Chapter Fifteen

Brynn

I was stressed.

Not the kind of stress that pushed you into action—the productive kind—but the slow, simmering kind that gnawed at you while you waited for something to happen. We had the plan in place. We were going to call Candace tomorrow, but that meant I had to wait until tomorrow morning to do so, and I hated the time in between. The time when there was nothing left to do but sit, think, and worry.

So, naturally, my mind wandered to distractions. And one thing I remembered was Bristol baking when she was stressed or worried.

That’s how I ended up in the kitchen, watching her from the doorway, wondering if maybe, just maybe, baking would help me get through the rest of today without losing my mind.

“Hi,” I said, stepping fully into the kitchen.

Bristol looked up from the sink, her hands submerged in a cloud of soap bubbles as she washed a pan. “Hey, girl,” she smiled.

I glanced at the large kitchen around us, its stainless-steel appliances gleaming, countertops pristine. “Don’t you guys have a dishwasher?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. It seemed odd that Bristol was handwashing dishes in a house this big.

Bristol chuckled, shaking her head as she scrubbed the pot. “Yeah, we do. But sometimes I like to handwash. It’s relaxing, and I don’t put my good pots in the dishwasher, either.”

I nodded slowly. “I don’t know why I questioned you. It just seemed strange to see someone in this huge house doing something as simple as washing dishes by hand.”

She laughed again, the sound light and easy. “Pie’s asked me the same thing before, so you’re not the first.” She finished up the last dish and dried her hands on a towel. “Did you need something? I can whip up a charcuterie board if you’re hungry.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “It would take me seven to ten business days to ‘whip up’ a charcuterie board. The fact that you can do it in minutes amazes me.”

She grinned and nodded to the pantry. “The key is having a stacked pantry and keeping it simple.”

Bristol made her way to the pantry, but I stopped her with a quick, “Wait, no.” I fidgeted, suddenly feeling a little awkward. This wasn’t my usual way of coping, but here I was. “Actually, I was wondering if your offer to bake still stood.”

She paused, looking at me, surprised. “Seriously?”

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah, I thought maybe stress baking would help distract me.”

Bristol’s face broke into a wide smile. “Of course you can bake! Do you want me to get out of your way, or…?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “I’m not trying to kick you out. Honestly, it’d probably be better if you stuck around to supervise. I wasn’t lying when I said I hadn’t baked in forever.”

Her smile widened, excitement bubbling up in her eyes. “Well, hot damn! This is going to be fun.” She walked toward the pantry again, this time retrieving a thick cookbook. “Do you know what you want to bake, or do you want to browse?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Bristol wasn’t judging me. She wasn’t making this feel weird. She was just happy to help. “A cookbook would be great,” I said, feeling the knot in my stomach start to loosen.

Bristol handed me the book, and I opened it on the island counter, flipping through the pages slowly. Each recipe had a glossy photo beside it, the kind that made everything look perfect. There were recipes for apple tarts, cinnamon rolls, lemon meringue pie, and red velvet cupcakes. Each one looked delicious, and I found myself smiling as I imagined how good they would smell while baking.

But then I turned the page, and one recipe jumped out at me: Chocolate Cream Pie with Chocolate Whipped Topping.

I stared at the picture for a moment, my heart skipping a beat. It was Leo’s favorite. At least, it had been over twenty years ago.

“This one,” I said, pointing at the page.

Bristol leaned over my shoulder to look. “Oh yeah,” she said, clapping her hands together. “That is exactly what you need when you’re stressed—chocolate!”

I smiled, but the truth was, I didn’t pick the recipe because of the chocolate. I picked it because of Leo.

I hadn’t consciously thought about it until now, but ever since I’d come back into his life, memories of our time together had been slipping back into my mind. Little things, like the way he’d always drink his coffee black, the way he’d stare off in the distance when he was deep in thought, and his absolute love for chocolate cream pie.

Back then, I used to make it for him whenever he had a rough day, and seeing this recipe now… it felt like a sign. Or maybe I was just more sentimental than I wanted to admit.

“Alright,” Bristol said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Let’s get started!”

She began gathering ingredients from the pantry while I pulled out the bowls and measuring cups from the cupboard she said they were in. We worked together in a comfortable rhythm, her guiding me as I moved through the steps.

“Okay, first things first,” she said. “We need to make the crust. You want to do a graham cracker crust, or do you want a regular pie crust?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Graham cracker.”

Bristol smiled approvingly and handed me a rolling pin. “That’s what I was hoping you would say. Crush those graham crackers, and we’ll mix them with butter and sugar. I’ll get started on the filling.”

I set to work crushing the crackers, letting the repetitive motion ease some of my tension. It was messy, but it felt good to focus on something other than everything else swirling around in my head.

