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It's adorable.
I run my fingers through his hair and pull him close, feeling the warmth of his body against mine. It's one of the small comforts I don't think I'll ever tire of. Not in ten years, not in a hundred.
“Can't argue with that logic. We have to try them fresh out of the oven. Let's go get some.” My voice is soft, keeping this conversation private.
I haven't forgotten about the two girls in the room. They'll be dealt with, but Hunter comes first.
“Before dinner?” he whispers, grinning up at me. Any trace of his earlier unease gone, at least temporarily.
“Yeah, bud, one before dinner.”
He pumps his fist in the air triumphantly and grabs my hand.
I don't look back at the bunnies behind us. As much as I want to set their shit straight, I don't want to do it in front of Hunter. And I'm over the constant barrage of women trying to use Hunter as some sort of stepping stone to my bed. As if I'd fucking touch one of them anyway.
The women in town are no better, always clamoring over one another to coo over my boy like he's a baby. Like I find that baby-talkin' shit attractive.
I don't.
The smell of freshly-baked cookies hits me in the face in the best possible way as we enter the kitchen. Creamy white walls rose to meet bright white vaulted ceilings with exposed steel beams. Black granite countertops run the length along one wall and a large island dominates the center of the room. There are two sinks, an overflowing tiered fruit holder, and dozens of chocolate chip cookies on cooling racks on the island.
Like one of Pavlov's dogs himself, my mouth practically waters from the scent. They're like a siren song, and I'll bet my bike that anyone who's in the clubhouse will flood the kitchen, begging for a cookie. Knowing my ma, she has two more pans in the oven, enough for everyone to have one.
Behind the island, a gleaming black and stainless steel sixty-inch stove with six gas burners and two convection ovens created the centerpiece for the far wall. On one side, a large stainless steel French-door refrigerator with one of those fancy touch pads on one door. And on the other side is a deep single-basin kitchen sink, its chrome faucet glinting in the overhead light.
Years ago, Gunnar took advantage of his then-girlfriend's access to the open-floor stock at her appliance store. Got everything in here for real cheap.
The kitchen island is home to eight wooden stools, chipped and weathered from years of use. Beyond it are two large dining tables made of solid oak with an eclectic assortment of mismatched chairs. Too many broke, and I got tired of trying to hunt down one to match the rest, so a few years ago, I threw in the towel and let the guys pick whatever random chair they wanted to add. It's enough seating for the brothers who call the clubhouse home, plus those of us who are here most days.
When the whole club rolls in—their wives, girlfriends, kids, and bunnies—we have to bring in extra tables and chairs. But for everyday stuff, this setup works well. Thank fuck we remodeled this place, otherwise, there's no way I'd let Hunter play around in here. It used to be a fucking rundown cesspool on the best of days.
Ma spins around at the sound of our footsteps, her face lighting up when she spots us.
“Well, if it isn't my favorite grandson.” She leans over the counter, a yellow printed towel in her hand, and beckons us closer.
Hunter drops my hand and races across the tiled floor, practically launching himself onto the center stool. “Nan! Dad said we could eat cookies before dinner.” He rushes his words out like he's afraid I'm going to snatch them back.
“Just one,” I remind him. I shift my gaze to the woman standing next to Ma, Helen. “A word?”
She wipes her fingers on the edge of the kitchen towel, then tosses it on the counter next to my mother. “Of course, Prez.”
I take a few steps away from her, toward the other end of one of the dining room tables. I don't pull out a chair; this conversation isn't going to take long. I fold my arms over my chest and look out the window.
It's a shit view, just the parking lot to the garage. But at least the sunshine streams through the glass, a welcome change from all that fluorescent lighting.
“Everything okay?” she asks after a moment.
I drag my gaze from the peeling painted lines for parking spots and look at her. She's standing tall, shoulders pulled back and expression expectant but not on guard. I like Helen, I always have. But if I don't enforce the rules, this tentative peace we have will crumble into shit. All it takes is letting one thing slide, and before you know it, everything is fucked.
I exhale and look at her. “Wanna tell me why I just walked in on two club girls I've never seen before tell my boy they're gonna be his new mommy?”
A spark of anger flashes across her face as she murmurs, “Shit.” Her expression is pinched, worry deep in the furrow of her brows. “I'll take care of 'em, set 'em straight.”
I shake my head a few times, the movement slow and precise. “You know I don't police the girls that run through here. I leave that shit up to you. But they fucked with my boy, Helen, and I can't have that.”
“You want 'em gone?” She's not even surprised, her expression and tone even. Understanding.
My arms are still crossed tightly against my chest, but I lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “What kind of leader would I be if I didn't enforce the rules? And what kind of father would I be if I didn't protect my son?”
