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“Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I answer.

“Heard you had a rough afternoon. Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“Good. Make sure these men feed you something.”

“I'll take care of it,” Torch says.

“See that you do.”

She gives him a pointed look before walking away.

She's completely comfortable ordering around a man who could probably bench-press a motorcycle.

And he doesn't seem to mind.

For some ridiculous reason, that bothers me.

“Was she talking about a women's shelter?” I ask.

Torch nods.

“The club helps run one.”

I'd seen a passing mention of it during my research, but never found much detail.

“That's unusual.”

“Why?”

“Because most motorcycle clubs don't exactly advertise themselves as social services.”

“Maybe you haven't met enough motorcycle clubs.”

“Maybe.”

“McKenna does good work,” he says.

There's unmistakable respect in his voice.

“She seems nice.”

“She is. She's Grim's old lady.”

“I didn't ask.”

“Didn't say you did.”

His mouth curves.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

I reach for my water, hoping he can't see the warmth creeping into my cheeks.

The call sounded genuine, and McKenna seems to care about the women she helps.