Page 11 of Single Mom's Bikers

Owen’s house comes first. I help him out and promise to tell his dad about the PTA meeting. He hugs Violet goodbye like they’ve been friends forever instead of a few days.

The rest of the drive is quieter. Violet crashes against her sister’s shoulder, the late hour finally catching up. Evie watches them in the side mirror, something soft in her expression.

I park in her garage instead of between our houses.

“Need help with them?” I offer as she gathers Violet.

“We’ve got it.” But her tone is gentle now. “Thanks for the castle building. And the rescue.”

“Anytime.” I mean it more than I should.

Daisy leads the way to their door. Evie follows with Violet on her shoulder.

I wait until they’re inside before unloading my bike. Light spills from their windows as I wheel it next door. Through the living room glass, I catch glimpses of their nighttime routine. Evie carrying Violet upstairs. Daisy following with what looks like a stuffed unicorn.

Normal family stuff. Nothing special.

Except it feels special, somehow.

“You’re staring.” Chase’s voice makes me jump. He’s lounging on our porch, cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Admiring the truck.”

“Sure you are.” He exhales smoke. “Bike trouble?”

“Nothing major.” I lean against the porch rail. “You miss the show earlier?”

“What show?”

“Our new neighbor apparently drives a truck bigger than she is.”

Chase’s expression shifts slightly. “Interesting,” he says and pauses before muttering, “We’re so fucked.”

For once, I don’t have a smart-ass reply because he’s right.

Monday’s going to be interesting.

5

EVIE

Two weeksinto working at Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery, and I’ve learned three things about Rick Cross. He drinks his coffee black. He always loosens his tie at exactly six PM. And when he concentrates on paperwork, a muscle ticks in his jaw that makes me think thoughts I shouldn’t.

Tonight’s one of those nights. The gallery closed an hour ago, but quarterly taxes wait for no one. Not even motorcycle club members who moonlight as legitimate businessmen.

“These numbers from last week don’t match.” I tap the spreadsheet on my desk.

Rick appears in my doorway. Sleeves rolled up. “Show me.”

He moves behind my chair, and suddenly, breathing becomes complicated.

“Here.” I point to the discrepancy, hyperaware of his chest inches from my shoulder. “And here. Almost like there are two sets of books.”

His pause tells me everything. Of course there are two sets of books. The gallery might be legitimate, but The Den below us definitely operates in a grayer territory, even if they just claim it to be a high-end bar.

“Good catch.” His voice rumbles close to my ear. “I’ll handle those entries personally.”

In other words,stop looking too closely at certain numbers. Message received.

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