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“I think—when I get back home, can I see you?”
He hadn’t answered the question, and she was not about to let that slip by. “What do you think it means, Duncan?”
“I think I want ...”
Another pause. This was stupid guy behavior, trying not to put himself out there too far, and she hated it—but then, she was doing the same thing, wasn’t she? Trying to protect herself? Of course, she had put herself out farther than he had already, so it was only fair that he inch his way toward her.
At last, he did. “I really like you, Phoebe. I think I want to try to be something together. If you do, I mean.”
Her life was on the brink of disaster. The smart thing—the sane thing—would be to say no, not right now. She needed to focus on saving the ranch, if that was even possible. And if it wasn’t, she would need to figure out a whole new life she couldn’t begin to visualize yet.
But she felt so much better, so much clearer, talking to him, and she really did like him. He had done nothing to suggest he was dangerous to her—even fucking other girls hadn’t been a harm, despite the hurt she felt. Duncan had been only ever a help and a comfort.
She didn’t want to need him, or to use him, but if having him close gave her strength, that wasn’t a bad thing. Right?
“Come see me when you get home,” she said.
“Yeah?” Again, there was so much pleasure in his voice, Phoebe felt it reach out and touch her from California.
“Yeah. And Duncan?”
“Yeah?”
“Now it would be cheating. Just to be clear. From now.”
“Understood.” It wasn’t exactly pleasure in his tone now, but it was something warm and deep and comforting.
It was hope, she realized.
Exactly what she needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Duncan and his father rode through the heart of Eureka with their coats over their kuttes. A few blocks from the ocean—or the bay, whatever it was—they arrived at their destination, a little diner next to a Best Western. They parked their bikes in the crowded lot and went in.
The interior of the diner was like most of the probably hundreds of diners Duncan had been in. Bikers, outlaw or otherwise, generally had an encyclopedic understanding of diners, truck stops, and dive bars, and this one was a textbook-worthy example. No fake Fifties vibe like all the Mel’s Diners out here in California, cashing in on a fifty-year-old movie and a seventy-years-gone era. This one—named for a woman who probably was, or had been, the owner or related to the owner—was a real diner, where real people ate. Weary and rundown, stained carpet, water-spotted ceiling, the laminate worn down on the counters and tabletops, duct tape patches on the booth benches. And the best goddamn aromas of breakfast one could conjure.
