Page 84 of Never Your Girl

“You wish.”

“Truth.”

He glances at the screen and sums up the message. “Your mom wants to know if she can finally post about her baby girl and her new boyfriend.”

“Oh God.” I drop my head into my hands. “Look what you started.”

His laugh is warm. “Want me to field that one too? I don’t mind.”

“Haven’t you done enough damage for one day?”

“Please, Tate. I haven’t even started yet.” There’s a pause. “Think she’ll regale me with embarrassing childhood stories?”

“I really fucking hope not.”

His grin turns wicked. “Or how about baby pictures? Think I’ll get to ooh and aah over some of those?”

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“Probably.” He leans closer before brushing his lips across mine. “But at least it’ll be entertaining.”

Mom’s texts keep flooding in, each one more excited than the last. Bridger continues to read them, his quiet laughter washing over me, making my lips twitch. I can’t help but wonder exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.

But as I stare into his eyes, I’m finding it harder to remember why that’s necessarily a bad thing.

28

Bridger

If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be sitting on a wobbly diner stool in a podunk bar in the middle of nowhere, waiting to meet Holland Tate’s mother and her biker boyfriend, I’d have laughed them out of the room.

And yet, here I am, scanning the laminated menu in front of me while trying not to focus on how Holland’s knee keeps brushing mine under the counter, each touch sending jolts of electricity through my veins.

It’s the oddest sensation.

One I haven’t quite come to grips with.

“Having second thoughts about forcing your way into this?” Holland’s voice is low and teasing, but I catch the underlying tension woven throughout it. She shifts on her stool, her thigh pressing against mine before she catches herself and moves away. “You don’t seem nearly as smug as earlier.”

“Please.” I lean closer, drawn to her warmth. “I can’t wait to meet Mama Tate. I’ve been looking forward to it for days.”

“Is that so?” She arches a brow, and damn if that doesn’t do things to me. “Because you’re gripping that menu like it’s a shield.”

I force my fingers to relax. “Just trying to decide between the heart attack special and the cholesterol bomb. Thoughts?”

Holland shakes her head. “Ah, yes, the famous hockey player appetite. I’m just as impressed by how much you can put away as I am revolted by it.”

“I seem to remember someone joining me for that midnight study break feast last night. There weren’t any complaints when I fried us up a couple eggs and turkey bacon.” The memory of her laughing over the impromptu breakfast, more relaxed than I’d ever seen her, makes my chest tighten. Her guard had dropped, and it had been nice to joke around and learn more about her life.

Her lips curve into a genuine smile. “That was different. Late-night study sessions require sustenance.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Better than calling it the truth, which was avoiding my marketing project.”

The bell above the diner door jingles, and Holland stills beside me. A woman with auburn hair sweeps in like a hurricane in leather, wearing what appears to be a motorcycle jacket two sizes too big, and sporting a smile that’s equal parts mischief and mayhem. I take a closer look and realize there’s a gap in her smile.

Beside her is a burly man, who looks exactly like someone named Jigsaw should look. All beard, bulging biceps, and tattoos inked across every inch of available skin.

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