Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

DANI

R ubbing my temples, I grimace as the headache from hell pulses behind my eyeballs. I know better than to ever overindulge like that, but Nessa and I had the opportunity for a rare night together when her Mom's aide offered to stay overnight because she needed the money.

Nessa couldn't afford to pay her, but she also couldn't afford to refuse an evening off-duty herself. And when she asked if I had plans, I came up with a genius idea to majorly screw up Kyle's day, and Nessa had been all-too-willing to help with that. In fact, she'd been downright giddy about it.

It was as if the universe was on our side for a change, giving us a neon, blinking sign to cut loose and raise some hell. And it'd all gone according to plan, right down to Kyle's humiliated retreat and Nessa's and my cheers of celebration.

Until this morning when the universe decided to slap me across the face with the consequences of my actions. Because to celebrate afterward, Nessa and I went from having a few to really tossing them back, to the point we were both dancing around the living room, whipping our shirts over our heads and doing our best impersonation of Ice Spice at her wildest.

I've only made it as far as my couch, where I'm nursing a cup of coffee that I've yet to make a dent in because the bitterness is stomach-turning. Hopefully, Nessa's head feels better than mine does because she left at the butt-crack of dawn to go home and relieve the aide after I tucked Kyle's fifty bucks into her back pocket. She tried to argue, but I shut that down, knowing she'll put it to good use. If anything, it'll help with the extra cost for her aide.

I close my eyes for a second, inhaling slow, deep breaths, only to jerk in alarm when someone fires up a chainsaw inside my brain and starts sawing logs like they're in a lumberjack competition.

Brrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRRR!

Wait… that's not in my head. That's out front.

Grumpily, I stumble to the front door and peer outside. Through the blinding, piercing light, I'm shocked to not see a lumberjack competition or a World War II reenactment going on in my front yard. Instead, there is a loud, rumbling, growling motorcycle at the curb, revving its engine with each savage twist of the throttle. And though the rider's wearing a helmet, I'd know those arms anywhere.

What the fuck is Kyle doing here so early, and why is he being so damn loud?

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing and why he's being so loud. Basically, I fucked around, and now I'm finding out.

Except that I'm not the one who does the finding out, and Kyle needs to learn that lesson. Gritting my teeth, I bust through my screen door, stomping toward him. If I weren't hungover, I'd probably try to come up with something snappy to say. But my brain isn't in prime form at the moment, so all I come up with is screeching at him, "Noooooo! Make it stop!" as I point at his bike with one hand and hold my head with the other.

He pulls his helmet off, revealing a one-sided grin of triumph. "What?" he yells, cupping his hand at his ear, his other hand going back to the throttle. "Did you say, louder? Yeah, it'll go louder." He revs the engine, making me flinch and curl into myself protectively.

Cracking one eye, I glare at him as if he's the devil himself. And what does Mr. Loud and Annoying do? He laughs. If he wants to be childish, so can I. I stomp closer, right next to him before reaching to the middle of his handlebars and twisting the keys, switching the engine off myself and yanking the keys out of the slot.

"Hey!" he shouts. "Hands off!"

Guys are like that, I've learned. They'll lose their shit if you dare to touch any of their stuff. But using your favorite cast-iron skillet to make pizza rolls? You can't get mad about that, or else you're being a bitch.

And yes, that actually happened to me once and I kicked that boyfriend out of my kitchen, house, and life—in that order—before those little snacks could pop and start leaking their tomatoey filling onto my good pan. I finished that particular incident by throwing barely-thawed pizza rolls, one by one, at the raging, now ex-boyfriend. Got him in the forehead with two before he left, calling me a ‘psycho' as he peeled out of my driveway. Little did he know, a true psycho would've hit him with the frying pan, not the pizza rolls, so he got off easy.

Kyle's voice is like a needle piercing my eardrum, and I slap my hand over his mouth, pressing hard. "Be quiet. Please," I beg, my own voice barely above a whisper. And that's still too loud.

He pulls his head back and twists away from my hand, grinning widely as he taunts, "Feeling extra-good this morning, are we?"

I shoot him a ‘that's a stupid question' look, and he grins even more, all too aware that even when he's not saying anything, he's still digging sharp skewers into my brain with nothing more than that blinding-white, cocky smile in the middle of his tanned, too-pretty face.

