Free Own the Wind by Kristen Ashley Page A

his neck. The flat, black leather straps around his wrists that had thick, silver bands punched with insignias. The chunky silver rings on his fingers.
    Amazing.
    He turned to me, “Tab, honey, you want breakfast?”
    I came to with a start and looked up at him. “Breakfast?’
    “Yeah, breakfast. You’re feelin’ better, I’ll make you some.”
    “I don’t have any food in the house,” I told him, and his brows went up.
    “You don’t have any food in the house?”
    “Well,” I did a quick mental inventory, figured he wouldn’t want tuna or ranch-style beans for breakfast then suggested, “We could have Pop-Tarts.”
    His lips twitched and he shook his head. “Not sure Pop-Tarts are good sittin’ on mountain of Christmas candy. I’ll take you out.”
    My belly flipped again.
    He’d take me out?
    For breakfast?
    “Pardon?” I asked.
    He tossed the ball of foil on my coffee table, it bounced off the other side, went rolling across the floor, and stopped a few feet in front of the TV.
    “I’ll take you out for breakfast,” he mostly repeated.
    My eyes left the ball of foil and shot to him.
    “Uh…” I started then found, for once, my mouth couldn’t go on.
    “Tab, babe.” He came at me. “Get a move on. Once you get dressed, we’ll go.” He made it to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me to the mouth of the hall.
    He stopped us there and I looked up at him, still frozen.
    “Get,” he ordered softly. “Breakfast.”
    Then he put a hand in the small of my back and gave me a gentle push.
    Seeing as he pushed me, however gently, and my body’s momentum was taking me down the hall, I “got” and scurried to my bedroom wondering if I could have breakfast with Shy or even if I should.
    But the fact of the matter was, he’d shown at my house after I hadn’t talked to him in six weeks, and he wasn’t pissed or in my face. He was concerned and wanted to take me out for breakfast.
    So I hit the shower thinking I not only could do this, I
should
.
    He’d faced our history straight on, guided us around it, and obviously, with the way he was being now, he intended to keep us firmly on that path.
    And Tyra was right. He was Chaos, a brother, family. He’d done what any of the brothers would do that night, looking out for me.
    Yeah, I definitely
should
do this.
    Forty-five minutes later, I decided not only that I shouldn’t but I
couldn’t
.
    This was because, even though I gave my legs a close shave last night while getting ready for the hog roast, I did it again.
    I also couldn’t because I pulled out my favorite Harley tee. One that was buried in a drawer. One that I hadn’t worn in years. One that fit great and since it was tight at my breasts that made it even better.
    And further because I had on faded jeans, a fabulous riveted belt, and high-heeled boots, and I’d fluffed my hair out and spritzed it with that stuff that made it look all beachy and cool. I’d also put on makeup even though I didn’t intend to. I had put on a hint of makeup, just blush and mascara, but I decided on liner. Then decided liner looked stupid without eye shadow, so I put on eye shadow. After all this, I decided makeup didn’t look good without appropriate accessories, so I layered on the silver and now I was totally made up, done up and (mostly) tricked out.
    Which was stupid (again).
    And wrong.
    And it meant I should not, could not, go to breakfast with Shy.
    The problem was, he’d been waiting for forty-five minutes, and I knew from a lifetime of experience that bikers weren’t all that patient. To fix the damage, I’d need a new outfit and a face rubdown, and I didn’t have time to select a new outfit. That could take twenty minutes alone.
    For that reason, I knew I had to do this.
    He was being cool and sweet.
    It was just breakfast.
    So I walked out of my bedroom in order to do it.
    I turned the corner at the end of the hall and saw Shy leaning into his arm at the bar, head bowed, hand scratching on a