To irritate the fuck out of me, to piss me off, to sour the only thing in my life that wasn’t tainted by him. Hearing the water shut off, I knew I had to pull myself together, not let my fuck-up father mess with this date with Emory. By the time I found glasses and filled them with iced tea from the fridge, I’d settled.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pausing in the doorway. She could tell something was wrong. I couldn’t seem to hide it from her.
I realized my shoulders were tense, and I sighed, forcing my body to relax. Just looking at her helped with that. She was all shower fresh and soft, and… God, I had it bad. How did this woman, whose hair was damp and long over her shoulders, face makeup free, wearing a pale blue tank top and cut-off jean shorts make my heart lurch? Her legs were long and lean, and her feet were bare, hot pink nail polish on her toes. She was the girl next door, and she should steer clear of a guy like me—a guy with a past and a father who was an asshole. She had a kid and parents and a house that was a home. What the hell was I doing with her?
I swore under my breath and leaned a hip against the counter. “Nothing, just a stupid text from my dad.”
She looked at me the way she probably did her son when he kept important things secret—like hiding cigarettes in his room or getting home an hour after curfew. “Are you going to tell me about him sometime?”
I eyed her, seeing her right now for what she was, a calming influence. Just having her come into the room, seeing her questioning look, had me realize what was important, and it wasn’t my dad. He wanted to ruin this moment, this impromptu date, and that was not going to happen. I took a deep breath, let it out, let it all go. For some reason, in this moment, it was easy to do.
She cocked her head to the side. “What?” she asked.
I just gave a little shake of my head. Now wasn’t the time to talk about stupid shit. “I hope you’re hungry. It seems the Baker boys are smitten. I’d really like to know how you’ve gotten the president of the No Holds Barred motorcycle club wrapped around your finger.”
Her eyes widened. “Who are you talking about? Frankie?”
I shook my head. “His father. Quake Baker.”
“How do you know he runs a motorcycle club?”
“It’s common knowledge. Plus, when we were waiting for you, Frankie introduced himself. It wasn’t hard to make the connection.”
“Frankie’s in it, too?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t get on their bad side, but you’ve done just the opposite.”
If I thought for a second Emory was in danger from a fucking motorcycle club, I’d have gotten her the hell away from Frankie. Hell, away from Brant Valley. That wasn’t the case at all.
“Jackson fell off his bike and got scraped up. I helped him. He says he lives a few blocks away.”
“I think he lives with Frankie, but the club is on the far side of town. Near the diner.”
She went over to one of the foil to-go containers and pried off the lid. “Well, I put on some Band-Aids and gave him an old bike helmet. I wouldn’t say I did all that much. Mmm, pulled pork. Macaroni and cheese.” She glanced up at me. “What?” she asked again.
I took in her pert nose, the spray of freckles across them. The soft lines of age around her eyes. “You have no idea, do you?”
She frowned. “What?”
She invited me into her home instead of wanting a fancy dinner. She was standing in front of me, her hair unstyled and wet, no makeup. No high heels. No pretense. I could see her, the real Emory, clearly. “The effect you have on people.”
She glanced away, and I saw a flush creep up her neck.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the broken lights?” I asked, realizing I was bothered she hadn’t told me about it although that was somewhat ridiculous since we barely knew each other. I felt possessive toward her, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Protective, too.
She rolled her eyes, taking a lid off of another container. “It’s just kids, and I didn’t think it was important.”
I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of anyone fucking with Emory, even if it was just kids. “Clearly Quake thought it was important enough to send over his son to fix it.”
“Quake, is it? You two are on a first name basis?”
I put a plate in front of her. “Never met, but I know of him. Just like people know who I am.”
“I assume Frankie told you why he brought food and fixed my lights?”
“Yeah.”
She opened another entree. Spaghetti and meatballs. Some red sauce got on her thumb, and she licked it off. “He was just being courteous.”
Perhaps, but Quake Baker wasn’t known for being courteous, and they did more in Brant Valley than run a diner. While they weren’t typical one percenters, the outlaw gangs who dealt in everything from prostitution to drugs, they weren’t Boy Scouts either. From what Frankie told me before Emory got home, his father was shrewd enough to offer protection where needed. While I was reassured to know she fell under the man’s sights and clearly under his protection—and that of an entire motorcycle club—I wasn’t excited about the fact that the old man thought she needed it.
“Did they knock out anyone else’s lights?”
She frowned, but when she did it, a cute little V formed at her brow. “I don’t think so.”
Why would someone just screw with her? “Do you have lights in back?”
She took off the lid of the last container, Greek salad. The guy’d sent her a little bit of everything. “Yes, motion sensors.”
“Did they knock those out as well?”
That gave her pause, and she looked to me. “I don’t know. I never go out the back because there’s no parking.” She went over to the back door, flipped the deadbolt and opened it. She looked up and to the right where I assumed was an outdoor light, but I was looking down in front of her.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her back, not wanting her to step out onto her stoop in her bare feet. “Careful.” I indicated with my chin the broken bulb on the steps.
She sighed wearily as she looked down at the shards of glass, closed and flipped the deadbolt back into place. Turning, she leaned back against the door as if she was too worn out to keep herself up. Perhaps she was. Two twelve hour shifts in a row had to be exhausting. She had no one to help her around the house anymore, even if it was just a teenager doing chores. A broken lightbulb wasn’t a difficult task to clean up, but she didn’t need to deal with some punk kid’s pranks, especially after working all day. “I’ll deal with it on Thursday when I’m off.”
No, she wouldn’t. I’d see it done, but I knew she’d bicker, so I said nothing more about it. “I think Jackson has a crush on you.” So do I.
She grinned, and I loved seeing her smile. “Yes, well, he’s going to have to stand in line.”
I took a step closer and put the Bakers and broken lightbulbs out of my mind. “Oh, why’s that?”
She licked her lips and damned if I didn’t almost come in my pants. My eyes dropped to her mouth and wondered what she tasted like. “There’s this other guy,” she whispered, and her eyes lowered.
“Oh?” I had to touch her, so I ran a finger down the length of her bare arm and felt goose bumps rise. My breathing became uneven, the ache and need to taste her was so strong. “What about him?”