“You were once a teenage boy, yeah?”
I try to imagine what a teenage Wylder would have been like, but I draw a complete blank. Did he always look like he stewed in anger all day? Did he sprout after high school, or was he one of those boys who had a full beard by the time they hit sophomore year?
“Times were different then, and it was a long, long time ago.”
“How long?” I ask, prying for no reason except personal curiosity.
Stop getting personal, Tate. He’s off-limits. He’s a biker dude and a single dad.
“I’m forty-three.”
I rock back with that admission. “Wow.”
“Wow, as in I’m ancient as hell, or wow, you look amazing, Wylder?”
I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face at the playfulness in his question. “You look great. I wouldn’t have guessed a day over thirty-five.”
“Shit, I’ll take that compliment, but I know you’re lying. I think I look like I’m a hundred—or at least I feel like I’m that old.”
“You do act like a crotchety old man.”
His lips flatten. “There hasn’t been much to feel young about lately.”
“Your kids would disagree.”
He sighs as his shoulders sag forward. “What do I do?”
“Take the girls out this week. Go roller-skating or biking. Get out and enjoy our big, beautiful city.”
“Maddox would rather chew her arm off than go skating or biking. She’s not into anything physical or outdoors.”
“How about taking them to the Mag Mile for some shopping?”
He scrubs his hand down his face and grunts. “That sounds like torture.”
“A little bit of torture on your end this weekend will go a long way to melting Maddox’s icy teenage exterior.”
“I know nothing about that area. Which shops do kids like?”
I take in his outfit, which clearly didn’t come from any designer stores. “There are a bunch.”
“Not helpful,” he grumbles.
“Want me to make a list?” I offer for whatever reason. If he were my dad and I were those girls, I’d hope someone would do the same.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Give me your number,” I say, taking my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, “and I’ll text you some ideas later once I’m done cleaning.”
He stares at me for a beat before he says, “Okay.” He rattles off his phone number, and I store it in my contacts under M for Moody and Broody.
“I promise you’ll have a list by morning.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs genuinely.
I stand back up, heading toward my station to get back to cleaning. “So, you want to tell me what happened to your face?”
“Will it make you happy? Because it’s not that interesting of a story.”
