Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC 8)

“He’s mowing my lawn,” I replied, ignoring the coffee and pouring rosé into two glasses. It was after three on a Sunday, plus I wasn’t alone. It was allowed.

“I see that,” she replied, grinning in approval. “But why is he mowing it?”

“Because he got first-hand knowledge of how terrible I am at doing outdoor chores and took it upon himself to save our lawn,” I quipped.

Gwen raised her brows as she took her glass. “He did that out of the goodness of his heart?”

I shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Honey, these guys are a lot of things. Good isn’t one. I’m not saying they’re bad, there’s just no black and white with them. You know better than anyone.”

I bit my lip. “Well, maybe he feels guilty that the only reason he’s here is because my husband is dead.”

Gwen flinched ever so slightly. My tone was harsh. Cruel.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she snapped, her eyes tiny slits. “I see you holding all this stuff in. It isn’t healthy. You’re trying so hard to keep it together when this is the one time in life when you can fall apart. You have to. What happened broke you. There’s no hiding that. You don’t have to. Especially around your friends.”

My throat thickened with Gwen’s words, the kindness and love in her eyes. “Okay,” I choked out. “But for now, can we just drink wine and talk about something else?”

“Always,” she agreed, clinking her glass with mine. “And I’m here,” she added. “We all are.”

I smiled at her like her words made a difference.

They really, really didn’t.Chapter 7Two Weeks Later“You’re a little dressed up for a movie night,” I said, looking Amy up and down. She looked how she always looked... fabulous. I had yet to see the woman in sweatpants or anything stained with spit up or any other stains that served as evidence that you’re a mother.

I was pretty sure she was a very powerful witch.

But the skintight, white dress—showing no evidence she’d ever had a child—and six-inch green heels with ties that crawled up her legs was dressy, even for her. She also had on what I was pretty sure was a real emerald choker and matching earrings. Her hair was teased into a messy bun, with just the right amount of red curls escaping.

“We’re not having a movie night,” she replied, leaning in to the mirror to apply her lipstick.

My kids had already run into their large family room, where Brock was with their son Hendrix. Jack and Lily loved all of their ‘cousins’ equally and all of their ‘uncles’, but they definitely loved being at Brock and Amy’s, hanging out with Hendrix. Mostly because Amy let them run wild, do whatever they liked, and Brock had boundless energy to play with them. They also loved going to Gwen and Cade’s by the ocean to play with their kids. Isabella was a few years younger than Lily, but they were still friends. Kingston younger still, but he was impossible not to love. Jack considered himself their protector, and I wondered what might happen when they all grew into young adults. With all the kids and their excellent genes, there was bound to be some romances that each of the respective fathers would likely hate.

“The kids are staying here with the hubby. We are having a girl’s night,” Amy declared.

Her eyes flickered to my outfit. I’d dressed for a movie night. Granted, a movie night with Amy, but still.

Earlier, I’d decided I to mask all my sadness and sorrow with a biker babe chic style somewhat inspired by Evie. I’d kind of been a biker babe before, but biker babe lite. I’d decided to really going to lean into it now, even though my biker husband was gone. My jeans were tight, faded and distressed. I was wearing low-heeled, black ankle boots, a wide belt with a silver hammered buckle, and a faded Harley Davidson tee. Various necklaces were slung around my neck, the one tucked under my shirt holding Ranger’s wedding ring. I still wore mine on my finger. I figured I’d take it off when Lily was old enough and I’d give it to her. If she wanted it. Maybe I’d do a crappy job raising her, she’d grow up to hate me and refuse to wear the ring her father—the one she most likely wasn’t going to remember—gave me as a symbol of our love.

My hair was up in a bun like Amy’s, but mine was messy and didn’t exactly have the same effect. I had some makeup on, if only to cover up the sleepless nights and general grief that was imprinted into my skin, making it look sallow, pale and lackluster.

Definitely not enough glam for a girl’s night with some of the most beautiful women in Amber, if not the country.