Page 23 of Heart of Stone
I need to shut this down. Fast. “Listen, I appreciate everyone’s help, but?—”
A crash from the front yard interrupts me, followed by twin screams of delight.
“That’s my cue,” I sigh, heading for the door. But Hawk is already moving, his long stride eating up the distance.
“I got it,” he growls.
I watch him go, trying—and failing—to ignore how his ass looks in those jeans.
“Don’t fight it, honey,” Ginger says softly beside me. “Sometimes you need to let people help.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Yeah, you do. And that’s okay.” Ginger squeezes my shoulder. “Now come on, let’s get you settled while the boys do the heavy lifting.”
I let her lead me through the house, trying to convince myself this is temporary.
It’s just for three days. What could possibly happen in three days?
Ginger gives me the full tour, starting at the entry and walking me through the clubhouse room by room.
The bones of the old farmhouse still linger, sturdy and proud, despite the renovations that have transformed it into something far more imposing. To the right of the entry is the garage, which backs onto the main bedroom. Down the hall and to the left are two bedrooms, a full bath, and another bedroom. It’s in the front two bedrooms where the prospects place me and the kids. My bedroom is simple–a queen bed with a built-in closet and small desk. There’s no room for a crib, so the kids are in the next door bedroom, their space slightly cramped with furniture but secure.
The original structure ended just past the hall. The main bedroom, now Hawk’s, was once the heart of the home—the kitchen and dining area, if the old brickwork behind the bed is anything to go by. There’s still a deep farmhouse sink built into one corner and it makes the space feel rooted. Lived-in. His personal space is massive, fitted with blackout curtains and a king-sized bed.
The final bedroom in the hall, now a guest room, was originally the lounge. The exposed beams in the ceiling and the scuffed hardwood floors are reminders of what it once was.
The ground floor was expanded when the previous owners blew out the back wall, creating a sprawling lounge and sitting area, expansive deck, and two additional rear bedrooms and bathrooms. The extension feels both modern and grounded, as if it was always meant to be there.
The leather furniture is worn but comfortable, and a massive sectional dominates the space, facing a large stone fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the early morning light, while double doors open onto a back deck.
The kitchen and dining area have been pushed into the new extension, sleek and industrial with dark granite counters, a massive butcher block island, and steel appliances that gleam under the soft lighting. A long wooden farmhouse dining table, scarred and well-used, sits nearby, clearly built for feeding a crowd.
There’s another hall at the rear of the dining room which leads through to yet another set of guest bedrooms neatly tucked away. These are cozy but simple, with a queen bed, a window overlooking the yard.
Up a set of gorgeous wooden stairs, the second floor feels entirely different. The modern renovation extends upward, designed for VIPs—visiting MC chapter presidents, allied clubs, or people the club’s protecting. A great room with a second kitchen, a formal meeting room, and two large guest suites dominate the level. The guest suites have private sleeping areas, sitting rooms, and ensuites—comfortable, but still carrying that hard-edged, practical style. There’s also a small meeting room, an office, two small bedrooms, another bath and a water closet. But its the library that holds my interest, surprising me with its well-stocked shelves heavy with both worn paperbacks andhardcovers. I could get lost up there for days if anyone would let me.
And then there’s the attic. It’s a fortress—there’s no other word for it.
The space feels older and less touched despite the additions below it. But even here there are signs of the MC. A panic room hidden behind steel, a solid safe and spare armory built for protection.
“Just in case,” Ginger says with a laugh as she shows me how to enter the panic room.
Beyond the house, the property sprawls across acres of land running the full length of the block. Trees ring the boundary, and yards of green grass, built up beds, and outbuildings dot the land.
The barracks, a converted barn, sits a short walk from the main farmhouse. It’s rougher, less refined, and is where the prospects and lower-ranking members sleep. The scent of motor oil, sweat and sawdust lingers there. Practical. Crowded. Temporary.
The chapel, a smaller outbuilding, is off to the east, the windows double glazed and tinted.
“Don’t go in there,” Ginger warns as we stroll past. “That’s for club members only.”
The day rushes by in a chaotic shamble of moving furniture, cleaning out the fridge, and entertaining tiny humans. By the time I get them fed, bathed, and into bed, I’m utterly exhausted.
Closing the door gently on the kids’ room, I tiptoe down the hall and out onto the back deck. The large yard is silent, the cool of the night having long since settled in.
The house feels different at night. Quieter, but with an undercurrent of tension that has nothing to do with the movie night happening in the garage.
I sit on the back deck, nursing a beer and listening to the baby monitor. The twins crashed hard after their exciting day of being spoiled rotten by bikers. Even Adam went down easily, probably worn out from being passed between Ginger and what feels like half the club’s female population.
