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“I’m good with words.” He frowned. “Normally. Tonight they’re all slippery. Like verbal eels.”

I laughed and his whole face softened in response. He looked at me like my laughter was something worth earning, worth repeating. The same look he’d given me when I’d told him to slow down in the kitchen, like kindness itself was a foreign language he was desperate to learn.

“What do you do? Besides make coffee? Which you do very well. Best coffee. Ten out of a hundred. Would recommend to everyone I know, which is approximately three people and a spider,” he asked, steering back to safer territory with the clumsy determination of the very drunk.

“I’m a mechanic.” I was a mechanic working at Preacher’s garage until Diesel’s mate, Ollie, praised my cooking and said I’d make a killing if I opened a restaurant. The idea had sat with me for weeks before I’d talked it over with Preacher, my prez and alpha.

Preacher had thought it a great idea but suggested a café since there were already two diners in town.

“What do you do as a biker?” Phineas was staring at a twist with furrowed brows. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or the cheesy snack.

“We ride, work on cars, do community stuff. Fundraisers. Charity rides. Grill-outs on Fridays.” I spun my beer glass slowly on its coaster. “It’s a good pack of men. They’re my family.”

“Family.” He repeated the word, still staring at the twist. “That’s nice. I don’t… I mean I have…” He trailed off, blinking hard, and I watched him reroute whatever thought had almost escaped. “The cut looks good on you. Leather suits you. It’s very… rugged. Distressed. Like you could fix a motorcycle or wrestle a bear. I could wrestle wildlife. Like a bunny or chipmunk.” He held his arm up and flexed.

I gave his slim bicep a gentle squeeze. “Those bunnies and chipmunks better fear for their lives.”

“I’d never hurt an animal or insect.” Another twist vanished into his mouth. “I should put that under special skills on my resume. Animal friendly. You could add coffee sorcery to yours.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Beautiful hands.”

The topic switch caught me off guard. “What?”

“Your hands are very beautiful,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“My hands?” I looked down at my hands, rough-knuckled and callused from years of car repairs. Nothing special. Just hands that knew how to work.

“Yes.” He nodded like his neck was spring-loaded. “They are handsome.”

Across the bar, a woman in a denim jacket made a strangled sound into her beer.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about these beaters.”

Phineas shook his head, the motion making him list sideways. “They’re not just hands. They’re… they’re hands that make croissants. They make coffee that tastes like autumn. Probably other things. Wooden things? Do you make wooden things?”

“Sometimes.” Like his brother’s new fixer-upper.

His eyes widened like I’d confessed to sorcery. “See? Magic!” He leaned closer, lowering his voice that was probably meant to be seductive if the words hadn’t been slurred. My mate was sweet enough to rot teeth.

Of all the body parts Phineas could’ve focused on, he’d chosen my hands. I flexed my fingers against the countertop.

Phineas’ lips parted slightly, and for half a breath, all the noise in Jawbones faded behind the thud of my own pulse.

A low growl rumbled inside of me at the sight of snack dust clinging to his lower lip. I wanted to wipe it away with my tongue, to take him home and claim him.

Instead, I took another drink of beer like a man fighting the temptation. My wolf snarled softly at the idea.

“I want to kiss them,” Phineas announced.

I choked on my beer.

“Not in a weird way,” he added hastily, releasing my arm like he’d been caught stealing. “In a respectful way. A reverent way. Like how you kiss a religious artifact. Or a very important document.”

“You want to kiss my hands like they’re the Declaration of Independence.”

“Exactly!” He beamed. “You get it. Nobody ever gets it.”

Dominic appeared at the other end of the bar, pretending to reorganize bottles, but I caught the glint of amusement in his expression. I was going to get so much shit for this later.

“The Declaration of Independence is in a museum,” I pointed out. “Behind glass. Climate controlled. I don’t think anyone’s kissed it.”