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“You made all this?”
He nods, there’s a new type of smile on his face. It’s a proud one, and I like it just as much as the one I saw earlier. The thought of having more days like this with him, where I see all the different smiles he has, sends a warm shiver up my spine.
“I’m not much of a cook, but I know how to use the internet, and as a soldier, I’d be pretty terrible if I didn’t know how to follow directions. Had to improvise, though. Couldn’t find all the ingredients, but I made some adequate substitutions.”
I hardly hear what he says. I’ve got a biscuit in my hand. It’s warm, flaky, and I take a knife and put a solid knob of butter on it. It hasn’t sunk in that he spent all this time cooking, just to show me he appreciates me.
Then I take a bite of biscuit. And flinch. Then gag.
Hurking, I run to the trash can and inelegantly spit the half-chewed biscuit into the bin.
Hunter’s face sinks. “What is it?”
“You made some substitutions?” I say once my tongue works after the seismic shock of being violated by the weirdest tasting biscuit I’ve ever eaten. I try to keep my tone gentle — he tried so hard — but it’s difficult when my mouth feels so violated in a most un-sexy way. “What substitutions?”
He frowns. “Didn’t have any baking powder for those biscuits, so I used baking soda instead. They both have ‘baking’ in the name, they’re both white powders. I thought it’d be a safe bet.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It can’t be that bad. Let me try.” He grabs one and takes a bite. Then joins me in bending over the trash bin. After a moment, he stands upright and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It tastes like the bathroom floor of a barracks. So, Emily, can I make up for this golden, flaky crime against humanity by taking you out for breakfast?”
Chapter Twenty
Hunter
I never imagined I’d see my vision of heaven while sitting in an old vinyl-covered booth in a dingy diner while an overworked server sets a steaming hot plate of hash browns, scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast in front of me, but here I am. Here I am, and there she is — sitting across from me, Charlie on her lap, a short stack of pancakes in front of her, and a dollop of whipped butter on her nose; she’s unaware of the butter, but I’m sure she’s aware of the effect she’s having on me. After a lifetime of fighting, of wandering, of not having a home, I find myself with her, feeling like maybe I’m long overdue for something honest, something real, for putting some roots down, feeling like maybe this is my best chance at having a life I never thought I deserved, and feeling like I’m lucky as hell that this opportunity is staring at me from across the table with such an attractive face.
Because she looks at me like I’m the man I want to be.
And Charlie… well, he looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, which is how he looks at everyone, because he’s four months old and everything on earth fills him with a sense of wonder. Right now, he’s tearing strips from a napkin and trying to eat them, while seeing his efforts foiled by Emily’s watchful eye.
He doesn’t cry at defeat, though. Just waits a moment, gathers his strength, and then tries again. That’s the Hayes way — we may not be the brightest men on earth; we may fucking think that baking soda and baking powder are interchangeable; but we are determined and we will eat that fucking napkin, god damn it.
“So, when is your next shift with the motorcycle club?” She says over a forkful of pancake.
The whipped butter is still there on her nose. I can’t stop looking at it, but I’ll never tell her it’s there — because then she’d wipe it off.
“Whenever they call. This isn’t a usual nine-to-five thing. It depends on the business and what the club needs. When you start with an MC, you’re at the bottom of the totem pole, and until you earn your stripes, your schedule is at their mercy.”
Emily nods, her fork pausing mid-air as she contemplates my words. Her eyes dart quickly to Charlie, who is now fascinated by the glint of the silverware in her hands.
"At their mercy, huh?" she repeats, a hint of concern clouding her bright blue eyes. "I guess that means you won't be building a predictable life anytime soon."
“I’ll have to make sacrifices at the start, but Charlie won’t. There are others in the club that can help and watch him, too.”
She stiffens a little. “Others? Other people in this motorcycle club?” She sounds defensive, and she gives Charlie a look like she can already imagine someone else watching him and she’d rather have her fingernails ripped out by red-hot pliers than see that happen in real life. “You’d let one of them watch Charlie?”
“Not if I can help it. But it’d be a last resort.”
“We’ll try not to let that happen. My schedule’s flexible, Maggie’s willing to work with me a lot, and as long as I can find time to work on my research paper — which shouldn’t be much of a problem around Charlie, since he’s so calm — I’m available. I just want to do what’s best for him.”
The way she looks at Charlie, and the way he looks back at her, it’s the same way I feel about her; Emily brings something special and her own cute, nerdy, responsible sense of fire to my life.
She’s got this aura of determination that's as fierce as it is gentle, reminding me of why I was drawn to her. She is the woman who would walk through fire for those she loves and still smile afterward.
“He’s a lucky kid,” I say, my voice softening. “Having you around means everything.”
Emily’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a moment of shared understanding — a quiet agreement that whatever chaos our lives might bring, we’re in this together. It’s balm to my soul. It soothes the part of me that’s weary of endless combat, endless roaming. I could have a home here. A home, a family, something that once only seemed like a dream.
