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Sonya’s not mine, but she’s sure as hell not theirs.
“Um, it’s hard to keep up with you,” she whispers at my side.
I tighten my hold on her and press her curvy little body closer to mine as I lift her, half carrying, half dragging her to the back.
“Oof, that’s not exactly what I had in mind,” she says once I set her down in the furthest room from the bar.
“Here’s your room,” I inform her, keeping my tone even. Detached. I don’t think it’s working.
“Thank you again. For everything.”
I nod in acknowledgment.
“Are you always this intense?” she asks, throwing me off guard yet again. “I can’t picture you making your bed with the same gruffness. Or brushing your teeth. Do you frown at yourself in the mirror?”
Dimples pop out on her adorable cheeks because, of course, she has fucking dimples. Smiles, sparkling eyes, and dimples. Sonya is all rainbows and butterflies, and I’m a hardened MC President with a black heart and a stained soul.
But something shifts as I look into those endless eyes. I move forward, unable to stay away from her light. Sonya peers up at me, holding her breath as I lean down and brush my lips against the side of her neck.
This is dangerous. I shouldn’t know that her skin tastes like sugar and sunshine. Yet, I’m unable to stop.
When I reach the shell of her ear, I whisper, “I’m intense about the things that matter. My club. My bike. My woman… who I found on the side of the road,” I finish before taking two huge steps backward.
Shit.Not my woman. Sonya is not my woman. I’ve known her for less than an hour. So what if she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met and elicits emotions I’ve buried for decades? It’s too risky. Women are never who they say they are. I have a lifetime of watching my dad go through wives and girlfriends to back me up on that.
“Oh,” is all Sonya says.
She lifts a hand to the side of her neck where my lips were. She traces the line with her fingertips, drawing my attention there.
I rip my eyes away from the siren and give her my back. “We’ll get started on your car tomorrow.”
“Okay,” comes her response.
She seems confused, and I don’t blame her. I don’t have any answers for her. I have no idea what just happened, only that it can’t happen again.
Even as I shut the door and walk back to the bar, I know I’m full of shit.
CHAPTERTHREE
SONYA
Ituck the last corner of the bed sheet under the mattress, spread out the comforter, and turn it down at the top. Next, I place the pillow in its spot, smoothing out the wrinkles from the pillowcase.
I’ve been on the road and away from my family for five days, but the morning ritual of making my bed and having it inspection-ready will take some time to wear off. When I woke up this morning, I half expected my mother to come bursting through the door at any moment, yelling at me for sleeping in so late.
Back at home, my sister and I were up before the sun. With endless cooking and cleaning to do, we were taught at a young age that, as women, our chores completed us as we completed them.
Looking back down at the pristinely made bed, I get a wicked idea. One that’s too tempting to pass up.
I spin around and flop down on the bed, splaying my arms and legs out and making a snow angel in the blankets. The neatly tucked-in sheets come loose on one corner, then the other, while the comforter twists around my limbs. I grab the pillow and toss it in the air, watching it sail up, up, up… and back down into Blade’s large, tattooed hands.
He raises an eyebrow at me, and lordy, he’s as devastatingly handsome and broody as I remember. I sit up in bed, blowing a few loose strands of hair from my face before smiling at him.
“What’s this about?” he grunts, shaking the pillow. “And why is your door unlocked?”
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” I tease.
He blinks at me, apparently not amused at my nickname for him.
