“She won’t kill you.”
Amelia gives me a flat look.
I shrug. “Probably.”
Sophie, standing on my porch with August tucked against her hip, says, “Derby.”
“What? I’m building trust through honesty.”
“You are doing something through honesty.”
August leans forward, eyes wide. “Is it loud?”
“Very,” I say.
He grins. “Can I hear it?”
“No,” Amelia says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
She turns that look on me, the one mothers use when a man has just proven he was raised in a barn and might still be emotionally living there.
I clear my throat. “Later.”
August sighs like I have betrayed him personally. “Grown-ups lie.”
I point at him. “I said later. That’s different than maybe.”
He considers that. “Okay.”
The kid is already learning biker law faster than half the prospects.
Amelia stands near the porch steps in dark painted on jeans, boots Lottie found somewhere, and a soft orange top that fits her like a glove. Sophie gave her a leather jacket too, cropped and worn enough that it doesn’t look like a rich-girl costume. Her hair is down for the first time since I met her, falling past her shoulders in dark loose waves that make her look less like a woman who ran for her life and more like the kind of woman a man starts trouble over.
I have been trying not to stare for ten minutes.
Failing, mostly.
She has red lipstick on.
Not bright. Not fancy. Just enough color to make me think about her mouth in ways that would get me killed by my president if she really turns out to be his sister.
Hell, maybe even if she doesn’t.
Amelia catches me looking and tugs at the hem of the jacket. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing look.”
“That was a checking-for-weapons look.”
“On my face?”
“Dangerous place.”
Her cheeks color.