Page 24 of Heart of Stone

“They settle okay?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. For a big man, Hawk moves like a ghost.

“Jesus.” I press a hand to my chest. “Make some noise next time.”

He drops into the chair beside me, stretching out his long legs. “In my clubhouse, remember?”

Right. His club. His rules. His… everything.

“They’re fine,” I say, answering his original question. “Though I think Steel might have permanently damaged his reputation as a badass. Last I saw, the twins were trying to convince him to wear fairy wings.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Prospects need to be broken in somehow.”

We sit in silence for a while, the night air heavy with humidity and unspoken words. A loud cheer erupts from the garage, followed by laughter.

“You can join them, you know,” I say. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

“It’s fine.” He props his booted feet up on the railing.

The night sounds swirl around us—a distant owl hooting in the trees, the rhythmic hum of cicadas, and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a faint, warm breeze. The air feels thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint tang of gasoline drifting from the garage. Overhead, the moon hangs low, veiled by a patchwork of clouds that seem to trap the weight of the night, pressing down on us in a heavy, unyielding silence.

I pick at the label on my beer. “Look, about us staying. I appreciate the help, but?—”

“But nothing. You’re here until the power’s back.” His tone doesn’t allow for argument.

More silence. More tension. More questions I’m not sure I want answered.

“The kids like you,” I say finally, desperate to break the quiet.

“Kids are easy. They don’t want anything from you except attention.”

Unlike adults, goes unsaid.

“You have experience with kids?”

“Some.” His voice flattens, warning me off that topic.

I take the hint, returning to my beer, but I feel his eyes on me, heavy as a touch.

“Why’d you kiss me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Why’d you kiss me back?” he counters.

Touché.

I trace my finger through the condensation on my beer bottle. “That’s not an answer.”

“Neither is that.”

The tension crackles between us, thick as the humid air. Another burst of laughter floats out from the garage, but it feels distant, removed from the bubble we’ve found ourselves in.

“This is a bad idea,” I say finally.

“Probably.”

“I have the kids to think about.”

“I know.”