Page 5 of My Protective Biker

We sit down to eat and Zoe talks about her day at the bookstore, about Mrs. Patterson coming in looking for a romance novel "with a little spice but not too much, you know what I mean dear" and how Zoe found her exactly the right thing.

She tells me about the paper she's writing on feminist interpretations of Shakespeare, about how her professor actually gave her real feedback instead of generic comments.

I listen and ask the questions she expects, the same way I've been doing for twenty years, but the whole time I'm thinking about blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark green eyes that looked at me with equal parts caution and interest. About the curves I noticed under those shapeless scrubs, the soft fullness of her body that registered even when the fabric was doing everything it could to hide it.

Full breasts and wide hips and a softness that I haven't let myself notice in any woman for twenty years, and now I can't stop noticing.

"Can I ask you something?" Zoe sets down her fork and looks at me with that direct gaze that's been too perceptive for my comfort since she figured out at six years old that I don't always say everything I'm thinking.

"Yeah."

"Can I invite Carina to dinner tomorrow night?" She's already reaching for her phone. "I want to thank her for taking care of Hamlet and I thought it would be nice and you make really good spaghetti so—"

"Zoe."

She stops, phone in hand, waiting.

I should say no.

Should tell her that Carina's probably busy, that we don't need to impose on her time, that it's better to keep things professional and not blur the lines between veterinarian and client.

Should maintain the distance that keeps everyone safe and keeps the vulnerabilities manageable and keeps Marrow from having additional pressure points to exploit if things continue escalating the way they have been.

Except I can't think of a single reason to give Zoe that wouldn't require me to explain why I'm saying no, and explaining why would mean admitting that I'm attracted to a woman I met for ten minutes.

Which would lead to questions I don't want to answer and a conversation I'm not ready to have with my daughter about why I've been alone for twenty years and why this particular woman is different.

"You can ask her," I tell her.

Her whole face lights up. "Really?"

"If she wants to, yeah."

She's already texting, fingers flying across the screen faster than I can follow. I stand and start clearing the table while she composes what's probably a three-paragraph invitation, rinsing dishes and trying not to think about the fact that I just agreed to have Carina in my house tomorrow night.

"She said yes." Zoe looks up from her phone with a grin that's pure happiness. "Tomorrow at seven. She asked if she should bring anything and I said no, just herself. Is that okay?"

"That's fine."

"You're sure you're okay with this? I know we don't usually have people over but I really like her and I think you will too and—"

"Zoe." I dry my hands and turn to face her. "It's fine. I'm glad you found someone you like."

She studies me for a long moment with that assessing look she's been giving me since she was old enough to realize I don't show everything I'm feeling, then nods like she's satisfied with whatever she saw.

Goes back to her phone while I finish the dishes, wiping down the counters and putting everything away with the same methodical attention I usually give to engine work.

It's not helping tonight.

By eight o'clock Zoe has disappeared into her room with her laptop and textbooks, door half-closed in that way that means she's working but I'm welcome to interrupt if I need to.

I consider it for about thirty seconds, then head out to the garage instead because I need to do something with my hands that isn't sitting in the house thinking about tomorrow.

The Harley I've been rebuilding for the last three months sits on the workbench, engine half-disassembled, parts organized in the careful rows I always use.

I've been doing this long enough that I could rebuild a bike blindfolded, and the work usually empties my head and lets me focus on the immediate physical reality of metal and oil and precisely calibrated machinery.

Tonight it's not working.