Spec (Hell's Handlers MC Florida Chapter 2)

He was back to grunting his responses.

Or so she thought.

He rested his palms on the counter and turned his head her way. Those eyes, green like hers but such a different shade, seemed to see straight inside her. “Look, I was a dick. You don’t need to excuse it.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Maybe this could be the start of a tentative friendship.

“I don’t want you here.”

Or maybe not.

“But I told Brooke you could stay, and Deke would beat my ass if I turned you away, the fucking softy, so I won’t go back on my word. You can stay as long as you need to sort your… stuff. I won’t give you shit about it. I’ll even try to stop being a dick. Just keep outta my way as much as possible, and I’ll do the same. Agreed?”

A painful lump formed in her throat. “Agreed,” she croaked. For a second, one fleeting, glorious second, she’d thought he’d extend an olive branch. But no. At least he wouldn’t be openly hostile anymore as long as she kept her distance.

They reached for the bowl of pancake batter at the same time. She beat him to it by a fraction of a second, which meant his hand landed on top of hers. It was so much larger and so rough. Immediately, a shower of electricity buzzed up her arm, lifting all the little hairs as it traveled to her core. She yanked her hand back with a sharp inhale.

Had he felt it?

One glance at him confirmed that notion. He stared down at her, eyes swirling with something. Heat? Lust?

Her heart sped as he stepped into her personal space, forcing her to tilt her chin up. Her lips tingled under his gaze. Oh my God, was he going to kiss her?

Yes. Despite his words, he was about to kiss her.

He leaned in closer.

She might pass out.

The door swung open as Brooke strode back into the kitchen.

Scott jerked back as though he’d touched the hot griddle.

Olivia’s heart stuttered to a stop in her chest. Face hot as the Florida pavement on an August day, she picked up the bowl and went to work on the next round of pancakes as though nothing had happened. She kept her gaze down, unable to look at Scott or Brooke.

Had that even happened? Or did she conjure his smoldering gaze up in her imagination? What the hell was wrong with her? Nothing had happened. Whatever attraction she felt was all in her head. The man had told her he’d tolerate her presence out of some misguided sense of obligation to the half-brother who barely knew her, but he had no desire to get to know her in any way. And there she was practically swooning like a teenager whose crush glanced her way for the first time. God, if his hot stare caused such a visceral reaction, she couldn’t imagine how she’d react to having his naked body pressing her down into a bed.

Or the floor.

Or against a wall.

Gah! Get it together.

After the touch she vowed to forget, they finished the pancakes in stilted silence. Olivia measured every movement to ensure their skin didn’t come in contact again. He probably felt the same as her, unwilling to cause a scene or mess up Brooke’s plans for breakfast.

When they moved to a long table to eat, Scott took the seat farthest from where she sat.

As much as she should look at his offer of peace as a gift, she couldn’t shake the heaviness in her chest. He’d closed and locked the door on any friendly association, and she’d be lying if she claimed it didn’t hurt.

A lot.

To top it off, every time he smiled at something one of his brothers said, her stomach fluttered.

Leave it to her to experience some sort of wild attraction to a man who couldn’t stand her. Her older brother’s best friend, no less. Shaking her head, she bit into her pancake.

Huh, it’d turned out quite tasty.

It was time to put thoughts of Scott out of her head and use this reprieve to plan the next phase of her life. She’d spent the past few days in Florida more worried about her relationship with Scott than Lance. “You have some wires crossed, girl,” she mumbled.

“Don’t they say something about the first sign of losing your mind is talking to yourself?”

Her cheeks heated as she looked up into the face of the man sitting next to her, Tracker, she believed, stared down at her with an amused expression. “Sorry. Was I talking out loud?”

“Yes, ma’am, you were.” He winked, then pointed to himself. “But as you can see, I’m not much of one for conventional thinking, so go right ahead and yammer away.”

Conventional couldn’t be used to describe the man, that was for sure. He had tattoos. Lots of tattoos. They covered his arms and peeked out from the collar of his T-shirt. Then there were the piercings—at least three on his face, two wide gauges in his ears, and who knew what she couldn’t see. Dark hair fanned across his head in an impressive three-inch mohawk. Tracker was the type of man Lance would’ve bristled at on sight and refused to speak to. Yet, he seemed to be the most charismatic and friendly of everyone here.