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Home was me and Josie.
Now home is a huge old house on a hill where there are usually motorcycle parts on the back porch, toys scattered across rooms that were probably once considered formal, and the man I love snoring beside me.
I open my eyes and stare at Striker.
He’s on his back with one arm thrown over his head. The sheet is sitting low on his hips and his chest is bare. I should probably be used to seeing him like this by now, but I’m not. My eyes slowly travel over his chest, taking in all the tattoos I’ve become familiar with over the last couple of months.
Then his lips twitch. “You gonna keep starin’ or climb on top of me?”
I roll my eyes. “You were asleep.”
“Nope.”
“You were snoring,” I say.
“That proves nothin’.” One blue eye opens. “Maybe I was restin’ my eyes.”
“You were resting your lungs very loudly.”
His other eye opens. “Smart-ass.”
I smile and turn onto my side. Life with Striker isn’t exactly what I imagined for myself. Mostly because I never imagined anything like this was possible. I had a permanent reminder of him in the form of my daughter, but after he accused me of spying on the club I knew we were over.
For years, every decision I made revolved around making the best life I could for me and Josie. She didn’t need her father in her life. But now, seeing them together, it’s as though they were never apart. Now I can move on with my life—with our lives. My boss isn’t getting out of jail any time soon. His own father kidnapped me to keep me off the stand, and my lawyer says that’s the worst thing that could have happened to his case.
For the first time in years I feel safe.
His hand settles on my hip beneath the sheet. “What are you thinkin’ about?”
“Nothing.”
“That ain’t true.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Darlin’, your brain never shuts up. I can practically hear the little wheels turnin’ from here.”
He knows me so well. I put my hand over his where it rests against my hip. “I was thinking about how different everything is.”
His expression changes instantly. Striker can go from teasing to serious faster than anyone I’ve ever met. “Different good or different bad?”
“Good. Always good.”
His thumb rubs slowly over my skin. “Then quit worryin’ about it.”
“I’m not worried.”
He gives me a look that tells me he sees through my bullshit.
“Fine. I’m trying not to worry about it.” The hearing got pushed back while the feds untangle everything his father was into, so I still have to give evidence, and I’m not looking forward to it. But this time I know no one will be coming for me. And even if anyone were stupid enough to try, they’d have Striker and the full force of his MC to contend with.
For another few minutes, neither of us says anything. But then downstairs, something crashes. Then there’s silence. And silence is always suspicious when you have a toddler. Striker and I both stare at the bedroom door.
“Josie,” I say.
“Definitely.”
Another crash follows. Then a tiny voice carries up the stairs. “Daddy!”
