Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Romeo
My phone buzzed on the table beside me, and I reached for it without thinking. That had become a problem. Every damn notification could have been Fiona.
Ma Belle: I’m hiding in the back until Sugar needs me.
I stared at the screen for a second.
Hiding.
Fiona didn’t complain much. Even when something bothered her, she usually buried it under a joke or acted like it wasn’t worth mentioning.
Me: Rough day?
Ma Belle: Strange day.
Me: More interesting.
Ma Belle: Not really. One of the customers keeps trying to talk to me.
I leaned back against the couch and read it again.
Yeah, I didn’t like the sound of that shit. A man flirted once, took his shot, got nowhere, and moved the fuck along. That was normal.
Coming back often enough for Fiona to feel like she had to hide?
That was something fucking else entirely.
Me: That’s generally how customers work.
Ma Belle: Very funny
Me: What makes this one strange?
Her answer took a little longer and I tried to tamp down the feeling I knew all too well.
Ma Belle: He asks too many questions.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Me: Like whether the ice cream is dairy-free?
Ma Belle: Like whether I have a boyfriend and what time I leave.
That fucking changed things.
I stood and walked toward the other end of the common room before one of the brothers noticed my expression and decided to get curious. Some stranger wanted to know whether Fiona was available and when she left work.
It wasn’t nothing. It was exactly what the fuck it sounded like.
Me: Maybe he’s writing your biography.
Ma Belle: It won’t be very exciting.
Me: I disagree.
That part was easy. I could’ve spent hours listening to her talk about things she probably thought were boring. School. Granny. The Creamery. Some stupid argument she’d had with Georgie. Apparently, I’d become fascinated by the ordinary details of one woman’s life.
Ma Belle: He called me sweetheart six times.
My feet just... stopped. One moment I was walking; the next, my legs refused to carry me forward, like they’d decided on their own that this was far enough.
Me: Six?
Ma Belle: I started counting after the second one.
It had bothered her enough to count. Fiona was expressive. There wasn’t a chance in hell this guy didn’t know what he was doing. No fucking way he didn’t see how uncomfortable he made her.
Me: You don’t like sweetheart?
Ma Belle: Not from him.
My mouth twitched despite myself.
Me: Important distinction.
Ma Belle: He leaned across the counter today and touched my hand when I gave him his change.
The smile disappeared. I read the message again.
Fuck no!
There were touches people dismissed because they were small. Easy to explain away. Accidental contact. A hand lingering a second too long. And then there was the fact that Fiona had bothered telling me about it.
She hadn’t liked it.
That was enough for me.
Me: Smooth.
Ma Belle: It wasn’t.
No.
It fucking wasn’t.
Me: What was he buying?
Ma Belle: Coffee.
I stared at that one for a second. Coffee? At a goddamn ice-cream shop?
Me: How does a man spend that much time in an ice-cream shop and order coffee?
Ma Belle: That’s the part you object to?
Me: I’m deciding how much I dislike him.
Ma Belle: You don’t know him.
Me: He drinks bad coffee and has no game. I know enough.
Keeping my responses light was the fucking hardest thing I’d done in my life.
Ma Belle: Our coffee isn’t bad
Me: You’re defending the wrong man, Cher.
Ma Belle: I’m defending the Creamery
Me: As long as we’re clear.
Ma Belle: GTG. Sugar is calling me back.
Me: Go be charming.
Ma Belle: Apparently that’s your job
Me: You noticed.
The conversation ended there. I stared at her last message for a moment before locking my phone. The flirtation should’ve distracted me.
It didn’t.
Some man had been asking when she got off work.
I walked down the hall toward King’s office. The light beneath his door was on, and I pushed it open without knocking.
King looked up from the paperwork spread across his desk, irritation flashing across his face. “Something I can help you with, Romeo?”
“I need to go out of town,” I said, stepping into the office. “A few days. Maybe a week.”
His pen stopped above the page. “Where?”
I leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Don’t ask.”
His eyebrows went up, and the look he gave me made it clear exactly what he thought of that answer. “That’s not how this works.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched between us. King studied me for a few seconds before setting the pen down and leaning back in his chair.
“You in trouble?” he asked.
“No.”
“You about to be?”
I considered the question for half a second. “Not if I handle it right.”
King rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Romeo. You’re asking me to let you disappear for a week without telling me where you’re going or why. You know how that looks?”
“I do.”
“And you’re still not going to tell me.”
“No.”
His jaw worked as he stared at me. I could almost see him deciding how badly he wanted to argue about it.
“When are you leaving?” he finally asked.
“Soon as I’m done talking to you.”
