“Are your parents still around?”
“Nah, they both passed a long time ago. No other family.” His tone was nonchalant. His expression was not. Despite the sunlight shining brightly into the car, shadows darkened his handsome face.
I wanted to ask what was going on inside his head.
I wanted to know what memory had made his brows pinch together, his jaw clench, and his hold on the steering wheel tighten until his knuckles turned white.
But unless it was something with the case—and I doubted it was—it was none of my business, so I kept silent.
His reaction was gone just as fast. “What about yours?”
Shit. I’d tried to switch topics off me, forgetting that Rhys was… well, Rhys. Of course there would be reciprocal questions.
I suddenly miss the chatty perv from yesterday who just wanted to talk about himself.
And grope me.
Okay, I don’t miss him. Just the narcissism.
Since he’d shared, I couldn’t exactly dodge his question. “My mom passed. My dad is still alive and hoarding lemon cookies.”
“Piper does a lemon bar cookie that’s unreal. Bet she’d make you some.”
“If I bring him something from her, it’ll be game over. He’ll never accept the store-bought stuff again.” It was all vague, but I was toeing that line again. I pivoted the conversation to move on. “Hollywood hyped up this dinner, but taste is subjective. Should I temper my expectations?”
“I’m not saying.”
My food hopes are dashed.
At least, they were until I saw his smirk.
I eyed him. “Why?”
“’Cause if I tell you the truth, you’ll kick my ass out of the car while it’s still moving to get my portion, too.”
“I’m failing to see the problem.”
He gave me a lazy smile and then jerked his chin toward the windshield. “Too late.”
Whoa.
I’d been to calls at a few biker clubhouses before, mostly because of an injury or drunken escapade. Contrary to what movies and TV showed, they weren’t all elaborate million-dollar compounds or rundown shacks filled with nonstop sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. I’d seen bars that doubled as clubhouses. A cabin in the woods. Even a small chain of motorcycle dealerships owned and operated by a club that met at the main location.
I’d never seen a secluded old church as a clubhouse, though.
“I’m pretty sure half of all horror movies start like this,” I said. “I was joking about leaving you in the woods, but if a creepy nun ghost pops out of a pew, I will trip you and keep running.”
“Noted,” he said. “Fucked up, but noted.”
I shrugged. “My oath to serve and protect doesn’t include a clause about ghosts.”
When I made no move to unbuckle, he reached over and did it for me.
Hot.
Why is that hot?
When I continued not making moves of any kind, he prompted, “Ready?”
