Not bad.
The guys sitting outside my house all day probably hadn’t had anything homemade in weeks.
That was my justification.
Mostly.
The real reason?
I wanted to see what Hawk would do when he found out.
The thought alone made my lips curve into a slow smile.
Ten minutes later I stepped outside onto the front porch with the tray balanced carefully in my good hand.
The late afternoon sun stretched across the quiet street, warm and lazy.
Two houses down, the motorcycle sat exactly where I expected it to be.
The biker leaning against it straightened immediately when he saw me walking toward him.
His shoulders tightened.
That alone made me grin.
“Hi,” I called.
He blinked.
“Uh… hey.”
I stopped in front of him and lifted the tray slightly.
“Cinnamon rolls.”
He stared at them like they might explode.
“Emma…”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Doing what?” I asked innocently.
“Talking to us.”
I laughed.
“Wow. Hawk really runs a tight dictatorship.”
The biker rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the street like he expected Hawk to magically appear around the corner.
“Emma, seriously.”
“What?” I repeated.
He pointed at the tray.
