Jaken (The Untouchables MC 6.5)

These were the kinds of things other young girls daydreamed about. Girls who didn’t have five siblings to raise, who didn’t have to keep a roof over everyone’s head. Who had a mother and a father to look after them instead of having to look after everyone else.

Girls who didn’t know deep down that they had to build their owned damned fences and paint ’em too.

No complaining, I told myself sternly. You don’t have time for it. And no mooning over handsome strangers, either!

“Sorry, no ice cream today. We should get going.”

“I WANT ICE CREAM,” Jessie hollered, even louder this time. The other moms looked our way, took one look at my brother, then at me. They all frowned.

I knew what they were thinking. It was clear as day. It was what everyone thought when they saw me with my siblings.

Teen mom. One of those girls who dropped out of high school to have a baby. One of the ones who got caught with her pants down and would never amount to anything. She’d never be anything other than a baby maker.

They’d be right and wrong every damned time. I was a teen mom. I was struggling to make something of myself. But I hadn’t done this to myself. And I certainly hadn’t done it to get on some television show on MTV.

Never mind the fact that I’d never even been kissed!

I sighed and stood, stowing my textbook in my backpack.

“Sorry, it’s too close to dinner. And we have some ice cream at home.”

“Ugh, it tastes bad,” Jessie muttered. He was right. I’d bought some ice cream on sale and it wasn’t exactly, um, flavorful. But we couldn’t afford the premium brands.

Not yet.

Someday, though, I’d treat us all to dinner out once a week. I’d buy organic. I’d have white linen sheets and perfume for behind my ears. And there would be mountains of presents for birthdays and Christmas . . . Christmas with a giant, fresh fir tree that made the whole house smell good . . .

“Hey,” a voice said. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw who it was.

It was him. The guy from the wedding. The biker . . . or was he? No. He was a bartender. He’d told me so in that musical Irish lilt.

For a second, I doubted my sanity. Was I seeing things? Was this a prank?

It was as if I’d conjured him up with my mind. Somehow, when I had imagined a Christmas tree, he’d been there too, putting the star on top because I couldn’t reach. And when I thought about white picket fences, he was the one walking up to the front door and shouting ‘honey, I’m home!’

Dear lord, he’s even prettier than I remembered.

Say something, woman!

“Um, hi.”

He just smiled at me, looking altogether too handsome to be real.

“Jaken.”

“I remember.” Ugh, shut up, Colleen! “I’m Colleen.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Colleen,” he said, sounding adorably formal. “Did I hear someone say ice cream?” he asked with a lopsided grin that made my heart flutter.

“Oh, well, we were just—”

“ICE CREAM!” Jessie screamed deliriously. The boy really needed to learn to modulate his voice. He was six, not three.

Thankfully, Lana behaved with far more decorum.

“We were just talking about the quality of ice cream served at home.”

“I see. And would you like some? My treat,” he added, giving me a quick look. “If that’s alright with your . . . mother?”

“Sister,” I corrected him, feeling mortified and charmed all at once. And suspicious. Why was this beautiful man paying attention to me? Where in God’s name had he come from?

“Is it?” he prompted. “All right?”

“We really shouldn’t . . .”

“Please!” Jessie screamed. He acted like he was starving. I knew perfectly well that he’d devoured two sandwiches and a bag of cheese doodles for lunch.

“Pretty please?” little Lana asked. I stared at her. She was already eight but so small for her size. And she rarely asked for anything.

“All right,” I said, giving in. “But just one scoop.”

“Deal,” the kids shouted in unison. I shook my head and followed them to the cart, Jaken walking by my side.

He was tall, I mused to myself. Big and strong, but I didn’t feel nervous around him. I didn’t even think about the fact that he could hurt me if he wanted to.

The sneaky, scared thought was always close to the surface when I was around men. I was so short. I knew that a lot of men couldn’t be trusted not to get rough.

I didn’t trust people, and men in particular.

But my alarm bells were not going off. Not even a little.

“Do you live near here?” I asked as I licked the chocolate ice cream he’d insisted on buying me. Two scoops for me, he had decreed. It was more desert than I ever had, other than leftover wedding cake from time to time at the hotel where I worked.