Page 16 of Contracted to the Bikers

Rook glances toward the sound. “She’s made herself comfortable.”

“Yes. She’s a very sociable girl, she makes friends easily.”

“I wonder where she got that from,” Rook mutters. I ignore the jab, but it stings a little, even if I haven’t exactly been Miss Congeniality, I still don’t want people to think I’m a total bitch.

Rook walks past me toward a back room where the router is set up. I follow, arms crossed, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he’s still barely dressed in just a pair of gray sweatpants. He crouches in front of the unit, checking connections.

I tap my foot impatiently. “Can you fix it?”

He grunts as he fiddles with something. “Yes.” He glances up at me. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m waiting.”

“You’re hovering,” he says, his voice flat and matter of fact.

“I’m supervising.”

His mouth twitches. “Of course you are.” He reconnects the cable, and the router’s lights flicker back to life. “There,” he says.

“Good.” I can’t bring myself to thank him.

He stands and moves close. He’s always close somehow. Even when he’s across the room, I feel his presence. “You didn’t say thank you,” he observes.

I wrestle with my stubbornness and my need to be polite. As long as it took, Rook did fix it for me, and fast. I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

The words feel like a concession, even if only a small one, but I see the way his expression shifts in victory and mostly, in recognition, as if he understands exactly what that cost me. I hesitate, thinking of something to say, some words to tip the balance back in my favor. “Don’t you have work to do?” he says, with that infuriatingly amused knowing look in his eyes.

I turn and head back upstairs without another word.

Chapter 6

Rook

By now, things have almost settled into something that almost looks like routine, with Sloane working most days while the guys take care of Jessy, though she’s constantly checking in, making sure everything is good. Sloane might be infuriatingly stubborn, but she’s a good mom; she clearly adores Jessy. It’s easy to see why. I’m not great with kids, but even I’ve developed a soft spot for the little girl.

The main room is bustling with activity, and Jessy sits right in the middle of it as if she belongs there, and she does. Men who’ve broken bones for less than a bad look handle her like she’s made of glass and gold at the same time. She swings her legs as she eats her dinner. She’s laughing—full, easy, unafraid—and it does something strange to the room, it softens it.

I lean back in my chair, watching not just her, but the person whom I can’t keep my eyes off of for long, Sloane. She sits at the table with her laptop open, posture straight, even when she’s supposed to be off the clock, fingers moving across the keys with the same sharp precision she uses in conversation. Half her attention is on whatever she’s working on. The other half tracks Jessy without her ever needing to look directly at her.

Sloane is always aware, always calculating, and in control. Except when she isn’t, in the small moments when she doesn’t realize anyone’s watching.

Cruz walks in and drops a stack of journals beside her. “Thought you might want these.”

I see a flicker of interest and relief in her eyes, followed by something softer that she locks down almost immediately. A glance at the titles tells me these are the items she’s been arguing with me about needing to leave the clubhouse to go and get, a request I denied. She looks up at Cruz. “Where did you get these?” He shrugs like it’s nothing as realization dawns on her. “Did you break into my house?”

“It’s not breaking in if I have the key,” he grins, holding up the key to her house that he must have pilfered from her room. “You looked like you were running out of things to read, so I went to get the stuff you’ve been asking for as well as a couple of things for Jessy.” He holds up a duffel bag to prove it.

I wait for her to yell at him as she would be, but she just laughs and shakes her head as she swipes the key from his hands. “Next time, ask.”

She doesn’t berate him, doesn’t thank him either, and Cruz doesn’t expect thanks. The interaction is easy, simple, that’s the part that gets under my skin. Between Sloane and the others, there’s no tension, no pushing back, no sharp edges. They just seem to understand each other. I watch the way she looks at Cruz, studying as if there’s a test. She’s not soft, exactly, but she’s open in a way she never is with me. She always acts like she’s bracing for impact and expecting a fight, which somehow inevitably means there is—a self-fulfilling prophecy and a spiral I can’t seem to stop. The more I try, the worse it gets. I’ve never wanted a woman so much yet found them so utterly infuriating, nor have I been rejected like that before, which has bruised my ego, if I’m being honest.

Boone passes behind their table a few minutes later, and Jessy spots him instantly. “Boone, look what I drew!” she cries out in delight, holding her sketch out

Boone stops, he always does for her, and picks up the drawing, studying intently. “More dinosaurs should be purple,” he says with a smile.

“Everyone thinks they’re green, but no one really knows what color they were. A blue one would be awesome, right? Jessy asks.

He considers it, brow furrowed. “You know what, I think you’re probably right. You ever seen pictures of lizards with the bright colored neck frills? They’re red.”