The way she bites her lip—soft, not seductive, just overwhelmed—hits me harder than a bullet. She’s trying so hard not to fall apart, not to lean on me.
Her gaze lifts slowly, steady and impossibly brave, and something inside me slips.
My resolve. My distance. The line I swore I’d keep.
Shattered.
I have to step away before I regret my next move.
10
WREN
The men have been busy, the club quiet except for the waves coming in or going on from whatever jobs they have. I wonder if they’re stretched so thin because of me.
Most of my last few days have been quiet, playing cards with Pixie at one of the tables and delivering a few drinks when someone needs something. I help Pixie clean up the bar and lounge, which only makes her laugh at me until I throw my towel at her.
“I can’t be that bad at this,” I huff.
“But you are. You’re so bad.”
I plant my hands on my hips and glare at her. “I’ve never had to clean anything myself before.”
Pixie’s dark eyes sparkle with mirth. “With those nails? I don’t doubt it.’
I pout at her, but she grins back.
“Come on. Let me show you how to do something yourself.”
We sweep, mop, and organize. Doing the laundry is probably my favorite. I like hanging and folding the hot towels, t-shirts, and jeans. The underwear I could do without, but at least they’re clean.
I’m not such a fan of scrubbing the toilets, but the rest isn’t so bad. And when I’m done inside, I feel accomplished.
I take a rake outside to smooth out the yard and reduce the chances of rocks being flung under tires. Pixie waves me off since there’s five members outside tinkering with their bikes. Smoothing out the dirt is cathartic, and I find myself rather liking this job.
Some of the men whistle and catcall me, but it’s not as intense as it was before. It’s only when I notice Doc crouching behind his bike, sweeping me up in long glances, that I take a break.
Arms tired, I set the rake aside and saunter toward him slowly.
He stands, wiping grease from his hands on a towel as I approach. His gaze travels down my legs in a slow, sensual sweep. “How are your feet?”
“Okay.” Is he really thinking about my feet?
“I should check on them.”
“Should you?” That lingering look has my heart kicking up. I step forward, drawing a fingertip across the long curve of a handlebar.
I swear his nostrils flare as he watches me. Since he’s not chiding me, I keep the light touch on his bike. It’s somehow sexual, like I’m caressing him instead. Another step has me feeling more bold than I have in a long, long time.
If ever.
“What are you working on?”
“The suspension.” His voice is a low growl.
I trace the line of stitching on the seat, back and forth. Back and forth.
“It smooths out the ride.”
