“Let him try.”
“He’s good at it.”
“I’m better at looking mean.”
That gets a breath of almost-laughter.
Then she looks at the chair. “You really are going to sit there all night?”
“Unless I fall asleep and fall out of it. Then I’ll sit on the floor with less dignity.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Only when shot, drunk, or deeply bored.”
“Are you deeply bored?”
I look at her.
The hallway is quiet. Her son sleeps behind her. Her husband is somewhere out in the dark making plans. Legend’s father’s photograph sits downstairs changing the shape of half the club’s future. And this woman stands in a borrowed shirt, looking at me like she can’t decide whether I’m a threat, a shield, or another mistake waiting to happen.
“No,” I say. “I ain’t bored.”
Her fingers tighten on the edge of the door.
“You meant what you said downstairs?” she asks.
“Which part?”
“The rules.”
I hold her gaze. “Yeah.”
“No touching unless I say.”
“Yeah.”
“No kissing unless I say.”
My body reacts to that sentence like I’m a worse man than I want to be.
I keep still.
“Yeah.”
Her cheeks color, but she doesn’t look away. That is either brave or reckless. Maybe both.
“And if we have to pretend in public?”
“Then you tell me what you can handle before we walk in. Hand-holding. Arm around you. Standing close. Whatever. You say the line, I don’t cross it.”
She studies me for a long second.
“Why are you being decent?” she asks.
“Don’t spread that around.”
“I’m serious.”