“Yup.”
“Pretty,” she murmured.
“Hound cooks too, mostly breakfast.”
“Hound?”
“My dad.”
Something moved over her face.
She didn’t comment on it.
Jag didn’t push it.
He didn’t want to ask his next, but he had to ask his next.
“What time is it?”
“It was closing in on seven-thirty when I brought you yourcoffee.”
“Shit, Igottaget going,sweetheart.”
She didn’t look like she liked that, but she nodded.
He didn’t like it either.
What he did do was take their coffee mugs and set themaside, then pull her in his arms, roll over her and make out with her hot andheavy.
Because they had to get on with their days.
But there was always time to make out.
Chapter Eight
Original Gangster
Jagger
Early that afternoon, Jagger was on his ass on thefloor of bay two at the garage at Ride, his wrists to his cocked knees, andJoker was sitting beside him in the same position.
Both of them were staring at the vehicle that was right thencurrently kicking their ass.
It wasn’t a build.
It was a restoration.
An old Ford Bronco that was totally worth the effort, seeingas it was a Bronco, and Joker’s vision for it was epic.
But everywhere they turned, they found rust.
Which was a pain in the ass and it was making the budgetskyrocket.
“Remind me not to do this again,” Joker said.
“Dude,” Jagger replied, because Joker said that a lot, butwhen he got something in his head, he didn’t listen to anyone.So a long timeago, Jag had quit trying.
“Every time we take on a restoration, we get kicked in theass,” Joker told him something he knew.
