“Damn, Riley. You’re gonna wipe the logo off those glasses if you keep going,” Molly says, breaking my reverie. She grabs the rag from me, wads it into a ball, and slings it over the sink with a practiced flick. “You wanna talk about it?”
I shake my head, too mortified — and maybe too hopeful — to say anything that won’t get turned into another of her aphorisms.
She lets out a long breath, then props an elbow on the bar and levels a look at me. “You know, I used to think Breaker was born mean. But the truth is, he’s just got that old-dog thing, like he’s waiting for someone to kick him again. If you’re after a project, honey, be my guest. But keep your eyes open and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but just then a couple of loggers from the mill come in, shaking off rain and pine needles, and the moment breaks. I slide into waitress autopilot, working the crowd, pouring drinks, laughing at bad jokes, but every time my mind drifts, I find myself replaying the scene in the garage.
The way his hand had trembled when he touched me.
The way he’d searched my face for something — maybe permission, maybe forgiveness.
The way I can’t get the taste of him out of my mind.
I want to believe he’s different. I want to believe that whatever darkness haunts him, it isn’t the kind that leaves bruises and broken promises. But I’ve believed that before. I’ve stared into the eyes of a man and convinced myself that maybe, just maybe, this time it would be different.
It never is.
I should know better. But whatever line I drew between myself and that man in the garage, I crossed it the moment he tasted my pie and looked at me like he’d never wanted anything more.
Breaker isn’t just under my skin anymore.
He’s in my veins.
Chapter Twelve
Breaker
Working in the garage isn’t doing a damn thing for me; I try to keep my hands busy, but I can’t keep that kiss off my mind. I tell myself I need a drink. Not to think. Not to feel. Just to sit, breathe, and let the noise drown out the part of me that still tastes her.
The bar’s quiet for a weekday afternoon. Riley's wiping down tables across the room, pointedly not looking my way. The guys are scattered — Reaper at the end of the counter, Tank beside him, looking like someone just insulted his mother, which is his usual state, and Mayhem in his usual spot, grinning at nothing.
I slide onto a stool. Molly eyes me but doesn’t say a word, just pops the cap off a beer and slides it over.
“Appreciate it,” I mutter.
Reaper smirks. “So, how’s our new hire settling in?”
“She’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He drags out the sound, like he doesn’t believe a damn word of it. “Looks like she’s got herself a guard dog.”
Tank doesn’t even look up.
“More like a wolf,” he rumbles. “And wolves don’t do guard duty. They eat.”
I take a long pull of beer. “Do you two ever mind your own business?”
Mayhem chuckles from down the bar, low and strange. “I’m just waiting to see who bleeds first.”
I look his way, trying to read him. Never can. The man’s got a smile like a loaded gun — you never know when it’s going to go off.
I shake my head. “You need therapy, Mayhem.”
“Already tried. They quit.”
Tank looks up. “They quit? Really? Why am I not surprised?”
Mayhem shrugs. “You know, that may have been a lie. I can’t say for sure if they quit. I just know that when I showed up to their office for my second appointment, it was no longer a psychiatrist’s office and instead was a cellphone repair place. And when I called the psych’s number, it had been disconnected.”
