Page 26 of Property of Quake

Moving to the chair behind the desk, I sit. “You can, um…” I lick my lips. “You can call me Whitney.”

What are you doing?!

His eyes widen for a split-second before he masks his surprise. “Whitney… I like it. It suits you.”

“I’d hope so since it’s the name I was given at birth,” I quip, suddenly nervous. I open the folder and pull out our list from last time. “Now, we really need to focus. Your donation last time was wonderful,” I say, referring to the thousand dollars he tossed on the floor. “But it won’t last long.”

“Wait, there’s still some of that money left?”

I lift my head. “Of course. We’re frugal, Quake. We know how to stretch a dollar. What we don’t know how to do is get to the point where we don’t have to stretch it out of sheer panic.”

His expression grows serious. “Then we should get to work.”

The next forty-five minutes pass in a blur. I don’t know what I expected of this biker: abject disinterest, at worst, and polite participation, at best maybe. What I do know is with every minute that goes by, he surprises me.

Quake is a man who gives himself fully to whatever task is in front of him. Whether it’s comforting a hurting child, promising to find a dog, or planning a way for Sacred Haven to operate in the black, he throws himself into it like he’s solely responsible.

“What about a community carnival?” he suggests.

“A carnival?”

“Yeah. Families come, local businesses can sponsor booths, kids get activities, and best of all… all proceeds go to Sacred Haven.” He leans forward as if leaning into the idea itself. “We can get food trucks, bouncy houses, and the club can give motorcycle rides to the kids.”

“We don’t have the space for something like that.”

“What about the field on the west side of the property? It’s fucking massive.”

I heave a sigh. “It is large,” I concede. “But it floods when it rains and then takes days to dry out. What if it rains in the weeks and days leading up to the event?”

“Then we rent equipment to get the water pumped out and flooring to cover the mud.”

A snort escapes me. “With what money?”

He glares at me. “I didn’t take you for a quitter.”

I glare right back, irritated by his assessment. “I don’t quit.”

“Then you better get to writing this shit down because this is the best idea we’ve come up with.”

“And the most childish,” I mutter.

“The most fun,” he corrects, causing me to smile.

We spend the next hour making a to-do list for the carnival we’ve apparently already decided we’re having. Several times during our conversation, I catch him looking at me, and each time, my stomach flutters.

His looks are casual. His attention isn’t accidental. It’s as if he’s really looking at me, Whitney, not Sister Emiliani, the nun he’s been forced to work with. I try to convince myself I’m imagining things, but by the fifth such look, my cheeks are warm, and I have no doubt very red.

Feigning extreme interest in our projected budget, I focus all my attention on the papers in front of me. I don’t know how long I pretend to read and review the numbers, but it must be a while because Quake taps the paper with a pen.

“Earth to Whitney.”

I blink as I glance up. “What?”

His laughter rumbles through the room. “You’ve been staring at that blank page for five damn minutes.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have,” he counters.