In the tech world, I was always the girl who had to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously. In dating, I was the quirky one with too many spreadsheets and not enough patience for the games that seemed to be involved with dating.

But here, in this strange new world of bikers and brotherhood, I’d somehow found a place that felt right. A place where my analytical mind was appreciated rather than mocked, where my fierce loyalty was matched rather than exploited, where my tendency to overthink was met with patience rather than frustration.

As if reading my thoughts, my phone pinged with a text from Madison, one of the Stormgirls I’d become friends with.

Madison: Coffee with the girls this week? We’re planning a girls’ weekend away and want you to come. Plus, Harlow needs help setting up a website for her art. I told her she needs your skills.

Family. They were including me in their family.

After I replied to say yes to coffee, I went back to my new spreadsheet and started filling it in, smiling to myself as I created headers and categories, organising this new chapter of my life the only way I knew how. My fingers flew across the keyboard, sorting through memories and observations, creating a roadmap for this uncharted territory.

Under “Biker Dictionary,” I added terms I’d picked up. Under “Clubhouse Etiquette,” I detailed the subtle hierarchies I’d observed. Under “The Old Ladies’ Code,” I listed the unspoken rules Madison had mentioned.

And under “Personal Growth Metrics,” I created a timeline of transformations:

From: Dropping keys on purpose to get attention

To: Knowing I have his full attention without trying

 

From: Googling “what does it mean when a biker calls you darlin’“

To: Knowing exactly what it means when he calls me his

 

From: Panicking about the blonde on his bike

To: Understanding the complexity of club allegiances (but still not loving it)

 

From: Hiding behind my laptop at parties

To: Finding my place among the Stormgirls

 

I was so absorbed in my categorisation that I didn’t hear Jake return until his arms wrapped around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as he peered at my screen.

“‘The Girlfriend’s Guide to Dating a Biker,’“ he read, amusement colouring his voice. “Planning to publish this, darlin’?”

“Maybe.” I leaned back against his chest. “There’s a serious lack of helpful resources for women who find themselves dating dangerous men with dimples.”

His laugh warmed my neck. “And what does your guide say about what happens next?”

I turned in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. “That’s the thing about guides—they can only take you so far. Eventually, you have to make your own path.”

“Together,” he corrected, his eyes serious despite his smile.

“Together,” I agreed.

And then he was kissing me, deep and thorough, until my laptop sat forgotten on the counter and my body was pressed against his in ways that messed with all rational thought.

We ended up in his bed—our bed?—clothes scattered across the floor, hands tracing familiar territory with a slow, deliberate hunger. We were more intimate than we’d ever been. Sex between us was still hotter than anything I’d ever known, but it was shifting and was now less about claiming, and more about connecting.

Jake’s eyes locked onto mine as he moved inside me, dark and searching, peeling back the layers I’d always kept hidden before him. The intensity of his gaze made me want to look away, made me feel exposed in ways that had nothing to do with our nakedness. But I forced myself to stay present, to let him see all of me. My desire, my fear, my vulnerability, my strength.

“Eden.” His voice broke slightly as his rhythm faltered. “Fuck, I—”

He didn’t finish whatever he was going to say, but I felt every unspoken word in the way his body moved above mine, in his rough breath against my cheek, in the way he held me as if he could shield me from the world. As if I was his world.

And when we finally shattered, when the moment stole the air from my lungs, I saw it in his face—the unguarded, consuming truth neither of us had fully spoken yet.

He wasn’t just inside me.

He was in.

Afterward, our bodies remained close, skin still warm, breaths still uneven. His fingers roamed absently over my body, slow and unhurried. It seemed like he was a million miles away.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked, watching the play of emotions across his face.

“How fuckin' crazy it is that I only met you three months ago and now we’re here.”

His palm rested over my heart. 

I threaded my fingers through his. “I like it here.”

He watched me silently for a long moment before his lips crashed down onto mine, urgent and almost aching, like he was trying to hold onto something before it slipped away. When he finally dragged his mouth from mine, his expression was serious. “I have history with the new Black Deeds president. The bad kind of history.” The shadows falling across his face told me there was more to this story. “If he ever figures out what you mean to me . . . fuck, Eden, I—”

I cut him off, wanting to help ease his worry. “It’ll be okay. Just because I could be a target, doesn’t mean—”

“You’re protected,” he said fiercely. “By me. By the club. But yeah, being with me puts you at risk.”

I should have been terrified. Should have been rethinking this whole situation. But instead, I found myself calculating odds and evaluating variables, which was exactly what I did when facing a particularly challenging piece of code.

“So, we’re careful,” I said finally. “We plan for contingencies.”

Jake’s eyebrows rose. “Just like that?”

“Well, I might need to create a new spreadsheet: ‘Threat Analysis: Boyfriend’s Nemesis Edition.’“

The laugh that burst from him was surprised and genuine. “You and your fuckin’ spreadsheets,” he said, but his voice was warm with affection.

“Hey, Excel has gotten me through every crisis in my life. I’m not about to abandon it now.”

Jake shook his head, his eyes soft. “Fuck, I lo—” He stopped himself, clearing his throat. “There’s no one else like you, sweetheart.”

My heart raced at what he’d almost said, but I didn’t push. Some things needed time, needed to unfold at their own pace. And if there was one thing I’d learned from debugging complex code, it was patience.

He pulled me closer until my head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. In the quiet that followed, I thought about how quickly life could change. How one dropped set of keys, one glance, one “Need help, sweetheart?” could send you down a path you never expected. 

I thought about how I’d spent hours Googling “what to do when a hot biker moves in next door” and found nothing useful. How no search engine could have prepared me for the reality of Jake. For his fierce protectiveness, his unyielding care, that dangerous smile, or the way his strength felt like something solid I could lean on.

How sometimes the best things in life can’t be researched or analysed or sorted into neat categories. Sometimes they had to be lived, moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat.

As we lay together in silence, I was struck by the realisation that I was falling—no, had already fallen—completely for this man. This dangerous, complicated man who’d crashed into my ordered life and turned everything upside down in the best possible way.

“Jake,” I whispered as I lifted my head to find his gaze, not sure what I wanted to say but feeling the need to say something.

He was already watching me as his fingers curled gently at the nape of my neck. “Yeah, darlin’?”

I opened my mouth to speak, still not sure what would come out, but the look in his eyes stopped me. They said it all. I wasn’t just his for now. I was his, period. In the same way he was mine, period.

Turns out some questions don’t need Google. Just courage, a little faith, and maybe, just maybe, the right person to rewrite all your formulas.

Comments: Still Disabled

Share: Only if you want Mrs. Henderson to finally check off “Happily Ever After (For Now)”on the Wine Club’s romance conspiracy board.

THE END

🏍 🏍 🏍

Thank you so much for reading this serial ❤️  I hope you loved these last two chapters.

I'll be editing all the chapters over the next couple of weeks and once they're all done, I will publish the book. There will likely be a bonus epilogue, and if that does get written, I'll email it to you guys who were signed up for the story.

And then, there will be a second book as I mentioned in my email! I'm planning a few books at least in this series. It's so fun to write, and I've always wanted to write a series in which we keep seeing the same couple as their relationship grows and evolves into something deeper and for life. But hopefully, for those of you who just wanted to read a fun serial in my Ninamas emails, this story was wrapped up enough for you. 

Nina x