“Jesus Christ.” He leaned back from the desk, the chair rolling several inches beneath the force of it. “Fine. But you check in. Every fucking day. And if this blows back on the club—”
“It won’t,” I cut in.
King pointed at me. “If I get a call from some sheriff or rival MC asking questions, you better have a damn good explanation ready.”
“I will.”
He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my office.”
I didn’t make him say it twice.
I went straight to my room, grabbed a duffel, and threw in enough clothes to last a few days. I wasn’t planning a vacation. I just needed to see the man for myself. Needed to know whether Fiona was being overly cautious or whether the bastard had earned the warning buzzing at the back of my skull.
And if he had...
I zipped the bag.
I’d deal with it.
The drive to Rosewood took twenty-three hours. I stopped for gas, ate when I had to, and kept my phone on the passenger seat the entire way. Fiona texted me twice. Once to say goodnight. Once the next morning to ask how I slept.
Me: Fine.
That was technically an answer.
I just left out the part where I’d spent the night driving across half the country.
By the time I reached Rosewood, exhaustion had settled behind my eyes, but sleep wasn’t happening yet. I checked into a cheap motel on the edge of town, dropped my bag on the bed, then went looking.
The Creamery sat on Main Street, pale yellow with white trim and a hand-painted sign over the door. Bright. Cheerful. The kind of place that didn’t belong anywhere near the things I was thinking.
I parked where I could watch without being obvious.
Fiona’s shift started at three. I’d memorized her schedule weeks ago when she’d told me.
At 2:55, she appeared, and my chest tightened before I could stop it. Light brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Jeans. Pale pink Creamery shirt. Apron tied around her waist.
She disappeared inside, and for the next hour I watched customers come and go. Families. Teenagers. An older couple. Nobody interesting.
Then a man walked in, and something in me went still.
Late twenties. Brown hair. Khakis and a button-down shirt. Nothing about him screamed threat.
That was probably why I disliked him immediately.
I watched through the window as he leaned against the counter while Fiona worked. She stepped back. He leaned closer. She smiled because she was working, not because she wanted to.
Then she handed him his change.
His fingers covered hers.
There it was.
Small enough for anyone else to ignore.
Not me.
I got out of the truck.
He left a few minutes later with a coffee in his hand, and I let him get half a block ahead before I followed. Three blocks later, he entered a small office building.
I waited.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
When I went inside, his name was printed neatly on the door upstairs.
Convenient.
I opened it and he looked up from behind his desk. “Can I help you?”
I closed the door behind me without answering. His expression changed as he took me in—the tattoos, the knife at my side, and probably the fact that I had absolutely no business being in his office. “Who are you?”
I crossed the room and stopped in front of his desk. “Doesn’t matter who I am,” I said quietly. “You’ve been bothering someone who belongs to me.”
Color drained from his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The girl at the Creamery,” I said, watching his eyes betray him before the rest of his face could catch up. “The one you’ve been calling sweetheart. The one whose hand you touched without permission.”
“I...” His gaze darted toward the door. “I was just being friendly.”
“No.”
One word—that was all it took for his mouth to shut.
“You made her uncomfortable,” I continued.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t give a fuck what you meant.” I stepped closer and planted my hands on the edge of his desk. “What matters is what happens next. You stay the fuck away from her. You don’t go back to the Creamery. You don’t wait around for her to get off work. You don’t ask anybody about her.”
His hands shifted against the desktop, some of the fear giving way to irritation. “You can’t tell me where I can go.”
I smiled.
“Sure as fuck can.”
His gaze flicked toward the door again.
Bad idea.
I leaned in closer over the desk and lowered my voice. “Don’t make me come back.”
His eyes found mine.
Whatever he saw there did the job.
He nodded.
“Good.” I straightened and headed toward the door.
Behind me, he cleared his throat. “Who the hell are you?”
I stopped with my hand on the knob.
Nobody Fiona needs to know was here.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “You’re worst fucking nightmare.”
Then I left.
I stayed another day to be sure the asshole understood. I parked where I could see the Creamery and watched Fiona work through another shift.
He never showed.
Smart man.
Driving away after she walked safely to her car was harder than it should’ve been. I was more than halfway back to Nebraska when my phone buzzed.
Ma Belle: That guy didn’t come in today. Two days in a row.
A satisfied smile tugged at my mouth.
Me: Maybe he finally got the hint.
Ma Belle: Maybe.
Me: You sound relieved.
Ma Belle: I am.
Me: Good. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.
Ma Belle: Thanks for listening.
Me: Anytime, Cher.
I set the phone back on the seat beside me.
She thought he’d lost interest.
Good.
That was exactly what she needed to think.