"What if I told you I know a top-secret, sure-fire cure-all for hangovers?" Kyle teases, lowering his voice by half but still looking infuriatingly arrogant. But the carrot he's dangling is dangerous… and tempting, if only because I feel like there's an echo in my head when I talk, and the sound of the bike's engine is still vibrating in my ears.

"If you say ‘my dick', I will cut it off and throw it in my handy-dandy food chopper," I vow, making a slamming motion like I'm lowering the lever on the kitchen tool I use every morning for my onions and peppers. He silently laughs like that's a joke, but I'm dead-serious and absolutely, one hundred percent, mean it.

"Damn, no need for all that. I was actually gonna say something helpful." He looks like he's second-guessing that kindness now.

Not sure I believe him, but desperate for relief, I skeptically ask, "What? Anything that'll help."

"Hot, fresh, greasy diner food. Best in the entire area." He pats the seat behind him. "Hop on and I'll show you."

A bark of laughter escapes before I can stop myself, and the resulting pain has me hissing and glaring at him like it's his fault for suggesting something so ridiculous. "Does that actually work for you? Like you tell women ‘hop on' and they get on your bike?"

He shrugs, not answering, which is answer enough.

Truthfully, I'm not surprised. A guy like Kyle probably can give some women a jerk of his chin in invitation, and they'd be hurrying over, throwing a leg over his bike and then later, over him for a different type of ride. But that's not me. "Fuck you."

"Not offering that," Kyle replies easily. "Especially after that stunt you pulled yesterday. But maybe we can call a momentary truce so I can help? You really do look like shit."

I blink at his bluntness, wanting to tell him to fuck off, but at the same time, I instinctively reach to smooth my hair, swipe at my face, and straighten my clothes. I haven't looked in a mirror this morning, so I can only guess what I look like, but I'm guessing my pajama pants with paw prints all over them, oversized black T-shirt with bleach stains, and bare face aren't exactly my best.

Kyle holds up a hand, proclaiming peace. "I mean, I'm sure you clean up good and all, but whatever you were drinking last night… yeah, not the best choice."

Hands on my hips, I snap, "Well, what's your excuse?" I look him up and down, frowning and crinkling my nose like he's the one who looks awful. Except he looks good. Sexy good, good enough to smear on some toast and gobble up in the morning. He's obviously freshly washed up, with clear skin and bright eyes. He's wearing his work boots, but his jeans are dark wash and have never seen a jobsite, and his T-shirt fits across his chest like a hug, reminding me of the tiny barbells through his nipples. Even his hair, which should be a mess from the helmet, is sexily tousled, not a rat's nest, which isn't fair.

Why would the hair gods favor him over me?

Futilely, I push a stray lock behind my ear and lash out like my hangover is his fault. Because it is. If he hadn't screwed up my whole week, Nessa and I could've had a pizza and pedicure spa night instead of a drink and shrink one, where we played drunk therapist for each other. "Let me guess, you went home and drank a twelve-pack on your own, cursing me the whole time until you fell asleep in your ratty recliner, only to wake up and decide you were gonna fuck with me in new ways on the only day off I have."

Instead of responding to my oddly specific insults, Kyle teases, "Did I mention this secret spot I know has the fluffiest pancakes you'll ever have in your life?"

Ooh, that's a hard one.

Pancakes? He's bringing out the big guns, and apparently, Kyle knows my culinary kryptonite, because that's all it takes to push me over the edge. I'm a cheap slut for carbs, but I can't care right now. I hold up a finger, taking a deep breath of surrender. "Give me one minute to get dressed, and if these pancakes don't live up to expectations, I'll file a permit complaint with the city."

I know what a hassle that'd be for him, so it's no idle threat. But Kyle just nods, smiling like he's proud of me… for coming or for the threat, I'm not sure.

Except then he leans forward and says, "Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…" He raises a sharply arched brow, and I whirl, running for the house.

But I stop before getting three-quarters of the way across my yard because jogging is not a good idea on an empty stomach or with a headache. I glance back over my shoulder to find him fighting back laughter at my predicament.

Inside, I quickly trade my PJ pants for the first pair of jeans I find, yank a T-shirt over my head, and put on tennis shoes. I blindly and expertly pull my hair into two tight, low buns for what I know will be a windy ride, splash cold water on my face, swish some mouthwash, and put on deodorant.

