Page 33 of Single Mom's Bikers

Evie’s eyes find mine. “Did he now?”

“I should call my brothers.” Let them know why their office manager won’t be in early tomorrow. “They’ll want to know she’s okay.”

Something soft crosses Evie’s face. “Thank you. For everything.”

I leave them to their reunion, stepping into the hall to call home.

Tonight has changed things.

We all have scars. Some just show more than others.

12

ZANE

“Does it hurt?”I touch the tiny scar on Violet’s forehead. Doc Jensen did good work—in a few months, you’ll barely see it.

“Nope!” She bounces on her toes, ice cream dripping down her cone. “Can we build the star-watching fort now?”

Two weeks since that night hospital run, and she’s already plotting her next adventure. The kid’s got more guts than sense. Reminds me of someone.

“First, show me what you’ve got for your homework.” I settle at their kitchen table while she runs for her backpack.

Violet returns with an armload of papers and glitter. “Look! I drew my family!”

“That for your class?” I examine her drawings. The kid’s got talent.

“Uh-huh. Miss Anna says we have to draw our favorite people.”

“Which is why”—Daisy appears with her own notebook—“I’m helping her write everyone’s names under the pictures.”

I hide my grin. Trust Daisy to turn her sister’s art project into a writing lesson.

“Show me your plans.”

For the next hour, I help Violet practice writing names while Daisy works on her math homework.

Violet wants to use glitter for all the letters. Daisy insists on showing her the proper way to write each one.

“Can I make them purple?”

“Only if you finish your whole alphabet first.” Evie sets fresh cookies on the table.

“Deal?”

“Deal!” both girls chorus.

As I watch them, something in my chest aches. My own childhood memories involve broken promises and empty chairs at dinner. This—homework, cookies, and casual touches—feels like something from someone else’s life.

“Uncle Zane?” Violet tugs my sleeve. “Will you help me practice how to draw better?”

“After dinner,” Evie says firmly. “Go wash up, both of you.”

When they’re gone, she touches my shoulder. “Thank you. For being here these past weeks.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.” Too honest, maybe. But true.

Her hand lingers. Neither of us mentions how close we’re standing or how easy it would be to…

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