Chapter 9
Tessa
I hear the throaty roar of multiple motorcycles before I see them. The sound is distant at first and draws closer until they’re right on top of me. I know it’s Jasper and his club brothers without even looking.
The sound of their engines humming away in my driveway makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t know why, but my best guess is it is either out of fear or excitement.
Fear because they are outlaw bikers, after all.
Then again, it could be simply because I’m excited to see him, the father of this child I’m carrying.
A weird mixture of danger and protectiveness radiates off him.
If I’m being honest, it confuses me as much as the sight of him has my heart racing.
I can’t resist peeking out the window to double-check.
Pulling back the curtain, I see them into my driveway.
They turn off their motors and pull their helmets off, smiling and talking with one another.
Today, there’s a beat-up truck trailing behind them.
It parks on the street right in front of my driveway.
The strange thing is that the bed of the truck is loaded high with stacks of plywood, bundles of shingles, and enough lumber to build a small house.
Jasper’s club brothers have been good at keeping their distance.
They’ve also been discreet and haven’t come to my door even once.
And they are dangerously efficient at guarding my house.
I’ve been getting text messages from Mr. Whitmore complaining about the bikers hanging around my place.
My best guess is that he’s tried to come back, and they’ve cut him off at the pass.
I’m glad about that. I don’t want that asshole dropping by anytime it strikes his fancy.
Whitmore is that weird combination of creepy, persistent, and entitled. It’s a dangerous combination.
But I’ve been second-guessing myself a lot lately.
Especially about trusting an outlaw biker like Jasper.
I remember how he grabbed Whitmore by the back of his neck and yanked him off my porch and had him running scared in no time.
It’s all great and good that he’s appointed himself as my protector, but what happens when he starts directing all that at me?
If he treats others with casual roughness, I’d be stupid to think he won’t get around to eventually treating me that way as well.
And now he’s shown up, out of the blue. I worry he’s going to do a bunch of expensive repairs and then try to take it out of the money he owes me for being his surrogate. I might have been up for a deal like that if I didn’t need the money for my gran.
Irritation churns in my stomach as I realize that I need to start setting some boundaries with this man before he starts running my whole life. So, I put my big girl panties on and step onto the porch, intending to get this the hell over with ASAP.
One of the younger guys catches my notice when he jumps down from the bed of the truck.
He’s tall, tatted, and appears to still be growing into that leather prospect’s vest he’s wearing.
He starts unstrapping the load with a smile on his face, whistling some happy tune.
Another prospect pulls open the tailgate and grabs a stack of what looks like roofing materials.
My roof is in really bad shape, so it makes sense they would want to start there.
These men are motivated and moving with purpose.
They’re also acting like I hired them, only I didn’t.
My jaw tightens, I need to tell him I can’t afford this.
Jasper finally gets off his cell phone and swings one leg over the bike and plants his boots on the pavement.
He moves towards me with a slow swagger, but I’m looking directly at him this time and notice something that I didn’t before.
There’s a slight hitch in his step. It’s a limp, barely there, but I catch it.
He’s favoring his left leg. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him.
He’s still confident, walks with his head held high, and has a warm smile on his face.
Damn, I can’t help but find him attractive.
He’s an outlaw biker, and I’m apparently a woman with a weakness for bad boys.
Even with that limp, he’s sexy as hell. He’s all broad shoulders under his black t-shirt, and his leather cut hangs off his muscular form.
He’s got enough of a beard to be more than stubble and less than full.
It’s trimmed and gives him that square jaw that women swoon over.
His shoulder-length dark hair is loose today, and it’s a good look for him.
He looks like everything my gran ever warned me about.
He’s clean enough to think about falling in bed with, but dirty enough to spark a long list of reasons why I shouldn’t even go there in my mind.
He catches me admiring him and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head with a lopsided smile.
I roll my eyes, telling myself not to even think about him as a man, much less a sexy one.
I’m his surrogate, nothing more. I need to do the job and get paid so I can take care of my gran.
I can’t get sidetracked by his charm and silver tongue.
I’ve got to remember that this man is dragging half a hardware store into my life without even asking.
I cross my arms tighter and step out another few paces.
The prospects move around us. Toolboxes land on the ground with a resounding thunk.
And boots thump against the ground as they march back and forth between the truck and my driveway, unloading their supplies.
My driveway is officially a job site now, apparently.
“Morning, Tessa. You’re looking quite fetching today.” His tone is overly bright, suggesting that he might be teasing me.
So, I respond in kind, “You flirt like a ninety-year-old man with a bad comb-over. You know that, right?”
“Ouch. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.” His eyebrows fly up and he adds earnestly, “In case you’re wondering, it wasn’t me.”
“I’m not paying you to do repairs on my house. While I appreciate the thought, I can’t afford it,” I tell him flatly.
“Damn, girl, I never said you were. Why are you so hell-bent on giving me a hard time today?”
I walk down the steps of the porch and keep going until I’m standing right in front of him.