That's it. I'm not dressing up for Kyle or for breakfast. But making myself minimally appropriate to be out in public seems warranted. I don't even glance in the mirror. That's how ‘don't give a fuck' I am , I tell myself. But deep down, I might be a little scared of what Kyle saw when I came barreling out the door today.

The one brain cell that's still working reminds me to tell Nessa where I'm going in case I end up on the side of a milk carton. Snagging my wallet and phone, I quickly type out, Breakfast with Kyle. He bribed me with pancakes bc I feel awful. You okay?

I don't wait for her to answer. Knowing Nessa, she'll start celebrating that the retooled version of my plan she concocted last night is working out. But mine did too—annoying Kyle and fucking up his day the way he keeps messing up mine.

Out front again, his eyes drop from my face, over my body, to my shoes, and back up again. He doesn't even try to hide the slow perusal, but he nods approvingly. "Better."

I match his action, letting my eyes drift down his body again before returning a hard-eyed glare to his eyes. "Still the same."

He chuckles at the repeated insult. "You can't help yourself, can you?"

I don't know what to say to that. I am prickly more often than not. It's not because I want to be, but because I've had to be. Some might call it a defense mechanism. I call it survival.

He holds his helmet out, and I shake my head. "No, that's yours. You wear it."

His full lips press into a thin line. "Fuck that. I'm hard-headed and too stubborn to die if we crash. You're wearing it or we're not going. And do I need to remind you… fluffiest pancakes of your life ." He shoves the helmet another inch my way, and when I still don't take it, he sets it on top of my head and pulls it onto me himself.

It must be the hangover because instead of fighting him off, I stand there and let him adjust it on my head, snug the strap firmly beneath my chin, and tap me on the head like a dog. "Good."

When I move to climb on, he asks, "Have you ridden before?"

I nod, the helmet heavy. "Ex-boyfriend," I explain, and I swear tension shoots through his shoulders.

"Good." This time, the word is more of a growl, and he doesn't sound like he means it. At all. "Hang on tight."

I don't want to. I'd rather slap the shit out of him, but I know if I'm timid about holding him, I could go flying off the back of the bike. So I chant, ‘pancakes, pancakes, pancakes' and wind my arms around his waist, keeping my hands high over his abs and touching him as lightly as I dare.

"Keep reminding yourself that the pancakes will be worth it," he recommends, and I realize I was saying my mantra aloud. But he sounds amused, not grumpy, so it's a small step up. With a twist of his returned keys, a thumbed ignition, and a smooth shift into first gear, we're off.

Unfortunately, I have to clasp him tightly as we speed away from my house and through the neighborhood, Kyle turning here and there like he knows exactly where he's going. Then again, he has been coming to work here for days now, and it's not like I live in an old-fashioned labyrinth.

I can feel the bumps of his washboard abs through his shirt, but I keep things as polite and professional as possible considering I'm straddling his back with my hands mere inches of decline away from his dick. Maybe even less depending on how big he is and whether he's a grower or a shower. I think that's what makes riding on a motorcycle so sexy. It's basically foreplay—bodies pressed together, with what feels like a couple hundred horsepower rumbling roughly between your legs as you lean with each other like you're one person. Not that I'm playing, fore or otherwise, with Kyle. He's a means to an end—pancakes.

I have no idea where he's taking me. His back is so wide that I can't see a single thing in front of us, so instead of fighting for a view over his shoulder, I press my head against his back, close my eyes, and listen to the rushing thrum of my heartbeat inside the padded helmet. The cushioning closes off most of my hearing, and the cool morning air feels good on my face. After a while, it even feels relaxing, like a rare chance to simply exist in the moment, my constant stream of thoughts and to-dos drowned out by the roar of the bike and the road.

But then the bike starts swaying and I'm reminded of my alcohol-filled stomach. I try to breathe so I don't puke and hold on tighter, as if Kyle is the stability I need to not lean so much, but he's shifting back and forth too.

Eventually, we stop and he turns the machine off. I feel his back flex and realize how forcefully I've been pressing my head against his upper back. It must have been agonizing now that I think about it, but he didn't say anything. He just accepted the weight of the helmet, and my tight grip around his waist, and rode like it was nothing.

