I just watch him through my lashes as he turns around.
He ain’t in leather today. No cut. No colors. Just dark jeans, boots scuffed to hell, and a long sleeve shirt pushed up at the forearms. He looks more dangerous without the uniform, like he’s blending in on purpose.
His eyes land on me and stay there. Not hungry. Not friendly. Focused.
“You alone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, then immediately hate that I answered so fast.
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Calculation.
“My wife was at the clubhouse last night.”
The words hit harder than they should. My hands curl into fists on the counter.
“We didn’t do anything,” I say quick. Too quick.
He gives me a look that’s almost a smile, but it ain’t kind.
“Right. I passed out. I woke up alone. I have your note. We didn’t…”
“I know.” His voice cuts in, calm and final. “This ain’t about what you did.”
He takes one step closer. Not into my space, but close enough that I can smell soap and smoke and something darker underneath it.
“It’s about what she saw.”
My throat goes dry. “What did I do?”
He clears his throat like he hates saying it. “You were all over me in a clubhouse full of men who read ownership in eye contact.”
My neck feels hot, hot and humiliating. I can remember pieces of the night, not enough to defend myself and not enough to deny it either.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because she saw you all over me and you showed her that note.” His gaze stays steady. “You didn’t just embarrass her. You confused her.”
The pawn shop feels smaller all of a sudden. The glass cases reflect too much of me. Too young. Too obvious. Too easy to blame.
“Did I do something wrong?” My voice comes out thin.
“No.” He says it like a hard fact. “It ain’t your fault. Bethany expects me to cheat, not to care. She asked questions and she didn’t like the answers.”
I swallow. “Is she mad we didn’t…?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper. “She’s never not mad. But to put it plain, she thinks you mean something to me.”
That should not matter.
It shouldn’t make my pulse jump the way it does.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. Outside, a truck passes on Main and tires crunch gravel. Life in Hell, Kentucky, going on like normal while my insides start to shake.
Oaks leans one hand on the counter. Still doesn’t touch me.
“You don’t walk home alone,” he says. “You don’t close this place by yourself for a while. You don’t hang around after dark. And if anybody starts asking you questions, you don’t answer them.”
“Why?” I ask.
