Page 29 of The Fire We Crave

Bones races up with his ball in his mouth and drops it at Shane’s feet. The prospect patiently picks it up and tosses it way farther than I ever could.

Letting the two of them play, I dash inside and grab the laundry basket full of wet clothes.

Smoke and I should have discussed ground rules in a little more detail. But laundry was a part of my help, so I went into his room and gathered everything I could.

Going through his pockets was probably a violation, but I didn’t find anything especially interesting. Cigarettes and three silver lighters, all square, with different patterns on them. One had an engraved skull, another a red firetruck, and one had the nameSmokeon the front, and the Iron Outlaws logo on the back.

But I’ve read enough motorcycle club romances that I was a bit disappointed. I thought there were going to be worn panties, used condom wrappers, and at least two weapons.

Although, how would I have felt if I’d found some other woman’s underwear in his pockets that wasn’t mine?

“You would have been just fine,” I mutter beneath my breath as I step out onto the back porch. Because I refuse to catch feelings for a motorcycle club road captain. I think I need to stop reading Mafia and motorcycle club romance books because they’re putting ideas in my head that don’t belong there.

Or maybe it’s all the testosterone I’m surrounded by and the absence of any real dating possibilities.

“You want some lemonade, Shane?” I ask as I pass him on the way to the washing line.

He wipes a hand over his brow. “Would love some.”

“Give me two seconds to put this down, and I’ll go get you some.”

Shane puts the portable drill he just used back in its case. “You deal with that.” He tips his head in the direction of the laundry. “I can pour my own, if you don’t mind.”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

I reach into the basket and grab the first T-shirt. It’s black with the name of some band I don’t recognize on it. I shake it out and hang it on the line using some pegs I brought from home. Nothing quite instills the feeling of being a household goddess like pegging clothes out to dry in the sunshine.

Tires on the gravel driveway make my heart race in panic. I have no recollection of the sound of tires the night my bakery was broken into, but now I’m obsessed with the early warning I shouldn’t have missed.

And the sound of them sends so much adrenaline careening through my veins that my hands shake violently.

“It’s just Smoke.” The voice shouts from inside the house, and I take a deep breath, grateful for Shane’s words. He’s gotten used to my need for early warnings.

At some point in the future, I hope I will stop overreacting to everything, but today isn’t that day. I focus on the leaves of thetree and the way the sun is falling through the dappled shade in miniature rays to calm myself.

“Thanks,” I yell, forcing myself to reach for the next T-shirt. I fumble the peg, and it drops to the ground, so I bend to collect it.

When I stand, Smoke marches around the side of the house, his face like thunder. His eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed. And he’s scanning the garden like he’s looking for a grizzly bear.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Where is the fucking prospect?” His words are filled with venom.

There’s a cut across his cheek and dirt smeared into sweat on his face. He’s holding his side with his palm spread wide open. I can’t tell if he’s holding himself together or holding his dressing in place.

My heart rate escalates.

Again.

I’m not sure whether it’s him or the intensity of his arrival.

“I’m here, Smoke. What’s up?” Shane says as he steps down from the porch. He has a big smile on his face. It’s the same one he had when Atom and Ember came over one night. He’s slightly in awe of the patched-in members and wants to be useful.

When he takes the last step, he takes a sip of the lemonade I made this morning. It’s smooth and sweetened with just the perfect amount of simple syrup. Mom always used to say that good lemonade was all about the perfect balance of lemon and sugar.

Smoke strides over to him and smashes the drink out of his hand, sending the lemonade flying and the glass tumbling onto the grass. “You were getting lemon-fucking-ade?”

I can see the horror on Shane’s face when he realizes Smoke is violently angry. “Yeah. Is that a problem? I’m sorry. Should I not go in your house?”

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