"You okay?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "I tried to take it easy on ya. The switchbacks are usually fun, but probably not with a hangover." He scratches at his lower lip with his thumb, like he's reconsidering the last ten minutes of our ride.

Switchbacks? Yeah, that's probably what did it. I bet he took that route on purpose to fuck with me.

I glare at him, not able to verbally crucify him the way he deserves right now. "Feed me," I grunt, sounding like a bossy troll. Taking the helmet off myself isn't easy—the plastic buckle is stiff as hell—but I manage.

Kyle takes it from me, hooking it over the handlebar with a little smirk that seems different from his earlier ones. "Yes, ma'am."

He helps me off the bike, opens the diner door, and leads me into a small, brightly-lit restaurant that smells like heaven. And butter, which in my educated opinion is pretty much the same thing. I'd know, given how much of my life I spend in front of a stove, oven, and grill. Your abuela might say all good food starts with love, but she's wrong. All good food starts with one thing… butter.

As we walk in, a waitress, who's busy running two armfuls of plates to various tables, calls out, "Sit anywhere and I'll be with you shortly."

Kyle leads me to a booth, waits for me to sit, then sits across from me. It's a little surprising. I wouldn't have expected him to be this gentlemanly. But he's definitely showing signs of it by helping with the helmet, holding open the door, and now, handing me the menu. It's a teeny-tiny tally mark in the good column, but it does little to balance out all the anger-filled tallies on the bad side.

"They have a bunch of options, but my favorite is the Elvis version," Kyle says conversationally. "I know it sounds disgusting—peanut butter, banana, and honey—but it's so good. Damn near orgasmic."

He says it casually, but my body reacts like he promised more than carby goodness. "Fine," I reply as if I'm not already starting to drool. And I'm not talking about in my mouth. "But if they suck, I'm blaming you."

I've been called bitchy before. Too many times to count, actually. Usually, I chalk it up to guys who expect me to be subservient, which I'm not. At all. But I've never felt bitchy until right now, as the words leave my mouth with a lot more acid on them than they should.

I'm not fighting for survival here. I'm being flat-out rude.

Kyle's brought me to a place he enjoys, recommended a favorite, which does actually sound delicious, so of course I respond by snapping back with a snide, hateful response when my body's reaction to his voice isn't his fault.

Kyle doesn't react… mostly, but I can see a little tic in his cheek as my cut hits.

"Sorry," I mutter, closing my eyes. "I feel like shit. I don't drink much, hardly ever, so I overdid it last night and I'm taking my bad mood out on you."

"It's okay," he answers, forgiving me easily. "You'll feel better after you eat."

He doesn't mention the multiple other times this week, all of which had nothing to do with alcohol, where I was bitchy when dealing with him. It's like those have all but been forgotten by him. At least for the moment.

When the waitress comes, he orders for us both. "Two Elvises, a glass of milk, a green tea with milk and sugar, and two waters. And a double side of bacon." When the waitress rushes off to put our order in, he tells me, "You need water to stay hydrated, but the caffeine in the green tea will help with the headache. The bacon's a personal fave, but if you want some, go right ahead."

Normally, I'd bristle at being told what to do, especially since I've never had green tea like that, but arguing further at this point seems like overkill. And giving me permission to take some bacon? Definite points in his favor.

Maybe I should just keep my mouth closed until the pancakes get here? That's probably a smart move or Kyle might leave me with the bill and no ride home. Hell, that might be his diabolical plan, anyway.

But it doesn't seem like that's the case. He's relaxed, an arm stretched out along the back of the booth like he's right at home in the out of the way, mom and pop diner, and he's peering at me like we're old friends, not new enemies.

"If you don't usually drink, what made last night different?"

He knows. Of course, he does. The plan was to make his life as inconvenient as he's made mine, and it worked… mostly. But in order to be too drunk to move Nessa's car, we got started with the sauce way too early and then just kept going.

"Nessa," I explain, taking a deep breath. "She takes care of her mom, and a night off for her is a rare occasion worthy of celebrating. So, we pulled out the hard stuff after a hard week for us both." It's the truth, just not all the truth.

He nods like he's mulling that information over. "She must love her mom a lot to take care of her like that." Of all the comments he can make, snarky or not, he sounds sincere, and he might even be complimenting Nessa some. It's off-balancing.

"Well, yeah," I answer, dumbfounded. "Of course she does. Wouldn't you do that for your parents?"

