The Biker’s Plus-Size Obsession

Ch. 9 – The Glimpse Behind the Ink

“Damn oven,” I muttered, kicking the heavy metal door in frustration.

“Sweetheart, that’s not going to help,” Dad said from behind me, laughter rumbling in his chest. “All you’re gonna break is your foot.”

“I know, I know. Damn it!” I crouched again, checking every dial, every knob, as if staring hard enough would fix it.

“Leave it. Use the other oven,” Dad offered gently. “I’ll call the repairman in the morning.”

“That won’t help me tonight,” I snapped, panic bubbling in my throat. “You know the other oven runs too hot—my cakes burn every time. I’ve got ten orders due today, and—”

“Breathe.” His hand came down, warm and steady on my shoulder. “It’ll work out. The cakes will hold, just like you always do.” His smile was soft, the same smile that had once charmed Mom. Too bad it didn’t have the same magic on me.

“And I’m out of sugar,” I groaned.

“I’ll go get some.”

“No, I’ll do it. I need the air.”

He didn’t argue. I yanked off my flour-dusted apron, shook my curls loose, and tried to make them bounce again with my fingers.

“Maybe a little lip gloss?” Mom called after me.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, because I’m definitely running into a hot guy at the grocery store.” The words came out sharp, but in my head, another voice whispered bitterly: Men like that don’t look twice at girls like me.

Still, I swiped gloss across my lips before I left. Old habits.

I should’ve grabbed a cart. I always tell myself it would be just one bag, one thing. A sack of sugar—I could carry that. Don’t let the curves fool you; I had muscle under all of this.

But then I saw the fresh blueberries, and my brain lit up with recipes. Then the rye flour I hadn’t been able to get for weeks.

By the time I headed back, I was juggling a twelve-pound sack of sugar in one hand, three grocery bags in the other. I could almost make it. Almost.

Then—everything slipped. Bags hit the pavement with a crash.

“Damn it!” I cursed, crouching low.

“Need a hand?” The voice—low, rough—froze me where I stood.

I spun, and there he was. Blaine Cross.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. His eyes—ice blue and sharp—pinned me to the spot. Dark, dangerous, magnetic. My pulse fluttered in my throat.

“Yes. I mean, no—I’ve got it,” I stammered, fumbling as the sugar sack slipped again.

Before I could fall apart entirely, his hand shot out, catching it like it weighed nothing. He lifted the entire bag with one arm, balanced the others with the ease of a man who’d carried heavier burdens than groceries.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my cheeks burning. “It’s just… not my day.”

That look. The one from that night—the rejection carved into my bones—flashed in my mind. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“What happened?” His voice wasn’t mocking, not this time. There was something gentler there, something I wasn’t ready for.

“My oven broke. The only one that worked just right. Now it makes this horrible grinding noise and won’t heat properly.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“Maybe I can help,” he said, quiet, almost hesitant, like the offer itself cost him something. His gaze was steady, though, unreadable.

“No, really—it’s fine. You’ve already helped enough.”

“I work with engines,” he shrugged. “Might not be much different. Worth a shot.”

And God help me, there was something in that shrug, in the curve of his mouth, that made it impossible to say no. So I nodded.

Dad’s brows shot up when Blaine stepped through the back door of the bakery behind me. Mom froze mid-sentence, her gaze sharp and wary.

“He’s just here to look at the oven,” I said quickly, feigning a casualness I didn’t feel. “Might save us the cost of a repairman.”

Dad nodded slowly, still watching him like he wasn’t sure what to make of the man. I led Blaine toward the stubborn oven, heat blooming in my chest.

He crouched low, inspecting the dials, listening to the whirring. His face set in concentration, tattoos shifting with the pull of his muscles under the thin fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll grab my tools,” he murmured, and I nodded, clinging to the promise in those words. He’ll come back.

He was different when he worked. Focused. Quiet. Every motion is precise. I tried to focus on frosting cupcakes, but my gaze kept sliding back. To the flex of his arms, to the line of his jaw, to the way sweat traced along the ink on his skin.

It was sweltering in the back kitchen, the hottest room in the bakery. Sweat glistened at his temples, trailing down his jaw. At some point, he tugged his shirt over his head, and my breath caught in my throat.

Not just because of the ink sprawling across his chest and shoulders, though that alone was enough to make my pulse trip. But because cutting straight through the designs was a scar. Long, jagged, brutal. A reminder of something violent, something that should have killed him.

I froze. My gaze lingered too long.

And he saw me. His body stilled, and for one second, the hardness in his eyes cracked. Embarrassment. Vulnerability. He wasn’t used to being seen like this.

Before I could look away, his lips curved faintly, almost wry. “Careful, Cupcake.”

The word hit me harder than it should have.

Cupcake.

Not pig, not whale, not fatso—the names boys had whispered about me when they thought I couldn’t hear.

Cupcake. Sweet. Warm. Something worth wanting.

Heat spread across my cheeks, down my neck, and for the first time in forever, a nickname didn’t sting. It felt like… comfort.

I scrambled to focus, to act normal. “Want something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

His gaze locked on mine, steady now. “Black coffee. And water. Thanks.”

I brought them back, my hand brushing his when he took the glass. His skin was rough, calloused, but the touch made something soft and dangerous bloom inside me.

For the first time, I saw past the ink, past the hardness he wore like armor.

And for just a second, I thought I saw a man he didn’t want me to see.