Page 13 of Halfway to Hell
“Yes.”
He smiled and waved the waitress over. “Sweetheart, I think we’re ready to order.”
The waitress walked up, pad in hand, flashing a smile at Texas. “What will you and your daughter have?”
Sunday choked on her coffee. She grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth, clearing her throat. “He’s not my father. He’s not even old enough.”
The waitress’s eyes widened. “Sorry, sugar.”
“It’s fine,” Texas said smoothly, grinning as he leaned back. “My sister hates being mistaken for my daughter, too. Our dad really hates it.”
Noticing the waitress still flustered, Texas gave her an easy smile and rattled off his breakfast order. He listened as Sunday ordered hers, then added, “And we’ll take two club sandwiches to go.”
When the waitress walked off, Texas turned back to Sunday. That comment about being mistaken for his daughter had stuck with him and had him wondering.
“How old are you?”
Sunday set her coffee cup down carefully. “Twenty-one. How old are you?”
God. She was just a kid. “Thirty-five,” he said, trying not to let it show on his face.
The distant rumble of bikes pulling into the lot had Texas leaning back against the booth, trying to get a glimpse out of the window.
He wasn’t wearing his colors—nothing that marked him as a club member. Today, he was just a guy having breakfast. No patch, no business. Still, old habits didn’t die easy.
He couldn’t see who it was, and that didn’t sit right.
Turning back to Sunday, his voice remained casual, but there was something measured behind it.
“Would you mind switching places with me?”
“No, I get it.”
Sunday scooted out of the booth and moved to the other side, letting Texas take the seat facing the door.
She watched as he tied his hair up into a man bun, the move suddenly he shifting him from looking like a member of a rock band or a biker to someone more like a thirty-something tech guy.
Once they settled back into the booth, Sunday decided some small talk wouldn’t hurt. They didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention by seeming too familiar.
She leaned in slightly, voice low. “Do you rescue people a lot?”
He smiled softly. “No, not really. I usually help women with kids get away from abusive situations.”
His eyes flicked to the faded bruises on Sunday’s arm, and he thought maybe it was time to broaden his network.
The bell over the door chimed, pulling his attention away. A group of men walked in—none wearing colors, which told him they were casual riders.
He almost sighed in relief. Texas didn’t need anyone he knew spotting him here in Sudbury. Not yet.
Sitting there, Texas realized he should’ve thought this through better. He should have walked in, paid for her coffee, and ridden out of town. They could’ve eaten in the next town over.
But with Sudbury’s population of a hundred and sixty thousand, he figured he had little to worry about.
Noticing Sunday still waiting for an answer, he finally spoke.
“My family owns an apple orchard. We have a restaurant on the property, with a gift shop attached. I also run a cider mill.”
“That sounds nice,” Sunday said softly.
