Page 27 of Property of Quake

“I was thinking.”

“Didn’t your mama ever tell you that’s dangerous?”

The question is meant to be playful, I’m sure, but it has the opposite effect. All of my mental walls fall into place, and I straighten in my chair.

“My mom didn’t teach me much of anything other than how not to be a parent,” I say quietly.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Let’s just get back to work, okay?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t argue. If anything, he puts more effort into planning than before. For every potential problem I identify, Quake is quick to verbalize at least three solutions, and by the time we’re done, we have many of the details sorted.

He’s infuriating and… impressive.

“This might actually work,” I say, leaning back and stretching my arms above my head.

“Of course, it’ll work,” he states, his words certain.

I eye him skeptically. “Have you ever actually pulled something like this off because you seem very confident.”

“No, I haven’t,” he admits. “But yes, I am confident.”

“Why?”

He hesitates so long I start to think he’s not going to answer, but then he shrugs. “Because the kids matter.”

It’s a simple statement of fact that brings to mind when he told me that he’s a biker and I’m a nun and those are just facts. This man is genuine in a way I haven’t seen since Ryan.

The tattoos, the rough edges, the cursing, the leather and denim, the faint scars across his skin… those were the things I thought would make the man.

I was wrong.

His actions define him. His interest defines him. The way he’s spent all day trying to make the lives of kids he doesn’t know better defines him.

And that makes him dangerous in a way that shouldn’t even cross a nun’s mind.

I shuffle the scattered papers that encompass our planning session, if for no other reason than to give myself something to do. Once it’s all neat and tidy, I push a stack of pages toward him as we agreed to divide the workload.

Then, I lift my head.

Our eyes meet, and the silence is deafening. The look he’s giving me is impossible to misunderstand, even for me. It’s not inappropriate or even bold. It’s… warm, interested, and it sends my pulse skittering in a way I do not appreciate.

Quake abruptly stands, so I follow suit.

“Well,” I say.

“Well,” he repeats.

I clear my throat. “I suppose we should start reaching out to potential sponsors, local businesses, and anyone el⁠—”

“I’ll get on it as soon as I leave.”

I smile. “Of course, you will.”

He gathers up his lists and heads toward the door. “Oh, Whitney?”

I whirl around. “Yes?”