“Club?” She tilts her head slightly.
I can see her putting it together—the tattoos, my road name, the Harley. Her shoulders tense almost immediately.
“Motorcycle club,” I clarify, watching her reaction carefully.
“Oh.” Her smile tightens a fraction, but she doesn’t back away. “Well, thank you for letting them look at your bike. They love anything with wheels.”
“No trouble,” I say, actually meaning it. “Tommy was a big help.”
Tommy’s face lights up at the praise, and something warm expands in my chest.
Honey plants her hands on her hips and looks at her sons. “Alright, boys. Time for you to get a bath. We still have a lot of unpacking to do.”
“Awww, do we have to?” Jackson whines, his bottom lip jutting out.
“Yes, you do,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. Mom voice activated.
“Can we come back tomorrow?” Tommy asks, looking between his mother and me.
Honey hesitates, her eyes meeting mine with a question in them.
“If it’s okay with your mom,” I say, surprising myself. Since when do I want rugrats hanging around my place?
“We’ll see,” Honey says diplomatically, ushering the boys toward the door. “Say thank you to Mr. Dread for letting you look at his motorcycle.”
“Thank you!” they chorus.
“Later, gators,” I find myself saying, wondering when the fuck I turned into a goddamn Disney character.
“Bye, Dread!” Jackson waves enthusiastically as Honey guides them out of the garage.
I watch as they cross the lawn, my eyes drawn to the sexy sway of Honey’s hips in those worn jeans.
“Damn.” I rub at the ache in my chest.
Did fucking Cupid shoot me?
I watch until they disappear around the side of the house, and I can’t stop the smile that breaks out across my face.
I think I’m going to like my new neighbors.
CHAPTER THREE
HONEY
“You boys are in big trouble.”I maneuver my wayward sons towards the front door. I don’t know what these hooligans were thinking. They know better.
Tommy looks over his shoulder and frowns. “What for?”
I arch a scolding brow. “What are the rules, Tommy?”
His little shoulders deflate, and he says in a defeated voice, “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“He’s not a stranger, mommy. He lives next door, and his name is Dread,” Jackson quickly adds, jumping in to defend his big brother. I swear on all that’s holy, sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my breath telling my fearless boys how scary the world can be.
I shake my head. “Next door or not, he’s still a stranger. And you can’t just wander into someone’s garage without letting me know first,” I explain, herding them inside. The door creaksloudly on its hinges as I close it behind us. Sighing, I add a mental note to the laundry list of things that need fixing around this place.
Jackson scrunches his nose. “But he has a motorcycle!” He acts like that explains everything. “A super cool one!”