“You bought supplies and a work crew to my house without clearing it with me first. You didn’t call ahead, shoot me a text, or even ring the damn doorbell.
Are you planning to ride right past that little faux pas? ”
At this point, the truck is already halfway unloaded, and my driveway is nearly full of building supplies.
One of the prospects pulls a ladder off the side rails, sets it up along the side of my house, and then climbs up onto my roof to have a little look.
His crew is bold as brass. They move with confidence, uncaring that their boss and I are having a pointed conversation about this situation.
I realize it’s because they’re used to him getting his way in the end.
My eyes roam back over to Jasper, who’s scratching the back of his neck, looking all kinds of perplexed. “Come again?” he asks, as if he can’t believe I’m objecting.
“I want to know what in the hell you think you’re doing. What is all this?”
He answers like this is normal. “I had a little free time. Thought we’d knock out some work on your place.” He doesn’t tell me the place is falling down around me. He doesn’t have to. That’s pretty obvious to anyone with eyes.
I look past him at the truck and the men hauling gear up to the house.
“We?” I ask. “Why wasn’t I included in the we?”
“Yeah, sorry. Me and the prospects. Your roof needs to be replaced. Figured we’d get it done before the weather turns.”
“You didn’t think to run that by me first?”
His expression doesn’t shift. “Didn’t think I needed your permission to keep the rain from getting to you.”
His manner of speech is very matter of fact. He’s not angry, yelling, put out, or even mildly irritated that I’m questioning him in front of his crew. It’s because he’s not wrong about trying to help me keep a roof over my head. Suddenly, all the fight evaporates, and I tell him mildly,
“Just because I’m carrying your child does not mean you can run my life. You know that, right?”
“Ma’am, I can’t hardly keep my own life rollin’ in the right direction, much less yours.”
Before I can respond, the pickup truck grinds into gear and pulls out, leaving the lingering scent of gasoline hanging in its wake and a ton of supplies sitting in my driveway.
The one on the roof peers over the side and tells Jasper, “It’s a fucking mess up here. We’re gonna have to strip it down to the bones, lay new plywood, and work our way up to the shingles.”
Jasper responds pointedly, “Best get started. This job will take us all working ‘til sundown to finish it.”
The prospects get to work without missing a beat. The one on the roof starts yanking shingles off the roof and throwing them down right beside me. Another pulls away a chunk of old flashing that falls apart in his hands.
Damn, it is even worse than I imagined. I knew the roof was a hot mess, but I didn’t know it was this far gone. I should have climbed up there and had a look for myself.
I don’t say anything else. I just turn and go back inside, feeling a little defeated.
In the kitchen, I lean on my kitchen counter with both hands.
It sometimes feels like every facet of my life is falling apart.
What with my gran being sick, getting fewer shifts at the diner, and worrying about the curveball thrown my way over the surrogacy, I’ve had my hands full lately. And I’m constantly dropping the ball.
My frustration starts to get the better of me, and it comes out in the form of nervous energy.
I need to do something to take my mind off it.
Cleaning and cooking are usually my go-to activities for dealing with anxiety.
I begin wiping counters that are already clean.
The cabinet doors get organized, then reorganized. The fridge is next.
After a couple of hours, I’ve got bread rising on the stove and a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.
My mind keeps going back to Jasper just dropping down on me like Batman and doing very expensive home repairs—ones I could never afford on my own.
The thing is, I don’t want to owe him anything, especially control over me or my life.
My ex always made it seem like he was doing me a favor, one I couldn’t turn down without hurting his feelings, but all his unasked-for favors came with strings attached.
The strings usually involved controlling me in some way.
I don’t want that, especially with a man like Jasper.
He’s a virtual stranger, and I don’t want to cede that much control over to him.
Why should he be making decisions for me when I’m perfectly capable of making decisions for myself?
After him and then the Whitmores, I’ve had enough of people—and especially men—who act like they know what’s best for me.
Jasper doesn’t raise his voice or throw his weight around, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trying to take control.
Even though he’s doing something kind, I still feel like he’s running over me.
I stop removing food from the pan long enough to haul in a few deep breaths.
Suddenly, most of the annoyance drains from my body.
Jasper isn’t my ex, or Mr. Whitmore, or his exceptionally controlling wife.
He’s just a guy who wanted to do me a favor out of the kindness of his heart.
And I got annoyed with him when I should have thanked him.
When lunchtime rolls around, Jasper and his club brothers haven’t slowed down once. They’re fast, loud, and jovial as they work. I’ve been watching them through the kitchen window, climbing down to pick up more supplies at a steady pace all morning. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t impressed.
I’m not reading anything into it because he’s just doing a good deed for the woman carrying his child. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s a gigantic favor because he’s paying for the supplies and providing the labor for free.
So, I decide to thank them by making two big platters of sandwiches, stacked high with meat and cheese.
I fill up a gallon jug full of sweet tea and load up glasses with ice.
Lastly, I fill up a container with my fresh-baked cookies and throw it all on a tray with a pile of napkins.
Then I tote it all out to my back patio and set it on my six-person patio table.