As we worked, Bristol kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly light stuff—nothing too heavy. It was nice. She asked me about life in South Carolina, about some of the places I used to visit, and even shared stories about the Devil’s Knights Motorcycle Club that her husband was a part of. It was easygoing, and I appreciated how she avoided touching on the more serious stuff.

“Alright,” Bristol said after a while, “I’ve got the filling mixed and ready to go. How’s that crust coming along?”

I looked down at the bowl of crushed graham crackers. “I think it’s ready?” They were crushed to oblivion with the sugar and butter. Maybe it was the talking and just not thinking about everything going on right now was what I needed.

She took a peek and nodded. “Looks good. Let’s press it into the pie dish.”

We pressed the mixture into the dish together, and then Bristol poured the rich, chocolatey filling over it. It smelled incredible, and for the first time all day, I felt a little lighter. Maybe this baking thing really was therapeutic.

Once the pie was set and in the oven, we moved on to the whipped topping. Bristol made me do most of the work, which was fine. I found that whipping cream by hand was a surprisingly good way to burn off nervous energy.

“You know,” Bristol said as I whipped the cream, “Leo’s going to love this.”

I glanced at her, surprised she’d made the connection. “You think so?”

She raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. “Oh, come on, Brynn. You didn’t pick chocolate cream pie out of thin air. Everyone here knows that’s his favorite.”

I sighed, realizing there was no use pretending otherwise. “Yeah, I guess I did pick it for him.”

Bristol smiled knowingly but didn’t push further. Instead, she handed me the spoon to taste the whipped cream. “What do you think? Chocolatey enough?”

I tasted it, the rich flavor coating my tongue. “Perfect.”

“Alright then, let’s get the whipped cream in the fridge, and the pie should be out of the oven soon.”

We cleaned up the kitchen together while the chocolate base cooled, the smell of chocolate still lingering in the air. I couldn’t help but think about Leo—what he’d say when he saw the pie, if he’d be surprised that I remembered it was his favorite.

“Bristol!”

Bristol cocked her head to the side at the familiar voice coming from the hallway. “Meg?” she called back, her eyes lighting up.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel and leaned against the kitchen island, curious. “Who’s Meg?” I asked.

Bristol’s smile widened. “A tornado of fun,” she said with a chuckle, her tone affectionate.

Before I could ask more, Meg appeared in the doorway with a man in a leather motorcycle vest trailing behind her. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this .

Meg was older, maybe in her early sixties, but she had an energy that was almost electric. Her dark purple hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, with a few rebellious strands escaping down the sides. She was wearing skinny jeans— ripped skinny jeans at the knees, no less—and a gray sweatshirt that proudly declared, You don’t have to be crazy to camp with us, we will train you . I couldn’t help but grin at the sight. She looked like she had a story for every rip in her jeans and every laugh line on her face.

“You guys get more security with this whole Candace thing?” Meg asked, walking into the kitchen like she owned the place, which, judging by the confidence in her step, she might as well have. “You got a goliath at the door who said his name was Clyde, which, by the way, is a very fitting name. He’s like a Clydesdale horse.”

The man behind her, on the other hand, was a different kind of energy entirely. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the classic bad-boy look down to a science. His motorcycle vest was patched with various insignias, but it was the look in his eyes—sharp, observant—that told me he wasn’t just here for the show. He had short, graying dark hair, a strong jawline dusted with stubble, and an easy kind of swagger that screamed “trouble” in the best way possible.

I found myself staring a moment too long before snapping back to the conversation.

Bristol laughed at Meg’s question, clearly unfazed by her entrance. “No, those are Brynn’s guys. They’re just hanging around while she’s here.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mess with that dude,” Meg said with a wink, tossing her bag onto the counter as if she’d been coming here for years.

I couldn’t help but grin. Bristol wasn’t wrong—this woman was a tornado of fun, sweeping into the room with a wild, carefree attitude that was instantly contagious.

Meg caught my eye and raised a curious eyebrow. “Are you the infamous Brynn?”

“That would be me,” I said, extending my hand, but Meg waved it away with a laugh, pulling me into a hug instead.

“Oh honey, we don’t do handshakes around here,” she said, squeezing me tightly before stepping back to give me an approving once-over. “Yeah, you look like Leo’s type.”

“And just what is that?” Bristol asked.

“Pretty, but looks like she’ll kick my ass.”

I chuckled, glancing at Bristol. “I take that as a compliment.”

Meg grinned, clearly pleased with herself, before nodding toward the man still standing quietly by the door. “And this here is King, Lo to me only because he’s my hubby. Don’t let the biker look fool you; he’s got a heart of gold. Just don’t piss him off.”

