“He didn’t relay that to me,” I say after a moment. “How soon is soon?”
“Judge didn’t specify, but you know him. Soon means yesterday.”
“I see.”
Commotion rings loudly through the receiver. Hashtag yells out something, and Shelby’s angry voice nearly shatters my eardrum.
“Hey, man, I gotta run. I’ll text you what I find.”
“Sounds good. Have fun, man.”
The connection goes dead, but all I can do is stare at my phone, thinking of what I have to do.
How do I tell Cora I have to go back?
CORA
“I don’t rememberthe last time I’ve been on a date,” I admit, smiling across the table at TK.
“I’ve never been on one in my life,” he replies.
“What?” My voice echoes through the restaurant. Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at us. Forcing a smile, I wave an apology before leaning forward and lowering my voice. “What? How have youneverbeen on a date?”
TK shrugs. “Just never met anyone I wanted to actually spend time with.”
Leaning back in my seat, I take a sip of my wine and consider that. “Never?”
“Nope.”
“Then why me?” The question is out before I can stop it, and part of me regrets saying it out loud because it shows a weakness in me. But the other part of me is desperate to hear his answer.
“You’re not just anyone. You’re special.”
His line is so cheesy, but even after everything that’s happened between us, I’m begging to believe him. What other reason would this man have for sticking around Sturgis when the motorcycle rally is packed up and gone? What other man would stick his neck out against the president of a motorcycle club for a single mother he wasn’t interested in?
“You like me.”
He raises his brow. “I guess you could say that.”
“You do. You like me.”
“Well, you like me too,” he replies, grinning.
“Sometimes I do.”
TK barks out a laugh. “Fuckin’ liar.”
I grin at him in response at the same time the waitress returns to our table with our drinks and a basket of bread.
Silence fills the space between us as we sample the warm bread and our drinks.
“Why do you have a phoenix on your motorcycle?” I ask.
He considers my question before responding. “My old man is the pastor of a church up in New York State.” He stares down at the table, and I can tell instantly this is something he’s not used to talking about.
“Most people would think my childhood was perfect, with my dad running the church and my mom being a homemaker, doing whatever the hell he told her to.” Anger drips from those last few words. “I did too, for a long time. I went to school, said my prayers, collected bibles and pamphlets from the church pews after each service.” His eyes dance when he looks up at me. “I was a literal choir boy.”
That makes me smile. “Whoa, that couldn’t have been good. I’ve heard you sing.”