Chapter 4
Chapter Four
From the threadbare clothes on her back to the plastic-covered seat beneath her, Sunday was drowning in disappointment.
She was disappointed in herself. She was also terrified sitting there alone, waiting for a perfect stranger.
And rightly so. She knew her ex-boyfriend and his friends were out there, hunting her down.
Especially after she had named them as the men who’d hurt her.
What had happened to her should never happen to anyone. Somewhere deep inside, she’d believed she was untouchable, that nothing so terrible could ever happen to her. How na?ve she had been.
If only she’d been smarter, stronger. If only she hadn’t let herself believe Dalton’s lies.
But that wasn’t the truth—no, it was that she had wanted to be loved so desperately that she chose to believe them.
A person can only be beaten so many times before learning a lesson.
She had tried leaving. More than once. But each time Dalton found her, he dragged her back to his house like a prize to be won along with a punishment to be administered.
Eventually, Dalton had had enough. He decided to teach her a lesson she would never forget. Or at least, the parts she could still remember.
Watching customers come and go, Sunday sat stiffly, silently praying the man her sister had sent would hurry up.
“Honey, you can’t just sit here without ordering something,” an older woman said, looming over her with a sour look.
Sunday glanced up, eyes tired. “I’ll take a decaf coffee.”
The waitress narrowed her eyes. “Are you planning to drink a whole pot?”
Sunday bristled, not in the mood for trouble. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I’ll have to brew a fresh pot of decaf just for you,” the woman snapped, voice sharp as a whip.
“Isn’t that your job?” Sunday shot back, matching the glare with a hard stare of her own.
Watching the waitress walk away, mumbling under her breath, Sunday’s gaze drifted out the window beside the booth in front of hers.
The view improved as a Harley rumbled into a parking spot.
The man who swung off was older, with a rugged handsomeness—not the kind that makes you catch your breath the kind who would definitely turn heads when he walked into a room.
He looked like the kind of guy who’d rescue a girl in trouble.
Sunday’s eyes dropped back to the clear plastic-coated menu. The smell of food cooking made her stomach growl. She unfolded the small wad of cash in her hand that totaled about ninety dollars. If she ate light, maybe she could keep the cost down.
Scanning the menu, she searched for something affordable, then she set it aside, and plucked a napkin from the silver dispenser and tried to wipe the sticky residue off her fingers. Glancing around, she wondered if anyone had cleaned these menus since the place first opened.
The little bell above the door jingled, and Sunday’s head snapped up in panic.
The biker stepped inside, scanning the tiny restaurant with calm, steady eyes. When his gaze locked onto hers, Sunday wanted nothing more than to disappear by crawling under the table and vanishing. But still, she held her stare.
If she hadn’t seen him get off the bike, she never would have pegged him as a biker.
He looked more like a guy who played guitar in a weekend band, or maybe someone who worked at a department store.
The dark blue button-down shirt he wore gave him a clean-cut, almost ordinary vibe that didn’t quite fit the rough edges of the Harley outside.
Sunday’s attention flicked away from the man as the waitress returned, setting down her coffee cup with a little more force than necessary.
“You ready to order?” the woman asked, clearly still annoyed.
Before Sunday could answer, the biker slid into the booth across from her.
“Can I get a decaf coffee, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and easy.
Sunday nearly laughed at the way the waitress jumped at the sound of his voice.
“I just made a fresh pot, sugar,” she said, suddenly all smiles.
“Perfect,” he replied, tossing her a wink that sent her sauntering off, much less sour than before.
Sunday rubbed her arm absently, her nerves creeping back in. She dropped her gaze to the coffee cup, then let her hands settle in her lap.
“Sunday Mornin’?” the man asked gently.
Her eyes lifted, guarded. “Who’s asking?”
“A guy who likes M&M’s in his buttered popcorn.”
The words settled over her like a warm blanket. Her shoulders eased, the knot in her chest loosening. Monday had told her the same thing and said. “If he doesn’t say that exact thing, run fast.”
A smile flickered at the edge of her mouth. “I like chocolate in my popcorn, too.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Sunday. I’m Texas. You can call me that or Ange … your choice.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, voice quieter now, but steady.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked, hoping the answer was no, because he was starving.
“No, just got coffee.”
“Are you hungry? Say yes, because I am.”
“Yes,” she replied with a small smile, feeling more comfortable with Texas by the second.
The waitress returned, setting his coffee down and completely ignoring Sunday.
“Sugar, you know what you’d like?” she asked Texas, her tone sticky-sweet.
Texas gave her a charming grin. He knew how to handle a salty old broad like this one. “Sweetheart, could you give us a minute?”
Sunday watched as the woman placed a hand on his shoulder with just a little too much familiarity. “You take your time, sugar,” she said, voice suddenly syrupy. Then she sashayed off, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking across the linoleum with every step.
Texas picked up the coffee cup and took a slow sip of the black brew. When he set it down, his eyes met hers with quiet certainty.
“Sunday, once we finish breakfast, we’re heading to North Bay. I’ve got friends there. Good people who’ll put us up for the night.”
He saw the flicker of worry cross her face, the tension she tried to hide behind a calm expression.
“I wouldn’t take you there if it wasn’t safe,” he added gently. “You’ve got my word on that.”
