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"Thor's an idiot. I bet they're incredibly detailed." She leaned forward, interested. "What's your favorite build?"

"Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk. It’s a stealth plane. Took three months. Every rivet perfect." Christ, I sounded like a nerd. Iwasa nerd. "It's stupid—"

"It's not stupid." Fierce certainty in her voice. "It's meditation. It's control. It's taking chaos and making order." She grinned. "Plus planes are cool. Very phallic, but cool."

I choked on my tea. "Phallic? This one doesn’t look very—"

"All that thrusting through the air,” she cut me off, a dreamy look in her eye. “Very masculine." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Bet you look hot when you're concentrating. All focused and precise. Steady hands working on tiny parts . . ."

"You're incorrigible."

"You love it." She popped a tiny cake in her mouth, humming with pleasure. "Mm. Lemon. Want some?"

She held out another cake, and I leaned forward to take it from her fingers. Her breath hitched when my lips brushed her fingertips, and suddenly the air between us went electric again.

"So what else?" I asked, voice rougher than intended. "What does Lena Rivera dream about when she's not turning skin into art?"

"You mean besides riding off into the sunset on a purple motorcycle with a dangerous man?" Her foot found mine under the table. "I want to open another shop someday. Maybe a chain. Build something special—a nationwide space where art and healing meet. Where people feel safe being vulnerable."

"You'll do it." No doubt in my mind. "You're too stubborn not to."

"Stubborn. Is that what we're calling it?" Her toes traced my ankle, and I had to grip the table edge. "What about you? What do you dream of?"

The question hit deeper than she probably intended. What did I dream of? For so long, it had just been survival. Then purpose through the club. But sitting here with her, watching her eyes light up with dreams and mischief in equal measure . . .

"This," I admitted quietly. "Someone who sees past the damage. Who doesn't run when things get dark. Who makes me remember there's more to life than duty and ghosts."

Her foot stilled against mine. "Tyson . . ."

"And maybe a bigger table," I added, needing to lighten the moment before I said too much. "This dollhouse furniture is killing me."

She laughed, but her eyes stayed soft. "We should probably go soon anyway. Before these ladies stage an intervention."

"Or call the cops."

"Please. That lady in the corner definitely has a bad boy fetish. She's been staring at your forearms for twenty minutes." Lena signaled for the check. "Bet she goes home and reads biker romance novels."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it," she repeated, and this time I didn't argue. Couldn't argue with truth.

The check arrived—doily-covered folder and all—and I snatched it before Lena could reach for her wallet.

"I asked you out," I reminded her when she protested.

"Such a gentleman. Very un-biker-like." She watched me count out bills, leaving a generous tip despite the hostile service. "Taking me to tea, paying for tiny sandwiches, not even one bar fight. Duke would be so disappointed."

"Duke can’t know about any of this."

"Our secret," she agreed, and something about the way she said it made my blood heat. "Speaking of secrets . . ."

She leaned across the table, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not wearing anything under this dress."

Chapter 9

Lena

TheridebackfromRosewood's was torture. Pure, exquisite torture. Every bump in the road pressed me tighter against Tyson's back, the dress riding up my bare thighs, nothing between me and the leather seat but thin fabric and terrible decisions. His muscles tensed under my hands when I'd whispered my secret in his ear at the tea shop, and he'd practically dragged me out of there, leaving a gang of shocked grandmothers in our wake.