He flinches like the question physically hurts. "Probably not," he admits before adding, "Wouldn't have to. One of my siblings would be the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth choice before that responsibility got down to me. Even then, my parents would probably opt for a nursing home over my taking care of them. I'm not exactly the family favorite."

He chuckles like that's supposed to be funny, but I can hear the bitterness in his voice. Some people hide their hurts behind humor, and too often, it works. But I can hear the difference in Kyle's usual good-natured laugh and the harsh tone he has now.

"That's sad," I tell him honestly. "My parents aren't the best, but I can't imagine pawning them off to a nursing home and not taking care of them myself."

I don't tell Kyle this, but when my Papa was in the thick of his sickness and Mama was nearly killing herself to take care of him, I thought about moving in with them. But as much as I wanted to help, they're too proud to admit they needed it. Instead, I resorted to ‘overcooking' for the day so I could drop dinner by, and ‘trying out new recipes' to feed them for the rest of the day. I think I went through a hundred ‘new wrinkles' on food during that period.

I know my brother gave them some money, help I couldn't provide, but I did what I could—cook for them, clean the house, and spend as much time as I could with them to make sure they were okay.

Kyle inhales deeply and says, "One of my sisters-in-law, Janey, works at a nursing home. She's kind-hearted and smart as hell, and the place she works at has daily card games and monthly parties. They'd be looked after there. Hell, I'd live there if I could. All the pudding I can eat sounds like a sweet deal."

He makes it sound like a resort, which I know it's not, but for once in my life, I choose not to argue. "You have five brothers and sisters?" I ask instead. "That sounds like a lot."

"Some days, it's five too many," he jokes, but then, more seriously, he adds, "Four brothers—three of whom are married—one sister, one niece, one nephew on the way, Mom and Dad, and a dog. You?"

He rattled it off like a football lineup, which I guess makes sense in his mind, but I'm still trying to make sense of a family that big. Quickly, I reply, "One brother, who's married. One niece, one nephew, Mom, and Dad." I don't want to talk about my family, though. It's a sore subject, and I'm not clear-headed enough to handle that right now. "What kind of dog?"

It's the right question to ask because he launches into a monologue about his beloved pooch. His blue eyes are bright with affection and his smile nearly radiant as he tells me about Peanut Butter, who not only is the color of the sandwich spread but also has an affinity for it, going so far as to steal the jar out of the pantry at every opportunity. He also apparently doesn't mind for shit, runs nose-first at your crotch to greet you, and still charms everyone he meets.

By the time the waitress drops off our breakfast, I feel like I know not only more about the dog, but about Kyle.

Kyle runs a finger through the sticky yumminess that's spread over his stack of pancakes. "He'll know I've been cheating on him as soon as I get home," he says wistfully before sticking his finger in his mouth, licking the peanut butter from the digit. "I can't get anything past my boy."

For some reason, his gesture sends heat through my whole body. I decide I'm having a hot flash, though I'm decades away from menopause, and hope I can squash it with a bite of my own breakfast. I don't swipe my finger through it, instead going straight for my fork and a too-big bite. But as I start to chew, I moan. "Uhmagawd, thisa falicious!"

Kyle's smile says he knows exactly what I said. "Told ya."

He's not bragging, not giving me a hard time, but rather seems pleased that I'm enjoying it. He waits for me to take another bite before picking up his big fork and digging into his own, not letting any honey or peanut butter escape. And he's right, the pancakes, tea, and water do help with the hangover.

Not that I'd admit that, especially to him.

"Now for the super-secret, tastebud-bomb combo," Kyle says, picking up two slices of bacon and crumbling them up, sprinkling the bits on top of his pancakes. "Feeling brave, Miss Becerra?"

Little does he know that even coming here is a demonstration of my bravery. And my stupidity. I don't have time for flirty, charming, annoying assholes who make my life harder than it already is. Yet, here I sit, smiling and having a good time, my headache all but forgotten.

I don't let him know that, though. Despite actually getting on his bike and coming to breakfast, I'm not one of Kyle's congenial, ‘hop on' women, so I narrow my eyes and demand, "Hand it over and nobody gets hurt." But I add a tiny hint of a smile so he knows I'm kidding. A little.

He passes over the other two slices, grinning easily. "See? Common ground is possible."