Strong and Steady

She invited me into her home instead of wanting a fancy dinner. She was standing in front of me, her hair unstyled and wet, no makeup. No high heels. No pretense. I could see her, the real Emory, clearly. “The effect you have on people.”

She glanced away, and I saw a flush creep up her neck.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the broken lights?” I asked, realizing I was bothered she hadn’t told me about it although that was somewhat ridiculous s

ince we barely knew each other. I felt possessive toward her, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Protective, too.

She rolled her eyes, taking a lid off of another container. “It’s just kids, and I didn’t think it was important.”

I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of anyone fucking with Emory, even if it was just kids. “Clearly Quake thought it was important enough to send over his son to fix it.”

“Quake, is it? You two are on a first name basis?”

I put a plate in front of her. “Never met, but I know of him. Just like people know who I am.”

“I assume Frankie told you why he brought food and fixed my lights?”

“Yeah.”

She opened another entree. Spaghetti and meatballs. Some red sauce got on her thumb, and she licked it off. “He was just being courteous.”

Perhaps, but Quake Baker wasn’t known for being courteous, and they did more in Brant Valley than run a diner. While they weren’t typical one percenters, the outlaw gangs who dealt in everything from prostitution to drugs, they weren’t Boy Scouts either. From what Frankie told me before Emory got home, his father was shrewd enough to offer protection where needed. While I was reassured to know she fell under the man’s sights and clearly under his protection—and that of an entire motorcycle club—I wasn’t excited about the fact that the old man thought she needed it.

“Did they knock out anyone else’s lights?”

She frowned, but when she did it, a cute little V formed at her brow. “I don’t think so.”

Why would someone just screw with her? “Do you have lights in back?”

She took off the lid of the last container, Greek salad. The guy’d sent her a little bit of everything. “Yes, motion sensors.”

“Did they knock those out as well?”

That gave her pause, and she looked to me. “I don’t know. I never go out the back because there’s no parking.” She went over to the back door, flipped the deadbolt and opened it. She looked up and to the right where I assumed was an outdoor light, but I was looking down in front of her.

I grabbed her arm and pulled her back, not wanting her to step out onto her stoop in her bare feet. “Careful.” I indicated with my chin the broken bulb on the steps.

She sighed wearily as she looked down at the shards of glass, closed and flipped the deadbolt back into place. Turning, she leaned back against the door as if she was too worn out to keep herself up. Perhaps she was. Two twelve hour shifts in a row had to be exhausting. She had no one to help her around the house anymore, even if it was just a teenager doing chores. A broken lightbulb wasn’t a difficult task to clean up, but she didn’t need to deal with some punk kid’s pranks, especially after working all day. “I’ll deal with it on Thursday when I’m off.”

No, she wouldn’t. I’d see it done, but I knew she’d bicker, so I said nothing more about it. “I think Jackson has a crush on you.” So do I.

She grinned, and I loved seeing her smile. “Yes, well, he’s going to have to stand in line.”

I took a step closer and put the Bakers and broken lightbulbs out of my mind. “Oh, why’s that?”

She licked her lips and damned if I didn’t almost come in my pants. My eyes dropped to her mouth and wondered what she tasted like. “There’s this other guy,” she whispered, and her eyes lowered.

“Oh?” I had to touch her, so I ran a finger down the length of her bare arm and felt goose bumps rise. My breathing became uneven, the ache and need to taste her was so strong. “What about him?”

I breathed in the scent of her, all damp skin and coconut shampoo. Fuck, I’d never be able to go on a tropical vacation again without thinking of her.

“He said—he said I would know when I wanted to kiss him.”

“And?” I leaned in closer, close enough where I felt her breath on my cheek.

“He also said I wouldn’t be nervous.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

I arched a brow. What would I do if she didn’t want to kiss me? I’d back away, but it would be one of the hardest fucking things I’d ever had to do. I also worried that once I had a taste of her, I wouldn’t be able to let her go. “Are you?”