Page 7 of My Protective Biker

Except I've already decided. I'm letting her in, not because it's smart or tactical but because I've spent twenty years being exactly what Zoe needed and what the club needed, and I'm just now realizing that maybe I'm allowed to want something for myself.

Even if it's dangerous, even if it creates vulnerabilities I've spent two decades avoiding, even if it means opening a door I closed when I was twenty-two and decided that being Zoe's father mattered more than anything I might want for myself.

I close my eyes but all I can see is dark green eyes and blonde hair and the specific curve of her hip under those scrubs, and I lie there in the dark knowing with absolute certainty that tomorrow is going to change something and that I'm going to let it and that whatever happens next, I've already made my choice.

Chapter 3 — Carina

I check on Hamlet one more time before I leave the clinic at six-thirty, even though I already checked on him twice this afternoon and he's doing exactly as well as I expected.

He blinks up at me from his cage with those amber eyes, the splint on his leg clean and secure, his whole body relaxed in a way that tells me the pain medication is doing its job.

I give him fresh water and a few pieces of the prescription food he's been eating without complaint, scratch behind his ears until he starts purring.

"You lucked out," I tell him. "Zoe's going to spoil you."

He chirps at me, soft and conversational, and I smile despite the anxiety coiling in my stomach.

Lock his cage, do a final check of the terrier and the beagle, set the alarm, and head out into the heat.

It's a three-mile drive to Roan's house. I've mapped the route twice already, which is excessive.

This is just dinner, a thank you for treating the cat, nothing more complicated than that.

Except I've been thinking about him for two days straight.

The drive takes eight minutes. His house sits at the end of a quiet street, small and well-maintained with a detached garage and a front porch that looks like it gets used.

I pull in behind his truck and sit there for a moment telling myself this is fine, I'm fine, there's no reason to be nervous.

The front door opens before I finish the thought and Zoe appears, waving with a grin that's so genuinely welcoming some of the tension eases out of my shoulders.

I get out into the thick evening heat and she meets me halfway up the driveway, already talking.

"I'm so glad you could come, Hamlet's doing okay right? I wanted to check on him but I had to work and then I have this paper due tomorrow but I'm coming by first thing in the morning, and Dad's making spaghetti which is basically the only thing he cooks but he's really good at it—"

"Zoe." Roan's voice carries from the doorway, low and even. "Let her get inside first."

She laughs and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the house. "Come on, it's cooler."

It is cooler, window units working hard. The living room is small and comfortable, furniture clearly used for years but well cared for.

Photos line the walls, Zoe at different ages, a few that look like club gatherings based on the motorcycles visible in the frames.

Roan stands in the kitchen doorway wiping his hands on a dish towel. When I meet his eyes the impact is immediate, that same visceral pull I felt in the clinic. Gray-green and steady and focused entirely on me.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Thank you for having me."

"Zoe's idea." But something in the way he's looking at me suggests he's not unhappy about it.

I follow them to the kitchen and the smell of garlic and tomatoes hits me hard enough that my stomach reminds me I skipped lunch.

Roan is at the stove stirring a pot of sauce that smells homemade, garlic bread warming in the oven, a cutting board with salad vegetables waiting on the counter.

"I can do the salad," I offer.

He glances at me over his shoulder. "Bowl's in the cabinet above the cutting board."