Always.
“There’s a bit of a midmorning rush that’ll likely pick up soon,” I explained as I placed his coffee in front of him.
“Thanks.” He accepted the cup, taking a sip, his eyes on me over the rim. “That’s good fucking coffee,” he complimented.
I nodded, my cheeks hot as I quickly turned away, eager to appear busy.
For the next thirty minutes he sat quietly, his large hands engulfing the mug he drank from. He didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t fidget. He just simply sat, watching me occasionally, assessing the bakery but also appearing deep in thought. There was something so refreshing about a man comfortable in his own skin.
When I came over to offer a refill, he looked up at me and pointed toward the seat across from him. “Why don’t you take a load off for a few?”
My cheeks blazed at his directness. “With you? I mean, I’m working,” I blathered.
He made a show of looking around the empty bakery. “Looks to me like you can take a break.”
I bit my lip, liking the idea of sitting with him more than I should. “Okay,” I agreed, replacing the coffeepot before sliding tentatively into the empty seat across from him. “I don’t think I’ve ever sat in one of these chairs,” I murmured, more to myself than him. “They’re not that comfortable.” I shifted in my seat.
His answering chuckle made my heart pound. “No, darlin’. They’re really not.” He eyed me over the rim of his mug. “Damn good coffee though.”
I blushed again at the compliment, pushing my black-framed glasses up my nose.
“I’m Maddox Black,” he introduced, extending a hand across the table.
“Francesca, but most people call me Frannie,” I replied as his large, callused hand enveloped mine.
He pulled back, grimacing at the grease that had transferred from his hand to mine. “Shit, sorry. Had some trouble with my bike.”
“That’s okay.” I shrugged, unperturbed. “Do you need to call someone?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Call someone?”
“You know, to fix your bike.”
He chuckled. “I think my club would strip my patch if I couldn’t fix my own bike, babe.”
“You’re in the Knights?” I asked hesitantly, curiosity getting the better of me. I knew about the Knights Motorcycle Club through conversations I’d overheard my uncle have during his trips to the bakery. I’d been able to surmise that my uncle wanted to use the Knights’ territory up in Hawthorne and that he’d run into challenges.
“I’m a Knight.” His slight correction spoke volumes. “How have you heard about us?”
The fact that Maddox’s club had been resistant to working with my uncle led me to believe they might have at least a shred more morality than the majority of my family. Or, I hoped that was the case. It was that hope that had me sharing what I rarely told a soul.
“My uncle is Angelo Rossi.”
The sharpening of his gaze told me he knew exactly what that meant.
“Feel free to leave if you’d like.” My gaze swung to the door.
“Why would I do that?” His tone was affronted.
“Most people do,” I admitted. I’d struggled for my entire life with making friends, and forget having boyfriends once anyone found out my last name.
He waited until my eyes settled back on him. “Good thing I’m not most people.”
What was is it about this man that made me want to bare my soul? “Good thing,” I agreed, once I’d found my voice.
He cocked his head to the side. “Why do most people call you Frannie? Not to say I don’t like it. But Francesca is a beautiful name.”
I thought about how to answer him, about how much to share. “My uncle and his men call me Francesca.” I grimaced.
