Then a different thought hit him. She had connections to Riot MC brothers back in Jacksonville, but she never talked about them. Somehow he knew she didn’t look down her nose at the brothers, but maybe she judged them in some back corner of her mind.
He shook his head. There was no way. Her actions spoke louder than words, and she treated him and Brute like anybody else. He’d accused her of becoming a snob like her mother, but he knew that was wrong.
Assuming she hadn’t exaggerated about her debt, she probably hadn’t done anything fun in a long damn time. He didn’t wine and dine anyone, but he could show her a good time by putting her on the back of his bike.
Shit.
He couldn’t do that, either. Brute had told him how she snapped about not being on anyone else’s bike. And that begged the question why she was so adamant about it.
Though, riding to his place that first day with her beside him had been better than he expected. She was the first woman to ride next to him, but it settled him in some strange way. A ride to New Orleans could work, but he’d rather they do it on his bike.
When he had a pair of pajama pants over his boxer briefs, he went to the kitchen. A prospect should have stocked his fridge with Muscle Milk and other groceries. He turned to the fridge to hear Stephanie splutter.
She cleared her throat. “Ha! You tell me I need new pajamas, but you need to invest in some pajamas your damn self.”
His chest puffed reflexively. “Really? Sounds like you’re a little bothered by something you see, which only proves my earlier point, Steph. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Standing offer.”
Her teeth bit her lower lip even as she exhaled loudly through her nose.
He chuckled. “Anyway, what are you doing tomorrow? I thought you might like to ride to NOLA with me.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and he fought grinning. “Are you... asking me out?”
He shook his head. “No. Just figured it’s been a while since you had any fun, and there aren’t too many cities more fun than New Orleans. But don’t tell anyone I said that. Might get evicted.”
She laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me. It sounds like fun, but I’ve got a full plate tomorrow.”
“Really?”
He pulled a bottle of Muscle Milk from the fridge and twisted it open.
“Yeah. I’m gonna look at three different apartment—”
He swallowed a huge swig of milk. “You don’t need to find another place any time soon, Steph. And I’m not just saying that because I’m attracted to you. I mean it. Hold off until you got a decent cushion at least.”
She deliberated it for a moment. “Anyway, after that, I need to have the oil changed on my bike, then a trip to the grocery store and batch cooking for all of next week.”
He braced an arm on the counter. “I’ll change your oil.”
“I’m talking about my bike,” she muttered.
He laughed. “Yeah. Picked up on that the first time you mentioned it, but I’m glad to know you’ve got a dirty mind, babe.”
“Bastard,” she muttered under breath.
He laughed again. “How am I the bastard? You said the double entendre not me.”
“Don’t remind me!”
Still grinning, he asked, “So, New Orleans tomorrow? What time do you work?”
She bit her lip again for a long moment. “I don’t work tomorrow. I’ve got an early shift on Sunday.”
“What the fuck? Why aren’t you workin’ on a Saturday? That’s got to be the best day for—”
“Yeah, and everyone wants those hours, Michael. So, every so often I get a Saturday off. It’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. So, sleep on it. NOLA isn’t goin’ anywhere, but I’m not gettin’ up early enough for beignets.”
“Those are fightin’ words, sir.”
A strange feeling rolled through his torso hearing her call him ‘sir.’
“Whatever, Steph. The muffaletta’s where it’s at.”
Her head tilted for a moment. “You’re not wrong. Though, I’d argue the Hurricane is where it’s at, but those are a little too potent for me. Good night, Michael.”
“Good night.”
Chapter 8 Want to Get to Know This Chick
Stephanie
IN THE MORNING, HAR’S suggestion to go to New Orleans tempted me, but deep down I didn’t feel like it. Partly it was because it felt like an insincere suggestion. Like he was only doing it so I might cave and have no-strings sex with him. The other part was that I’d rather spend my time at the beach. I loved water and it didn’t matter to me if it was a lake, river, gulf, or the ocean. Going to New Orleans might mean plenty of good food and culture, but it was an hour and a half of riding to get there. I would much rather spend that time at the Gulf.
My alarm clock showed it was seven-thirty and since Har said he wouldn’t be in New Orleans for beignets, I figured he wouldn’t be awake.
I figured wrong.
He stood leaning into a forearm at a breakfast bar on the edge of the kitchen with a pen in his hand. I saw he had a list.
“Good morning, Miss Priss,” he murmured, without looking at me.
Even though I could survive on six hours of sleep, it didn’t mean I did it well without coffee. I mumbled a ‘good morning’ back to him, but my mind dwelled on why he would call me ‘Miss Priss.’
“Not sleep well?”
I poured a cup of coffee and looked at him from the corner of my eye. “Slept okay.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
After I put some cream in my coffee, I looked at him. “There isn’t a problem. But I would love to know why you call me ‘Miss Priss?’”
He leveled a look at me, and I knew whatever he
