Page 37 of Welker

Moira simply gave Welker a look.

He smirked. “Is that your ‘someone’s damned clueless’ stare?”

“Got it in one, Vestore,” she answered back.

“Okay, then. New clothes it is. I know it’s not ideal, but will the big box store just outside of town work for finding something? With the MC possibly trolling for you, I don’t think we should be walking down Main Street checking out the boutiques.”

“Agreed,” Moira answered. “And that will be fine.”

What would Welker say if she told him she’d never stepped foot in any of the cute little stores so many of her counterparts frequented? He probably wouldn’t be surprised. Her purchases were normally made at the big chain he’d mentioned, and limited to men’s sweats which he well knew.

Moira bit back a sigh. She still hated shopping in any form, but she could suck it up and make a targeted assault on the women’s clothing department to find something appropriate.

And there was another plus to shopping in the extensive store. “While we’re there, we can also buy food so we don’t have to go to the market in town.”

“Great idea,” Welker agreed. “Problems solved. Now let’s get moving so we can have some fun on our Saturday night.”

Right. Moira barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Fun.

With all the available hands—Moira counted no less than twenty-five teammates who’d volunteered to help—it took less than three hours to clean up all her things. That didn’t, of course, include removing the nasty painted words, but those could wait for later. That particular damage would need some special attention.

As the day wound down, and finally most of the bigger pieces of smashed furniture were tossed, Moira grew a little…sad, realizing that her whole life actually fit into one dumpster. But it was even more depressing that—other than her bird-stuff—none of it meant anything.

Was this really where she was at thirty-four years old?

Maybe it was time for a change; time to stop letting her asshole father dictate how she lived. He’d never thought her worthy of his home and his fortune, but Moira was out from under him now, and had been for a dozen years, so why was she still hearing his voice in her head, issuing his fucked-up edicts? She should be making her own choices, instead of hiding herself away as she’d had to do for so many years. Perhaps her decisions, moving forward, should reflect the person she was, deep inside, instead of the woman she’d been conditioned to be.

It was a scary prospect, but she had a feeling if she opened her heretofore closed door the smallest crack, a lot of her teammates would be walking through…with Welker at the front of the line.

Moira and Welk wrestled the last item—her mangled couch—into the dumpster, and with her mind in a serious state of flux at the finality of it all, she blurted out, “Why are you bothering with me, anyway?”

Oh, fuck. She’d really asked that?

Welker wiped his hands down his jeans. She could tell he was slowly contemplating his answer.

“You want to talk? Here?” he finally asked thoughtfully. “I did mention that we’d be…revisiting things once we were alone.”

How could she forget?

Moira looked around. “I don’t see anybody right now.”

Welker snorted “Seriously? You think what I have to say can be done in a few minutes, next to a dumpster?”

Moira wasn’t going to give up. She’d dared make the first move toward lowering her defenses, and momentum was everything.

“How about a hint, then?” She stared him down, hoping he would give her some kind of clarification. She didn’t know if his newfound interest in her was simply him being altruistic, whether he was playing her for some kind of weird jollies, or if he really, truly…liked her.

Welker took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. You felt it, Moira. I know you did.” His already black irises, darkened.

She knew what he was talking about, and swallowed convulsively.

“There’s something between us,” he continued. “Something I’ve never felt with any woman before you, and it needs to be explored.”

Well, shit. That was unexpected, and as far as Moira could tell—with the team beginning to emerge from the empty house, truncating the moment—Welker was dead serious.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He’d done it.

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