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“This is impressive,” she says, rolling her hand along the bottom rope and momentarily pausing. “I enjoy giving you shit, Everest, but I’m sincere when I say your dedication to the kids in this community is commendable.”

Outside, the noise swells as Charlie’s voice cracks through the megaphone. He is about to announce the raffle winners.

With that, the tour is over.

London and I drift toward the door, sunlight slapping us in the face as we step out into the hot, sticky southern, no-mercy kind of heat. A ripple of laughter explodes nearby. Then, out of nowhere, a swarm of kids charges past like a damn stampede.

I react on instinct. My hand clamps around London’s waist, hauling her against me just as a kid barrels too close. Her body crashes into mine, her soft curves press against my chest, and fuck if it doesn’t short-circuit my brain.

London gasps, her hands braced against me and her eyes snapping to mine with surprise. Her pupils dilate, and her lips part like she’s about to speak but can’t find the words.

I keep my hand on her waist, feeling the heat of her skin burning through the thin fabric of her shirt.

I should let her go.

But I don’t.

Neither does she.

We’re locked in. Everything around us fades. It’s just the two of us in this charged second. Right now, all I can think about is how good she would taste if I leaned in and kissed her.

“Lon.” A voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

I tear my eyes from hers and see Promise waving from across the parking lot, where the rest of the women are gathered under the shade of a couple of tents, all laughing and sipping on something cold.

I look down at London. She blinks, the spell broken, and steps back, slipping from my grasp and putting distance between us and what almost happened. Without speaking, she turns, walks away and doesn’t looking back.

My jaw is tight, with every muscle in my body wound like a goddamn spring as I watch her go.

Kiwi walks up with a tray full of baked goods and a gigantic grin. “She’s got you by the balls, mate.”

I grunt and turn my attention back to London, tracking her as she joins the women.

“Here, have a cookie, brother. Sometimes, it helps to eat your feelings.” He chuckles and nudges the tray at me. “Don’t worry, big guy, we’ve all been there.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t say anything and snatch a motherfucking cookie off the tray. Remaining silent, my gaze still on London, I wonder what I’d have done if Promise hadn’t interrupted, and contemplate what the hell I’m supposed to do about the woman taking up too much space in my head.

Later that night, we all hang out at Twisted Throttle, unwinding from a long-ass day. My brothers and their women have all claimed their usual spaces. The bar is alive with chaos, music, and muffled conversation. It’s loud, rowdy, and familiar.

It’s a good night.

We earned it.

With a beer in one hand, I stake out my usual spot near the entrance, leaning against the wall as laughter swells and the music intensifies.

I scan the room through the haze of smoke and the scent of spilled beer.

My senses are heightened, and I watch for anything amiss because I can’t shake this undercurrent of tension.

It feels like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Needing a breather, I step outside, light a cigarette, and exhale the smoke into the thick New Orleans night. As always, Bourbon Street is alive. I watch a group of musicians pack up and drag their battered instruments down the sidewalk.

Upon hearing the clicking of heels, I glance to my left, spotting a woman pulling away from some tatted frat boy and heading in my direction. She has long legs, painted lips, and is wearing a dress that belongs in a backroom.

“You sure are a hard man to miss.” Her eyes run the length of my body like she’s already undressing me.

I take another drag, staring straight ahead. “Ain’t lookin’ for company.”

She smirks, stepping closer, invading my space. “Maybe not, but you're getting it anyway.” Her hand grazes my arm when a voice cuts through the street noise like a blade.

“Oh, sweetie,” London calls from behind, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “He’s not into women who smell like cheap perfume and desperation.”

The woman looks around me at London, her arms crossed, locked and loaded with attitude. She’s wearing confidence like a second skin and the kind of smile that promises trouble.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman spits.

London tilts her head. “Oh, I’m just the woman who can spot a thirsty trainwreck from a mile away. You must be exhausted chasing attention in those heels all night.”

The woman snorts. “Jealousy looks ugly on you, sweetheart.”

London doesn’t blink. “Not as ugly as those crusty feet and ratchet dress.”

I damn near choke on my breath. The way London slices with that mouth of hers. Jesus . I almost feel bad for the woman. I don’t say a word. I keep my expression neutral and let London do what she does best by setting a fire and walking away without blinking.

The guy the woman left behind finally notices she is not at his side. “Hey.” He angrily strides over and jabs his finger into my chest. “You trying to take my girl, bro?”

I flick my cigarette away and sigh. I do not have time for this shit. I stare at the dumbass.

He steps closer. “You think you’re better than me?”

“Absolutely,” I mutter.

He swings.

Or tries to.

I sidestep, grab his shirt collar, and slam him into the wall hard enough to make his head crack against the brick. “You want to walk away,” I say quietly. “Or you want to leave here without teeth?”

He struggles against my hold, trying to shove back, but he’s sloppy.

The bastard’s pride is writing checks his ass can’t cash.

“Fuck you.” He spits, then looks right past me at London.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, with a half-smile on her lips.

It’s not for him, but it’s enough to set the motherfucker off.

He sneers. “What the fuck are you grinning at, whore. Why don’t you get over here and suck my dick, bitch. ”

My vision flashes red.

One punch.

His nose shatters beneath my knuckles before his head jerks back, then down before his body crumples, out before he hits the concrete.

I stare down at him, blood already trickling from his nose.

My breathing is slow and tight, my fists still clenched at my sides, and my pulse hammering in my ears.

I didn’t hit the fucker for me. I did it because I’ll be damned if a man spits filth, disrespecting London.

No one talks to her like that. Not on my watch.

I shift my gaze to his woman, frozen nearby. “Get him the fuck out of here.”

She hurries to wake him, muttering curses while giving the asshole a couple of slaps to his face to rouse him. When he finally comes to, they walk away.

London lets out a slow breath. “Well, that was subtle.”

I glance at her. “If you hadn’t been out here marking your territory, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Excuse me?”

"You heard me.”

"I was trying to help.”

“Didn’t need it.”

London steps closer. “You didn’t look like you minded. I’m willing to bet you enjoyed it.” She calls me out.

There’s heat in the air.

It’s not from the weather or the fight.

It’s from us.

London steps back, her eyes dancing with something more than the sass she's throwing my way. “Let the others know I’m out for the night.”

“Runnin’?” I challenge why she’s leaving.

“From what?”

“You tell me, babe,” I press, holding her in place with my stare.

She doesn’t answer—simply glares at me before turning and walking away.

And just like every other time I watch her, my mind is racing with everything I keep bottled up.

London isn’t mine yet.

But mark my words, one of these nights, she will be.