“You got family besides August?”
Her face changes.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just enough to tell me I stepped on a bruise.
“Not really,” she says. “My mother is gone. My marriage was not exactly a family. August is mine.”
My jaw tightens.
I want to ask too much. Want to know every detail of the man who made her say marriage like it tastes bad. Want to find him and explain a few things with my fists.
Instead, I nod. “August is good people.”
“He is five.”
“Still good people.”
She looks down at the fries. “You?”
“Club is family. Blood gets complicated around here.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“Do you always warn women you fake date?”
“Only the ones who look like they might believe the pretty parts too quick.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
There ain’t much pretty about me. I know that. I am road scars, bad temper, ink, leather, and a name that came with toomany stories. But she looks at me like she is trying to decide if dangerous and safe can live in the same body.
I hope like hell they can.
For her, I want to try.
She clears her throat. “Do you have hobbies?”
“Riding.”
“That is transportation.”
“It’s religion.”
“Anything else?”
“Fixing things.”
“People?”
My mouth flattens. “Not unless they ask.”
That settles between us.
She eats another fry like she needs something to do with her hands.
“What about you?” I ask.