Page 10 of Single Mom's Bikers

“We can give you a ride.” Violet bounces on her toes. “Right, Mama? Owen, too!”

“That’s not—” I start, but she’s already dragging Owen toward a truck I hadn’t noticed before. It’s a big Ford F-150, dark blue, and looks too much like a machine for someone Evie’s size. How didn’t I notice this back in the neighborhood? She must have had it hidden in her garage.

“It’s no trouble.” Evie pulls out her keys. “We can fit the bike in the back.”

“You drive that?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyebrow rises. “Something wrong with that?”

“No, just…” I eye the truck again. “Surprising.”

“I’m full of surprises, Mr. Cross.” She moves toward the driver’s side. “Coming?”

Like hell am I letting her drive my bike anywhere. “I’ll drive.”

She stops, keys dangling. “It’s my truck.”

“It’s my bike.”

“Children present,” Daisy reminds us primly, making Owen snicker.

Evie and I stare each other down. The kids watch like it’s a tennis match, heads swiveling between us.

“Bet Mama wins,” Violet stage-whispers to Owen. “She always does.”

That startles a laugh out of Evie, breaking our standoff. “Tell you what—you can drive if you can get your bike started in the next thirty seconds.”

I try the ignition again. Nothing. Fuck.

“That’s what I thought.” She tosses her keys at me anyway. “But since your ego’s involved, go ahead. Just don’t scratch my paint—she’s new.”

I snort. The truck clearly isn’t new. It’s got character—scratches with stories, mud from roads I bet weren’t on any map. Like its owner, there’s more here than first glance shows.

Loading the bike takes teamwork. The kids “supervise” from the cab, faces pressed against the back window. Evie knows her way around tie-downs, which is another surprise I wasn’t expecting.

The drive home feels surreal. Owen and Violet chat nonstop in the back seat while Daisy reads by dome light. Evie rides shotgun, giving directions as if she didn’t just move into town.

“Turn here,” she says at an intersection.

“I know where we live.”

“Just making sure you don’t get lost with my truck.”

“You always this much of a backseat driver?”

“Only with strange men driving my vehicle.”

“Strange?” I press a hand to my chest in mock hurt. “I’m wounded.”

She snorts, but there’s a smile playing around her mouth. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Cross.”

“Zane,” I correct her. “Mr. Cross is my brother.”

“Which one?”

“All of us, technically.”

That gets me a real laugh. It changes her whole face and makes her look younger and less guarded.

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