Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Something about the way he says that makes my stomach flutter slightly. I ignore it.
“You barely know me.” I challenge taking another sip of tea.
“Instincts tell me everything I need to know.”
I think on his words for a brief moment, then reply honestly. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
I huff out a small laugh and shake my head. “You’re very intense, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” He answers, but doesn’t give much else away.
“I’m guessing the Mellow thing is an oxymoron with a story behind it.”
“Very much so.”
I smile into my mug. And then, before I can stop myself, I start talking. It just happens. Maybe it’s the tea. Maybe it’s the adrenaline finally wearing off. Maybe it’s the way he’s sitting there, steady, quiet, listening without interrupting. But the words come easy.
“I didn’t always live here,” I explain. “Quinn and I moved back about a year ago. When I was younger, my parents moved us here for a few years, but in the end we didn’t stay. I remembered enjoying it here and thought it might be a good place to settle with Quinn.”
“Where did you live before that?” He inquires genuinely seeming to be interested.
“Birmingham. Before that we were in Memphis, Tennessee. Lived in Mississippi for a bit.”
He nods slightly. “Closer to family staying in the deep south?”
I shake my head. “Not really. My parents passed a while ago. This was just familiar in a way.”
“Safe.” He counters.
I glance at him. How can he read me like a book? “Yeah.”
Safe. That word feels different now. He leans back slightly in the chair, still watching me.
“What do you do besides the diner and the ice cream shop?”
I laugh softly. “Sleep. Sometimes.”
“Sounds busy. Where is the time for Lucy to unwind?”
“I am busy but in the best ways. I enjoy my work and between the two places it provides income for me to live comfortably. I’m not a millionaire, but I have a small savings.” I trace my finger along the rim of the mug. “I like it though. Keeps things predictable. As for unwinding, I do that watching my daughter play in the backyard or sleep easily.”
“Predictable is good.”
I nod, “Predictable is everything.”
He doesn’t argue with that. Just nods back. “What about Quinn?” he asks.
“What about her?” I wonder where this is leading.
“She like it here?”
I smile despite myself. “She loves it. She has friends, a routine she’s happy.”
“That matters.” He tells me what I already know.
“It’s the only thing that matters.”
His gaze softens slightly. Not in a way most people would notice. But I do.
“What about you?” I ask.
The question slips out before I think about it.
He stills. Just a little. “What about me?”
“You live at the clubhouse? I know you are a King and I’ve seen the clubhouse by the shipyard. Is there where all of you sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do when you’re not,” I pause wondering how to express this, “throwing people through tables?”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Offload ships. Fix things. Ride. Handle club business.”
“That’s very vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
I tilt my head. “You’re not going to tell me anything real, are you?”
“I just did.”
“No, you didn’t.” He watches me for a second. Then he adds, “I’ve been a lot of places. Wonderer of sorts for a long time. Met Chux and found where the Kings could use Freedom Falls for the club and decided to settle down. Been here for years now. It’s home.”
“That’s still vague.”
“It’s also true.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You’re frustrating.”
“I’ve also been told that.”
I sigh. “Fine. Keep your mysterious biker secrets.”
“Not secrets.”
“What are they then?”
He pauses. “Things that don’t matter right now.”
Something about that answer makes me pause. Because it feels intentional.
Like he’s choosing not to share, not because he can’t—but because he doesn’t want to complicate something. Except, I don’t know what that something is. But I feel it.
I don’t push. Instead, I keep talking. About Quinn. About work. About how exhausting it is trying to keep everything balanced all the time. And he listens.
Really listens. Not interrupting. Not judging. Just present.
At some point, I realize I’m yawning. I try to hide it behind my hand. Fail.
His eyes study my face. “You’re tired. And it’s been a long night.”
“I’m fine.” I lie.
“You’re not. You need sleep, Lucy.”
“I’ve had worse nights.” I admit before I realize the words slip out.
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t sleep.”
I huff. “You sound like Ava.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends on the day.”
Another yawn sneaks up on me. This one I don’t even try to hide.
Tucker stands. The movement is smooth, decisive. “Go to bed.”
I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”
“You need sleep.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“I’ve heard that before too. You’re very tired. And now the threat is gone, time for bed.”
I narrow my eyes. “You can’t just order me around in my own house.”
“I can suggest strongly.”