Heat flooded my face—not from shame, but from fury. He said that in front ofeveryone.“Hang all over him?” My words cracked sharp as a whip. “First of all, I wasn’t hanging over anyone. And, even if I was, what the fuck does it matter to you? I can do what I want. I don’tbelongto you Jackson Morgan.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could feel every pair of eyes on me, the weight of the room pressing down. Dalton lifted his hands, trying to defuse. “Hey, Holly was just laughing at my bad joke. That’s it. No need to start a fight where there isn’t one.”
“Damn right there isn’t.” My glare stayed locked on Jackson for one last beat before I spun and stormed toward the door, my chest heaving.
Behind me, I heard Dalton’s voice drop low, meant only for Jackson. “Dude, if you want her, biting her head off in front of everyone? That’s the fastest way to lose her.” Jackson muttered a slew of curses, and after a sharp word from Hannah, hurried after me.
I barged through the door leading into the garage with my head down, past a few of the members who were acting like they hadn’t heard anything. I could still hear Jackson behind me asI rushed outside. I didn’t make it three steps to my car before I slammed into a woman in heels and pearls.
Correction: not just any woman. My mother.
I stopped so fast, Jackson barreled into me from behind. His palm landed against the small of my back, steadying me before I went face-first into Ruth McCarthy’s Dior.
Her eyes went wide, darting between us, me flushed and furious, Jackson hot on my heels, his hand on me like it belonged there. Right behind her was my father. The neurosurgeon who could remove a tumor the size of a grape from someone’s brain but would rather swallow glass than referee his wife in public. He didn’t say a word. He just looked.
At me.
At Jackson.
At the fact that Jackson’s hand was still on my back.
Jackson felt it. The shift. His hand dropped like he’d been burned.
The lightbulb flicked on in my mother’s eyes. Disapproval sharpened her features and she pursed her red lips.
“Mom—” I started.
She cut me off, her voice clipped. “What exactly is going on here?”
Before I could decide whether to lie or pick a fight, Hannah stepped out from the door behind us, wiping her hands on a towel. She must have followed at a discreet distance to make sure I didn’t kill Jackson. Which, for the record, was still tempting. Even though the hand lingering on the small of my back was sending goosebumps up and down my spine. Hannah took in the scene with one sweeping glance—Mom in heels, me cornered, Jackson stiff at my side, Dad trying to become one with the wall—and arched one brow.
“Well,” Hannah said, “if it isn’t Ruth McCarthy.”
My mother’s chin lifted a fraction. “And you must be Hannah.”
“Depends who’s asking.” Her small smile cut back the bite of her words but just barely.
Mom’s eyes flicked around the clubhouse, lingering on the patched leather vests, the half-fixed ceiling fan, the scratches in the bar top. She looked like she’d stepped onto another planet. Her knuckles tightened around the poundcake she carried, edges blackened beneath the neat ribbon.
“I thought I’d…contribute something,” she said at last, offering it out like proof she belonged.
Hannah didn’t take it right away. She let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable, then plucked it from Ruth’s hands. “Brave, bringing dessert into my kitchen.”
“It’s homemade,” Ruth replied, defensive.
Hannah peeled back the wrap, sniffed. “Smells like it put up a good fight in the oven.” She turned back towards the kitchen, and Mom followed dutifully behind her. “We’ll figure out how to save it.”
I glanced at my mom as a flush crept into her cheeks, not embarrassment, but irritation. She wasn’t used to anyone, especially not another woman, cutting her down in public. For a long, tense moment, nobody moved. Dad studied the area around us like he might be expected to perform surgery later. Jackson shifted at my side, but Mac caught his eye and shook his head. The whole clubhouse was watching without watching, everyone pretending to mind their own business while the real show played out in front of them.
Finally, Mom exhaled through her nose, setting her jaw. “We’ll see,” she said, but the edge in her voice wasn’t as sharp as before.
Hannah smirked, satisfied. “Oh, we will.”
And just like that, the battle lines were drawn—not enemies, not allies, but two women who loved me in completely different ways, trying to figure out if they could stand each other long enough to fight on the same side. The air in the clubhouse went sharp, brittle. You could’ve heard a pin drop if not for the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. Every man in the room suddenly remembered he had somewhere else to be. Chairs scraped. A cue ball clacked into a pocket. Boots scuffed the floor as the Saints made themselves scarce, one by one, until the place was nearly empty.
Dad stepped forward after the two women had disappeared back into the kitchen. “You’re the Marine,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. I jerked my attention back to him as he scrutinized the man standing next to me.