King gave me a nod, his expression serious but not unfriendly. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, perfectly matching his rugged appearance.

“Nice to meet you too,” I replied, though I couldn’t help but notice how his gaze swept over the room, almost as if he were assessing the exits, the layout—everything. Definitely not just a biker. I glanced at the patch on his chest, President. Yeah, that explained it.

Meg sat on one of the stools under the island and sniffed the air. “What are you guys baking?”

“Chocolate cream pie,” I answered, wiping my hands again.

“Brynn picked it out because it’s Leo’s favorite,” Bristol whispered, her tone teasing as she gave me a knowing look.

Meg’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned to me, clearly delighted by this new bit of information. “Oh, honey, you must know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That’s how I snagged Lo all those years ago,” she winked at King, who was standing off to the side with his arms crossed, grinning. “My tacos were what won him over.”

“It was your lush ass that hooked me, babe,” King called, his voice a low rumble of affection. “Your tacos were just the cherry on top.”

Meg let out a peel of laughter, her head thrown back in delight. “Yeah, that too!”

As their laughter filled the kitchen, I couldn’t help but smile. Being around Meg and King was like being caught up in a whirlwind of playful banter and effortless joy. It was a nice distraction, especially with the stress of everything that was hanging over our heads.

Then, the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from down the hall, drawing my attention. I glanced toward the entrance just as Leo and Sig appeared in the doorway.

“Head mafia man!” Meg called out, her voice loud and cheerful as she pointed at Leo with both hands like she’d just caught him in the act of something. Leo chuckled, shaking his head, but didn’t correct her.

He nodded toward King.

Meg’s eyes lit up with sudden excitement. “Oh!” she called out dramatically, putting a hand to her chin like she was deep in thought. “Another mafia man! Let me guess his name.” She tapped her finger thoughtfully to her cheek, pretending to puzzle it out. “Boris.”

Leo opened his mouth, probably to correct her, but Meg cut him off before he could say a word.

“No, no,” she shook her head. “You don’t look like a Boris.” She tipped her head to the side, giving Sig an exaggerated once-over. “Bobby Two Fingers. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

Sig, clearly amused, held up his hands in front of him, wiggling his fingers with a playful smirk. “Got all my fingers, darling.”

Meg narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her finger still tapping her chin. “Maybe you like to leave your victims with only two fingers. It’s your calling card.”

King burst out laughing at that. “He’s in the mafia, not a serial killer, Meg.”

“Oh, hush, Lo,” Meg waved her hand at him dismissively. “You know biker names. Leave the mafia stuff to me.”

“As if you’re some mobster expert all of a sudden,” King teased, shaking his head.

Meg raised her chin in defiance. “I watched The Making of the Mob , thank you very much. Pretty sure I know more than anyone in this room.” She glanced at Leo and Sig with a smug look, then quickly added, “Oh, well, you two probably know more. I’m used to talking to a bunch of bikers, not mafia guys.”

Sig, looking both entertained and perplexed, turned to Leo. “This is Meg, right?”

Leo nodded, his expression torn between amusement and exasperation.

Meg reared back dramatically, placing her hand over her chest as if in shock. “You know me?” she asked, feigning surprise. She turned to King, her eyes wide with mock disbelief. “How do they know me?”

King didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re one of a kind, babe. Crazy as hell. Your kind is known all over.”

Sig stepped forward with a small bow, playing along with her theatrics. “I’m Sig. I work for Ms. Brynn.” He shot me a quick, polite smile, though his eyes sparkled with humor.

Meg reached out to shake his hand, but before she did, she turned to Leo with a sly grin. “Tell me why he’s more polite than any of your guys, Leo. He’s got charm.” She wagged her finger at Sig. “I like him.”

Leo sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “That’s because my guys know how crazy you are, Meg, and they’re tired of bailing you and the girls out of trouble when King calls me because he can’t control the ol’ ladies.”

Meg threw her head back in laughter again, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t had your share of chaos with your own boys.” She shook Sig’s hand firmly before leaning in like she was about to let him in on a secret. “Just a word of advice—don’t ever play poker with these boys. They cheat like hell.”

“Noted,” Sig said, giving me a sideways glance, his smile broadening.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. In the midst of all the tension surrounding Candace, the looming danger, and the weight of my responsibilities, here was Meg, cracking jokes about the mafia and making everyone laugh like we were just a bunch of friends hanging out at a barbecue. It was disarming but in the best way.

As the conversation carried on, I caught Leo’s eye from across the room. He gave me a small, knowing smile, and in that moment, with the warmth of the kitchen and the laughter around us, I realized how much I needed this—this brief, perfect moment of normalcy.