But moving.
Chapter Seven
Derby
My house ain’t built for a woman.
It’s damn sure not built for a kid.
I realize that about thirty seconds before I pull into the drive with Amelia following in one of the club’s SUVs, Sophie in the passenger seat beside her, and August strapped in the back like I have accidentally joined a family parade from hell.
My place sits ten minutes outside town, tucked off a side road where the trees grow close and the gravel drive curves just enough that anybody coming in has to show themselves before they reach the porch. I bought it for that reason. Not charm. Not comfort. Not curb appeal. I bought it because a man can see danger coming if danger has the decency to use the driveway.
It’s a one-story block of weathered wood and old stone with a metal roof, a sagging porch, and a garage bigger than the living room because I know my priorities. There are no flower beds. No porch swing. No cute wreath on the door. There is a rusted firepit out back, two security lights, a stack of tires by the garage, and an old dog bowl near the steps even though I haven’t had a dog in three years.
The dog left me too.
Well, technically, he died, but that sounds dramatic, and I’m already hauling enough drama today.
Oaks stands by the porch when I pull in, arms folded, beard still damp from the morning rain. Wildcat is half-buried under the hood of Amelia’s truck near the garage, cussing at it like it owes him money. He and Oaks hauled it over from the clubhouse while we were still trying to convince Amelia that my house was the best bad idea on the table. Two prospects are parked off the main road where they can watch without being seen. I clock all of it before I cut the engine.
Good.
Secured.
Manageable.
Then August opens the back door of the SUV and yells, “Is this your house?”
And just like that, nothing feels manageable.
I get off my bike and pull my gloves free. “No. It’s a theme park.”
He stares at the house, unimpressed. “It doesn’t look fun.”
“Most things worth surviving don’t.”
Sophie gives me a look from the passenger side.
“What?” I ask.
“He is five.”
“And already a harsh real estate critic.”
Amelia gets out slower.
That pulls my attention off the kid.
She looks better in daylight and worse at the same time. Better because she is in her own jeans and a clean top Sophie dug out of her things. Worse because daylight doesn’t flatter exhaustion. Her face is pale, eyes shadowed, hair pulled back in a messy knot that makes her neck look too delicate. She holds herself straight, but I can see the effort it takes.
Pride is a heavy thing when fear rides on top of it.
She looks at my house the way a woman looks at any unfamiliar place after spending years learning that walls can turn against her.
Windows.
Porch.