“Thank you. Um, moving on. Over there is my dresser, where you’ll find an endless collection of jeans and t-shirts. And that’s my bed. Where, most nights, you’ll find me. Alone.”
His hand squeezes me back. Once. Quick and hard.
“I’ll set up my things near the couch.”
And, quicker than I can react, he lets go of my hand and turns. His back and shoulders are rigid, and I get a glimpse of the soldier he used to be. He practically marches toward the door.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, I got the gist of it. Look, it’s better for me to set up here; I’ll have a view of the door, in case anyone tries to break in,” he says.
Just like that, he’s gone cold.
Just as cold as he was back in the clubhouse.
It’s a change so sudden it’s surprising.
“What’s gotten in to you, Snake?”
“Nothing,” he says. Short, curt. His voice is frigid.
Something’s off with him, and it’s something deeper than him being upset over my clumsy invitation to join me in bed.
“You’re running away from me. Even back in the clubhouse, you were off. I’m tempted to say you’re angry, but I’ve seen you angry, I know what your anger looks like, and this isn’t it. What’s wrong?”
“Leave it, Addie. You’re not my fucking psychologist.”
Dumbfounded — he’s never snapped at me like that before — I take a moment to recover my voice. With every word out of his mouth, pain jabs at my heart. Pain and anger at my own position — always an outsider, always kept at furthest reach from club business, always sheltered from what’s going on by my father. These men view me as some shaking flower to be kept away from any pain or danger.
But I’m tougher than they give me credit for.
And, eventually, I will shatter their misperception.
Maybe I should start right now.
“Maybe I’m not a psychologist, Snake. But I’m also not blind. And, unless I’ve been wrong my whole fucking life, I thought we were friends,” I say.
His eyes widen a little; I rarely swear, it hardly ever feels necessary, especially when there are guys like Mack around who are so much better at it.
But it feels necessary right now.
Something’s troubling him. And I care about him. Not just as someone that I want to have in my bed, but as someone that I enjoy having in my life.
What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t ask him what’s wrong?
“Talk to me, Snake. Tell me what the hell it is that’s bothering you.”
For a moment, he wavers.
For a moment, I see a flash of that man that I know.
But it’s only a moment. Then that troubled look returns.
Then he says words that hit me in the heart.
“I’m not here to be your friend, Addie. I’m here to follow Stone’s orders and keep you safe. That’s it. And that’s all that will ever happen.”
And then he slams the door.
Chapter Six
Snake
What I said was out of line. From the second I see the hurt in her eyes, the way she seems to crumple in on herself before I even shut the door, I know I’m in the wrong.
But I can’t let her get too close.
And she sure as hell is tempting me.
Showing me around her place, leading me by the hand, overwhelming every bit of resistance I have with her touch and her tempting smile.
Her invitation to join her in bed nearly breaks me.
But what really does me in is her asking me what’s wrong. Asking with sincerity. With kindness. With compassion. I know from the moment she says it, from the instant I look in her eyes, that she’s someone who will listen to the pain and darkness I’ve been carrying — alone — for years. She’d listen without judgment.
It would feel so good to talk to her.
But it would open the door to betraying my sense of duty to the club. And the orders Stone has given me; let no man touch her.
No man, including me.
I don’t sleep easy that night. Haunted by two ghosts; one, a memory of a time and place in my past, of blood left in the thirsty sand and dusty rocks of Afghanistan; another, a ghost of temptation that’s only a few footsteps and a single door away.
But, somehow, I get to sleep.
And I wake up to the sound of bacon on the stove. And the heady, bready smell of fluffy pancakes in a hot skillet.
My eyes are hardly open before Adella’s shoving a mug of coffee into my eager hands.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
I don’t see her until I’m two sips in, until she’s back in her little kitchen, leaning over her stove.
Then I stare.
She’s dressed to ruin me.
Cutoff, ragged little pajama shorts that hardly cover her plump ass. A loose-fitting tank top that, when she turns just right, reveals the soft curve of the sides of her breasts. Her hair, long, beautiful, brown, hanging down past her shoulders in a sexy state of disarray.
And, when she looks back over her shoulder, sees me staring, and smiles at me, I’m graced with a grin that outshines the sun.
This woman knows what she’s doing.
These next few days tailing this angel will be pure hell.
Desire twists my gut as I watch her turn back to cooking.
It would be so easy to go up behind her, to put my hands on her hips as she cooks, to smell her hair, to run my hands up her tummy until I’m cupping her full breasts, to slide my hands beneath
