The garage door closes behind us, sealing the cold outside. I lift the jacket from its hook and run my fingers over the patches. The front is just as intriguing as the back. The first patch on the left says Vice President, with Ravens beneath it. On the right, the top patch reads Portland, and underneath that: Brutal.
“Does ‘brutal’ mean something?” I ask, turning to him with a curious smile.
“Things and people who behave badly get dealt with brutally,” he says, his tone low and firm.
My thighs clench together involuntarily. Damn. That was the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.
“Come on. Let’s get you warmed up,” he says, snapping me out of my bad girl thoughts.
I follow him into the house.
“What part of the house is yours?” I ask, glancing around the sleek kitchen, all clean lines and soft lighting.
Declan looks over his shoulder at me, his brows raised.
“This kitchen is stunning. It’s like something out of a magazine,” I gush.
“Thanks,” he replies, stopping in the expansive living room.
“Should I whisper? I don’t want to wake your parents,” I tease, the size of this place making it feel like someone must share it with him.
He shakes his head, smirking. “My parents don’t live here.”
“Oh, I thought this huge house was your parents,” I say, surprised.
“No, this is my home, Meridea,” he clarifies.
“Is it hard to believe that a thirty-year-old man can own his own home?” he asks with a small smile.
I spin around, taking in the grandeur of the house. “This is a mansion, Declan.”
“It’s just a big house,” he counters playfully.
I raise my hands in mock surrender and say, “Fine, it’s a big house.”
“I’ll give you a quick tour so you can find your way around anytime,” he offers generously.
Anytime of day? He’s giving me a place to lay my head for the night. Maybe he’s tired and misspoke.
The house is a dream. The tour ends in a guest room.
“As you know, my room is just down the hall,” Declan points out.
He motions to the left before adding, “I’ll start a fire for you. Feel free to come downstairs and relax by it if you want.”
With that, he heads towards the grand staircase.
I’m so confused right now. How does he afford all of this? He’s a bartender—or maybe he owns the bar—but even then, no bar I’ve ever seen could produce enough profit to afford this kind of mansion. My mind drifts to the jacket in the garage. He’s in a motorcycle club. Does that mean he’s involved in… illegal activities?
My eyes slam shut as I push the door shut. Then they pop open. No, I won’t let that nightmare take precedence right now. I need to be alert. I’m in a strange man’s home. Even though I don’t get the vibe that he expects anything from me. I open the closet to place my backpack on the floor and my mouth drops open.
Inside, a row of neatly hung clothes greets me, along with an array of boots and stylish shoes perfectly arranged on the floor.
I slip my jacket off and hang it on a hanger. My dusty white sneakers come off next, and I set them down next to my backpack.
What was his sister thinking, buying all of this? A whole wardrobe? I’ll only wear two or three outfits at most. The rest she can return to the store and get a refund.
My fingers slip over the soft fabrics. The clothes are nicer than anything I’ve worn in years.
