She catches my insult and chooses to ignore it.
“It must be nice to marry in and suddenly be running things.”
My head jerks up to stare at her. “I’m not running anything here.”
“You’re running Mica,” she says pleasantly.
I hold her gaze and remember what Vulture told me about club girls. They’re scared of something. Figure out what and you’ll figure them out.
“I run a trucking company,” I say bluntly. “Same as I did before I walked in here. Nothing about that changed.”
She smiles in a way that doesn’t reach anything above her mouth. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
Mica appears from the hallway, crosses the room towards the bar, and takes one look at the two of us, then stops short.
“Charity,” he says, his tone laced with a warning.
She picks up her drink and slides off the stool. “I was just getting acquainted,” she says humbly before drifting towards the far end of the bar.
Mica looks at me. “Was she giving you problems?”
“Not particularly,” I say. “Club girls aren’t complicated. Mostly they’re just women looking for love and respect in all the wrong places.”
He frowns at me. “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess.” He sits down on the stool she vacated, and I go back to the contract on my laptop. Mica pours himself a coffee.
Charity’s words are still running around in my head. It must be nice, marry in and suddenly you’re running things. I think about the territory the Sons just acquired, the clubhouse that’s been providing safety for me, and how the women here all seem to know exactly where they stand. This place that the Sons of Rage built, isn’t my world. I’m a Vulture through and through, and I’m not sure I even want to fit in here. But I am sure of one thing. I’m falling for Mica, and that complicates everything.
Bran is sweeping the bar area when Mica goes off to feed his dog, Sable. I ignore him and keep working on my laptop, because I remember what Mica told me about not trusting him. The last thing in the world I need is to strike up a conversation with a patchless turncoat.
But Bran inches closer, sweeping the bar floor. Then he starts stacking chairs in the bar. He doesn’t approach or try to speak to me. He just keeps getting closer as he works.
He carries a crate past my table and slows down slightly, shifting it from one hip to another.
“You always work through lunch?” he says conversationally.
“Usually,” I say, without looking up from my laptop.
“Looks like Mica had something more important to do. I wonder where he went.”
“He’s feeding his dog. He’ll be back any minute.”
He moves towards that storage room almost immediately with the crate in hand. A man who isn’t paying attention to something doesn’t ask questions about it. Why is he focused on Mica and why does he keep approaching me?
I write a note in the margin of my contract file that has nothing to do with the Titan Pantry renewal.
Bran always finds a way to approach me and asks where Mica is.
I close the laptop, put it in my bag, and go out looking for Mica. I stop long enough to pet Sable and then Mica perks up.
“Do you want to go to the grocery store? We can pick out something to grill together.”
Suddenly, I’m all smiles. “That sounds like fun. Maybe we could grill out at my place. You’ve never spent the night with me before. We always stay in your suite.”
“Well ma’am, if you want to take me home with you, who am I to object?”
He’s using his flirty voice and I love it. In fact, I’m starting to love everything to do with my shiny new husband.
We take my car instead of the bike because we need some place to put the groceries. It’s a mundane, practical decision that makes the situation feel more domestic than two people in an arranged marriage of convenience have a right to feel. It’s funnyin a way and gives me a little glimpse into what staying married to him would be like.
