Page 9 of Her Outlaw Biker
Right?
I glance at the door, then back at him—at the man who terrifies me, confuses me, unsettles me in ways no man ever has. There’s something in his eyes beneath the steel…something hollow and quiet, like he’s waiting for me to lie again. Waiting for me to prove I’m just like the rest.
But he hasn’t thrown me out.
He hasn’t tied me up or threatened me or turned me in. And that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.
I don’t trust him. Ican’ttrust him.
So why the hell do I feel safer in this storm-soaked trailer with a killer than I ever did in my own home?
“I’m tired,” I say, hugging the blanket tighter. “And cold. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
He nods once, like he expected that. “So stay.”
The words are simple. But the weight of them settles deep inside my gut.
I swallow hard. “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”
He meets my eyes, a small smile tugging at his full lips. “Maybe I will. Pretty blondes make for a good breakfast.”
Chapter Four
Ghost
She blinks at me, lips parted like she’s not sure whether to be scared or amused.
“I’m joking,” I say quietly, watching her face. “Mostly.”
I love how expressive her eyes are, how you can literally see her thoughts flash across her face. In these parts of the world, it’s rare to see people who wear their emotions on their sleeves.
She’s looking at me like I’m some sort of alien, and her face twists in a half scowl, half confused glare. “You’re not funny.”
“I didn’t say I was.” I push off the doorframe and move slow across the room, giving her time to bolt if she’s got the urge. She doesn’t move. Good. “You hungry?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah.”
I turn around, ignoring the tightness in my chest. Damn—I can’t seem to focus with her wearing my shirt. It’s distracting as hell. Too soft, too intimate. Like some part of me that’s always been locked down is now just…unclenched. I didn’t plan on offering her clothes, didn’t plan on her staying long enough to need them. But now she’s in the middle of my space, wearing something that smells like me, and it’s doing things to my head I don’t like.
Makes me think about what she’s got on underneath. If anything…
Makes me think about what it would feel like to press her up against the wall, fist that loose fabric in my hands, and learn every damn sound she makes when she stops trying to act so tough.
I shake it off and head to the counter, grabbing a pan with more force than necessary.
“You like chicken noodle?”
“I’m not picky,” she mutters sourly, and I glance back just in time to catch her shivering again. She’s trying so damn hard to stay guarded, but that blanket ain’t armor, and neither is attitude.
I put the soup on the stove and turn on the heat. Silence stretches between us like a taut rope, but she doesn’t look away. So I break it first.
“Now tell me,” I say, turning to face her, arms folded loosely, “why did a mechanic’s daughter from Rust Creek show up on a beat-up bike, in the middle of the damn desert, looking for a ghost?”
She blinks up at me in shock. “How did you—”
“Come on,” I say, keeping my voice soft but firm. “You think I didn’t clock you the second you passed out on my property?” I nod toward her boots. “Steel-toe dust. Rust Creek grit. Grease under your nails, calluses on your palms. You handle more torque wrenches than lip gloss, sweetheart.”
She blinks, thrown off. “Okay, creepy much?”
