I reached into my purse for my wallet.
“What are you doing?” he said.
I pulled out a couple of bills. Unfortunately, I only had six dollars, and that wasn't going to cover breakfast.
“I’m leaving the tip.” I haughtily notched my chin. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I grabbed my purse and phone and swept from the diner, keeping my head aloft.
Unfortunately, my nose was so high in the air that I didn’t see a waiter coming out of the kitchen.
I knocked into him; his two plates of biscuits and gravy went everywhere.
Including all over me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Town
Ten minutes later, Brooks found me sitting on a bench outside the bank trying to forget about my shame. But I was wearing my shame. Literally. Because it was all over the front of my shirt.
He slid onto the bench next to me.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he said, shattering the tense silence. “I just wanted to help.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of.” My tone was soft, but firm. “My friends have always . . . coddled me. And in the past, I’ve let them. But it’s time I stand on my own. I have to be independent.”
I finally summoned the strength to look at him.
He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Freckles. I’m an older brother. A fixer by nature. It’s what I did for the club. I fixed things.”
I frowned. “Club?”
“I used to be in a motorcycle club. Archer, too.”
“Oh.”
The ink stamped across his skin. An ex-con who’d once been in a motorcycle club. The film of Brooks was slowly developing.
I wanted to ask a dozen questions. About his past. Why he wasn’t in the club anymore. His time in prison.
But I had enough problems on my plate without adding a heaping scoop of bad boy to it.
Even though I was attracted to him. Even though I liked being around him. Even though he made mewantto throw out my new-fangled declaration of independence.
That was the danger.
Because it would be so easy to fall into the same old patterns.
Brooks’ phone chimed with a text.
Saved by the bell.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Milton. Ready to go see him?”
I glanced down at my shirt. “Can I change first?”
“Sure thing.” He looked at me, whiskey eyes earnest. “Forgive me, Freckles?”
