Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
I’d lie there in the dark, the weight of her pressed against me, her breath against my chest, and I’d feel something I hadn’t ever had before. Something dangerous. Something I didn’t deserve.
I told myself it was guilt. And it should consume me. Guilt because I knew this wouldn’t last. Guilt because I knew one day she’d see what I really was—the monster under the cut—and she’d run screaming. Guilt because my son was rotting in Avery Mitchell, and here I was finding comfort in the arms of the enemy.
But every time she looked at me, I forgot all the reasons I should keep my distance.
She was the one who brought it up. We were sprawled on the couch in my cabin, her legs across my lap, a blanket tangled around us. She was working on a paper, her laptop balanced on her knees, while I nursed a beer and pretended not to watch her bite her lip when she was concentrating.
“Gabriel?” she asked without looking up.
“Yeah, baby?”
“My parents want to have you over for dinner.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. I stared at her. “Your parents?”
She glanced up, nervous now. “Yeah. My mom’s been asking who I’m seeing. I didn’t tell her everything—I just said there was someone. And she said she wants to meet you. Both of them do.”
I set the bottle down slow. “IvaLeigh…”
“I know,” she rushed. “I know it’s a lot. And if you don’t want to, I’ll tell them you’re busy. But I want them to meet you.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve told her I wasn’t the kind of man you brought home to mom and dad, that we didn’t have a future where she was going to want them to know me.
But the look in her eyes—the hope there—made the word stick in my throat.
“All right,” I conceded finally. “Dinner.” While this wasn’t how I wanted to show my hand just yet, I figured the opportunity presented itself so I would take it and see if I had any pull over the judge already.
Her parents’ house was everything my cabin wasn’t. White siding, green shutters, flower boxes under the windows. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.
She fussed over me before we walked in, smoothing my shirt, straightening my cut. “You don’t have to look so scary,” she teased.
I arched a brow. “You want me to put on a tie?”
She laughed. “God, no.”
Inside, the air smelled like roast chicken and lemon cleaner. Her mother was warm, smiling, ushering me into the kitchen, pressing a drink into my hand before I could say no. Her father… was another story.
He shook my hand with a grip that tried too hard. His eyes were cool, measuring, like he was trying to peel me open and see what kind of man his daughter had dragged home.
We sat at the table. It was a dreamscape all its own. The table looked like a magazine spread—linen runner, real silver, a bowl of green beans that still steamed, roast chicken set dead center like a prize. Her mom moved like she’d rehearsed the choreography: carve, pass, dab, smile. Her dad didn’t move much at all. He watched.
I took the chair IvaLeigh angled me toward. She sat next to me, knee knocking mine under the table, a small anchor I didn’t deserve.
“Dark or white meat?” her mom asked, carving knife flashing.
“Dark’s fine,” I said.
“Mashed?” She was already spooning them before I answered. “Gravy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The first bite tasted like Sundays I didn’t get as a kid—salt, butter, something green from a garden I’d never have time to tend. I set my fork down soft. “It’s good.”
Her mom’s smile warmed another ten degrees. “Thank you.”
Her father finally spoke. “So.” He didn’t ask a question. He announced a subject. “You ride.” His gaze slid to the window where the Harley sat in their drive like a wolf lying down in a pasture watching its prey. “And you work with that club in Dreadnought?”
I met his eyes. Didn’t give him an inch of blink. “I do.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” He forked white meat without looking, neat as a clock. “For a living.”
“Logistics,” I explained, giving him the truth. “We take care of our own. We move what needs moving.”
“Sounds vague,” he retorted.
“Sounds accurate,” I shot back.
Under the table, I felt IvaLeigh’s knee press a little harder into my leg. Her voice lifted—light, almost chatty. “Daddy, Gabriel fixes things. He cooks, too. He made this chicken last week that tasted like—”
“Chicken,” Connor cut her off, with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that right?”
Her mom swooped in with a basket of bread. “Rolls?” She put one on my plate without waiting. “We grew up with biscuits. He eats rolls. I try to keep everyone happy.” She laughed at herself, a bright thing set in the middle of a minefield. “Marriage. Compromise is everything.”