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“What are we doing?” Joy’s voice whispers in my ear and I almost shit my gypsy skirt.
I also let out a little screech which has Mad Dog banging on my door. “Willa! Will?! That’s it, I’m coming in baby!”
“No!” I screech at the same time a giant boot kicks my door in, the door slamming open.
“Willa! Willa?” Mad Dog freezes in the entrance, gaze bouncing between me and Joy.
“Um, well, I’m just gonna…go.” Joy slowly stares between me and Mad Dog before scurrying out the back door.
“Did she just snort?” Mad Dog asks, his gaze on Joy before bouncing back to me, hands hooked on his hips. “So, I’m guessing you’re OK?”
I blink at him, my jaw opening and closing and yet nothing is coming out. I have no words. Or I have too many. I can't quite decide.
“Oh, ah these are for you.” His big hand shoves a bunch of wilted flowers my way.
“Mad Dog?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Congratulations.”
His brows pull low over his dark eyes. “For what?”
“For finding out you could kick my door in.”
He has the good grace to look apologetic. “Ah, yeah,” his gaze bounces around my home. “Look, I ah, I may have over reacted a little.”
“A little?” We both stare at where my door is not only open, but where the door handle has embedded itself into the drywall behind it.
“Ah, shit. I’ll fix that. Lemme just call the prospe-,” he pulls up short, gaze snapping to mine before shaking his head to himself. “Sorry babe, I’ll sort it. When is a, ah, good time to come back and fix it?” His large hand rubs at the back of his neck.
The tension that was rising starts to ease. I don’t trust a lot of people. Not even the DRMC and I spent days with them hiding out at the Manning farm. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good people. It’s just I’ve learned the hard way that no matter how much I trust a person, they always have the ability to do me wrong. I prefer to keep my circle small. Which means I don’t need prospects coming in and out of my home fixing my door. It’s dangerous enough having Mad Dog do it. For entirely different reasons.
“Tomorrow,” the words spill out of my mouth before I even have the time to think about them properly. “I finish work early on Thursdays. So, I’ll be able to let you in.” My eyes drift to the broken door. “Or maybe you’ll just let yourself in.”
His jaw tightens a little and he runs a hand down his beard. “I’ll get the door done today. The wall I’ll take care of tomorrow. I ain’t leaving you unsafe, babe.”
“I’ve managed on my own this long,” I snap before I can hold back. It’s a problem of mine. Spouting shit before my brain has had time to process. It’s gotten me into a world of trouble. You’d think I would have learned by now.
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. Still need to fix my fuck ups.” He gives me a crooked smile.
The same one that hooked me in the first place and I try to resist even while my brain and vagina points out that it wouldn't take much to hitch my skirt up and ride this man seven ways to Sunday.
“Ah, want me to put these in water?” he asks, arching his brow, shaking the limp flowers in his hand.
“Oh, I’ll do that. You do,” my gaze settles on my poor, forlorn door. The one I painted bright yellow not long after moving in. It took me three coats and two trips to Lowes to get it done, but it was totally worth it. “You do whatever you need to to fix my door.”
I take the flowers from him, making sure our hands don’t brush and walk with purpose to my kitchen to find a vase. Squatting low, I wonder why the hell I put my vases in the annoying little corner cupboard. My knees groan a little and I make a half assed promise to myself that I’ll go back to yoga tomorrow. That’ll keep my knees in good health and me as far from Mad Dog as possible.
With that amazing plan secured in my brain I move to the sink, blasting the faucet to fill my floral vase. Mad Dog is in the other room muttering to himself and I find my lips tipping up without me telling them to. The traitors. They can join the other parts of my body that seem to be having a reaction to the biker in my home.
I need to get this under control. I made a promise to myself that I would never let another man, let alone another biker take over my life, and I meant it. Mad Dog may mean well and make my body sing, but my mind is made up. I’m living my best life, in my cute little house with a job I love and friends to spend time with. That’s enough for me.
Chapter 2
Mad Dog
“Status Report!” Is barked at me and it takes everything in me to slow my pulse rate.