“How do you know my sister?” Sunday asked, her tone careful but direct.
She needed to know. The dynamic between this man and Monday mattered. How well did her sister actually know him? Was he truly a friend, or was he just someone hired to get her to Montreal?
Texas didn’t flinch.
“The club I’m affiliated with owns the bar where she works part-time,” he said simply, meeting her eyes.
He didn’t see why the details mattered. What mattered was that he was here, doing the job. Getting Sunday safely to Montreal. Getting her back to her family.
“You mean the strip club,” Sunday said, the sarcasm slipping out before she could stop it. Maybe it was the way he said her sister’s name—too familiar, too easy.
Texas didn’t miss a beat. “It’s still a bar, Doll.”
His tone was calm, not defensive, just matter of fact. He wasn’t taking the bait.
Feeling like crap for how it sounded, Sunday rushed to explain, “Please don’t think I’m being a snob. I’m not. She’s just always referred to it as a strip club. Monday’s always bartended in places like that. Says the money’s great. I just…” she sighed. “I don’t know why she still bartends.”
She could hear herself rambling and mentally begged herself to shut up.
Texas tilted his head, curious. “Why would you say that?”
“I mean, Monday’s a traveling nurse. She works all over the place.”
“I don’t have an answer for you,” Texas said, setting the menu aside. “You know what you’re having?”
“Yes.”
He smiled and waved the waitress over. “Sweetheart, I think we’re ready to order.”
The waitress walked up, pad in hand, flashing a smile at Texas. “What will you and your daughter have?”
Sunday choked on her coffee. She grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth, clearing her throat. “He’s not my father. He’s not even old enough.”
The waitress’s eyes widened. “Sorry, sugar.”
“It’s fine,” Texas said smoothly, grinning as he leaned back. “My sister hates being mistaken for my daughter, too. Our dad really hates it.”
Noticing the waitress still flustered, Texas gave her an easy smile and rattled off his breakfast order. He listened as Sunday ordered hers, then added, “And we’ll take two club sandwiches to go.”
When the waitress walked off, Texas turned back to Sunday. That comment about being mistaken for his daughter had stuck with him and had him wondering.
“How old are you?”
Sunday set her coffee cup down carefully. “Twenty-one. How old are you?”
God. She was just a kid. “Thirty-five,” he said, trying not to let it show on his face.
The distant rumble of bikes pulling into the lot had Texas leaning back against the booth, trying to get a glimpse out of the window.
He wasn’t wearing his colors—nothing that marked him as a club member. Today, he was just a guy having breakfast. No patch, no business. Still, old habits didn’t die easy.
He couldn’t see who it was, and that didn’t sit right.
Turning back to Sunday, his voice remained casual, but there was something measured behind it.
“Would you mind switching places with me?”
“No, I get it.”
Sunday scooted out of the booth and moved to the other side, letting Texas take the seat facing the door.
She watched as he tied his hair up into a man bun, the move suddenly he shifting him from looking like a member of a rock band or a biker to someone more like a thirty-something tech guy.
Once they settled back into the booth, Sunday decided some small talk wouldn’t hurt. They didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention by seeming too familiar.
She leaned in slightly, voice low. “Do you rescue people a lot?”
He smiled softly. “No, not really. I usually help women with kids get away from abusive situations.”
His eyes flicked to the faded bruises on Sunday’s arm, and he thought maybe it was time to broaden his network.
The bell over the door chimed, pulling his attention away. A group of men walked in—none wearing colors, which told him they were casual riders.
He almost sighed in relief. Texas didn’t need anyone he knew spotting him here in Sudbury. Not yet.
Sitting there, Texas realized he should’ve thought this through better. He should have walked in, paid for her coffee, and ridden out of town. They could’ve eaten in the next town over.
But with Sudbury’s population of a hundred and sixty thousand, he figured he had little to worry about.
Noticing Sunday still waiting for an answer, he finally spoke.
“My family owns an apple orchard. We have a restaurant on the property, with a gift shop attached. I also run a cider mill.”
“That sounds nice,” Sunday said softly.
“I’m sure it’s nice for visitors …” Texas said, “but for us, it’s a lot of hard work.”
He looked up as the waitress approached with their plates.
“Sweetheart, when you get a chance, can I get a refill and the check?”
“Sure, sugar.”
“And can I get a large milk?”
“Yes,” she huffed, barely masking her annoyance before turning back to Texas. “Anything else you need, sugar?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said, walking off.
Sunday giggled, watching the expression on Texas’s face. “Five bucks says she forgets my milk.”
Texas laughed, his eyes following the bike riders being led to the booths in front of and beside them.
“Sunny,” he said quietly.
Sunday looked up at Texas, catching the familiarity in the name he used—one Monday sometimes called him.
“Ange?” she asked quietly, as if confirming the meaning behind the other name.
He gave a small nod.
She lowered her head again, not caring whether the waitress brought her milk or not. All she wanted was to eat, then leave.
When the waitress returned with the milk and refilled their coffee cups, Sunday barely managed a quiet “thank you.”
She shook her head slightly when she saw the waitress flirting with the other men nearby. Maybe they’d be too distracted to notice her and Texas before they slipped out.