Page 11 of Marked by the Protective Biker

She nods her head. “Yes, I’m sure.”

I gesture up her driveway. “I’ll follow you.”

She turns and slowly walks toward her house. She stops and waves at her neighbor. “Hey, Allen, how’s it going?”

The neighbor smiles at Emily and then gives me a dirty look. I’m waiting on him to ask if I’m bothering her when Emily continues. She points at me over her shoulder. “This is my friend, Jack. Jack, this is my friend and neighbor, Allen.”

The older man glares up and down at me. I wait for the threat or something hateful, but he just nods his head. “Well, any friend of Emily’s is a friend of mine.” He walks to the fence and holds his hand out. I’m surprised to say the least, but I stride to the fence and put my hand in his. To his credit, he doesn’t stare at my tattoos. He nods his head. “Well, I’ll let you young people get to it.”

He turns to go but then stops. “Hey, so those other two gentlemen on bikes, they your friends?”

I almost laugh. This is probably the first time the prospects have been called gentlemen. “Yeah, they’re my friends.” And because I like this guy, I gesture toward Emily. “I worry about her working at the prison, and I have them keep an eye out for her when I can’t.”

As soon as I say it, I know I’ve said too much. All this time I’m telling myself, I’m telling Emily and everyone else that I’m no good for her and then I pretty much let her neighbor think we’re together. Before I can take it back, Allen is nodding his head. “Good, good. If they need backup, just let me know.” He points at his chest. “Retired Marine.”

I give him a nod. “Thank you for your service.”

He walks up to his porch, and I follow Emily into her house. I look around her living room, and it’s exactly how I picturedit. It’s feminine and cozy, everything Emily. She slides off her shoes by the door and walks farther into the house. “Do you like spaghetti?”

“Honey, it’s been so long since I’ve had a home cooked meal, I’ll eat anything.”

She looks at me sadly, and I hate that I put that look on her face. “Hey, don’t do that. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

She sucks in a breath and then walks over to the kitchen. “Okay, so I already have sauce in the freezer. It will only take me fifteen minutes.”

I slide off my cut and lay it on the back of the couch then walk to the island in her kitchen. “I’m sorry.”

She’s pulling pans out and working on the meal but looks at me in confusion. “What are you sorry for?”

I walk around the island. I should keep my space from her, but I can’t just stand here while she works. I don’t answer her question because I have a lot to be sorry for. “Put me to work. What can I do?”

She looks at me like she’s trying to read my mind or something and then seems to give up. She points to the freezer. “Can you get the garlic bread out and put it on the pan?”

I do what she asks, and we work side by side. It’s all very domestic, and I’m waiting for the unease to hit. This has never been my thing, but right now I can feel myself enjoying it, and even though I should keep myself guarded, I don’t want to.

“So tell me about the piece you did today.”

My eyes raise. “The piece?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I looked up the slang. That’s what it’s called when you do a tattoo, right?”

I nod, feeling pleased that she wants to try and learn more about what I do. So for the next little bit, while we work side by side, I tell her about the tattoo I did for Miller. She hangs on every word I say, and before I realize it, we’re laughing, talking, and smiling at each other as if we could actually have a future together.

CHAPTER 8

EMILY

“What are you sorry for?”

We’re halfway through dinner, and I can’t stop myself from asking him again. He never answered me before.

He wipes his mouth with his napkin and then puts a hand to his belly. “This was so good, Emily. Thank you for dinner.”

I try not to show my disappointment. I guess he’s not going to answer me. “You’re welcome. You know, anytime, I’ll cook for you. Or we can cook together. You helped a lot.”

He sits back in his chair and stares at me. I fidget in my seat under his scrutiny. When he finally opens his mouth, I hold on to the edge of my seat, waiting for his words. “The reason I said I was sorry is because I shouldn’t have let your neighbor think we were together.”

I open my mouth and then close it. “Oh, uh, is that what you were going to say earlier? You’re sorry for that?”

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