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From what I can see, it has three bedrooms and three bathrooms, plus a huge den that has a beautiful fireplace. The view from up here is also amazing. I can imagine no expense was spared. Not where you’d expect to see a biker, but that’s Tag for you.
He’s not like anyone else.
Of course he has a fancy coffee machine, which I slide a pod into and line up the cups.
His kitchen is all marble and dark wood, with charcoal cabinets and a white bench top. It’s stunning. And surprisingly neat. I guess he eats out a lot because there’s hardly anything in his fridge.
I’ll bet anything he has a cleaner come in. Imagining Tag doing housework makes me giggle.
He’s still in the same position when I bring his coffee back to him in bed. I forgot that he is not a morning person.
“Missed my workout because of you,” he tells me, his eyes still closed. I place his coffee down on the side table and scoot back under the covers.
It’s so quiet here.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you burned off a few calories last night,” I say, giving him a smirk when he opens one eye.
“Not the same as leg day.”
“You know you whine like a little bitch,” I say, sipping my coffee. It tastes amazing.
Of course Tag has only the good shit.
“Gotta head out soon,” he says, yawning.
“To work?
“Nope. Me and Harlem got word on a lead.”
My eyes go wide.
He’s telling me about club business?
“With the Devils?”
“Never mind.”
“Tag. I’m not an idiot. I know you guys are still hunting them down. I would’ve worked it out for myself.”
“Less you know, the better. Keepin’ you safe by keepin’ you outta shit.” He rolls onto his back and stretches out.
My, my. He is a sight for sore eyes.
The duvet is low on his hips, and I admire the muscled specimen next to me as he sits up and reaches for his coffee.
My God, he’s delicious.
“That’s what all the ol’ ladies say, but they end up knowing half the shit that goes down anyway,” I mutter.
He gives me a look. “Takin’ that to mean Deanna, Summer, Jas, and Indigo all rehash pillow talk.”
I pretend to zip my lips. “That is classified information.”
“Or Manny,” he grunts.
“Best spy ever. You want someone to know the ins and outs of anything, send Manny in,” I muse.
He looks at me sternly. “Don’t need you worryin’ about your pops.”
