Harley (Cerberus MC)

He rolls down the window immediately, and I almost cringe, thinking he’s going to tell me to get lost, when his eyes drop to the offering in my hands.

“I was making lunch. Figured you might be hungry, too.”

His eyes stay on mine for a long moment, and it grows awkward with my holding the items suspended in front of me without him taking it.

“Am I overstepping?” I ask softly, anticipating him snapping at me again.

“It’s very thoughtful,” he says, reaching out to take the food and water.

He places the sandwich and chips somewhere below the edge of the window, but I can’t tell exactly where because of my height compared to the vehicle. He unscrews the lid to the water and takes a long swig, his eyes locked on me the entire time.

And I thought holding the food out was awkward.

It isn’t exactly a death glare. It’s more of a scrutinizing gaze, and I suddenly feel like I’m under some kind of microscope. I resist the urge to run my hands over the top of my head to make sure the slight, heated breeze hasn’t sent it flying all over the place.

“You’ve been sleeping on the couch.”

Of all the things he could say right now… I knew he knew I was in the living room that first day I walked into the kitchen and he scared the hell out of me, but I was grateful he never mentioned it. Showcasing my weakness makes me feel uncomfortable, but the tone of his words doesn’t sound criticizing. There’s more of a concerned edge to it.

“The couch is comfortable.”

A tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth, or maybe I’m reading it wrong and it’s the beginning of a sneer.

“Liar,” he says, the word mildly playful. “I’ve fallen asleep on that couch once. I was in need of traction after waking up.”

“You’re huge and I’m tiny,” I argue. “That makes all the difference.”

His eyes trail down my body as if he has to verify my words.

“If you’re not going to eat the sandwich, I can put it in the fridge for myself for later. I don’t want you to feel obligated to eat.”

He shakes his head, lifting the sandwich up. “I’m going to eat it. I’m starved.”

Boomer and Grace must have gotten into my head with their assumptions because my brain tried to turn his words into something sexual. My body heats a little more only it’s because of this man rather than the hot sun.

I begin to turn away.

“How was my little girl?” he asks after chewing a huge bite of food.

“Asleep when I left,” I answer, wondering if I’m imagining him trying to keep me here instead of going back inside.

I don’t want to jinx this relatively normal interaction, whereas most of the others have lasted mere seconds, or he walked away angry. I don’t want to push my luck where he’s concerned.

“She was a little cranky, but went to sleep easily.”

“Cranky?” His brows crease. “She was in a great mood earlier.”

I shrug. “Babies have mood swings just like adults.”

He cocks an eye at this, and my lips twitch at the unintentional but insanely accurate jab.

“I wanted to say I’m—”

His phone rings, drawing his words up short.

“It’s Misty,” he says, pressing a button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”

“Harley. It’s Misty. I don’t want to concern you, but Aria is running a low-grade fever.”

“Fever?” He sounds panicked, his eyes darting to mine.

I shake my head, trying to tell him that she didn’t have a fever when I put her down for her nap.

“I’m on my way,” he says.

“Be safe,” Misty says before the call ends.

“She didn’t have a fever, Harley. I would’ve called you myself if she did,” I say, trying to ward off another outburst from him.

“I know you would. I have to go. Thanks for lunch.”

“Could you give me a ride back?”

Why the hell did I ask that? I’m perfectly capable of driving myself, and going to the clubhouse with him means I’ll have to find another ride back later. Boomer has been hanging out most evenings, knowing I’m just going to end up back at the clubhouse.

“Sure,” he answers, surprising me.

“I have to grab my purse and lock up. You finish eating. I’ll be right back.”

Before he can change his mind, I rush back across the street and into the house. I shove the sandwich in the fridge and grab my things. He’s done eating when I climb inside, but it’s easy to tell he’s ready to get back to the clubhouse. His fingers tap on the steering wheel as he drives, a nervous response to the news he’s gotten.

“Has she ever been sick before?”

“She had a cold once. I freaked out,” he says with a smile, but then it fades quickly away. “I wanted to take her to the hospital, but Lana told me she’d be fine. She was, of course. She got a kick out of watching me scramble though.”