Page 10 of Heart of Stone (Stoneheart MC #1)

ANDI

T he knock comes just as I finish changing Adam's diaper.

"Coming!" I call, juggling the baby while trying to zip up my cutoffs. The power is still out, and the August heat is already making the house stuffy.

I open the door to find the barely dressed woman from last night—Ginger—standing on my porch. She’s wearing tiny shorts and what appears to be a man's button-down shirt.

"Get dressed, honey,” she says, beaming at me with far too much pep for this early in the morning. “You're coming with me."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Your power's out, the contents of your fridge are likely about to expire, and you've got three kids to feed." She peeks around me into the house. "Where are the twins?”

"Um, playing in their room, but how did you?—"

"Perfect. Steel!" she calls over her shoulder. A mountain of a young guy appears at the bottom of my steps. "Get some prospects over here. We're moving her essentials to the clubhouse."

"We're what ?" I squeak.

"Did I stutter?" She plucks Adam from my arms with practiced ease. "Duck filled me in. You need power, we have power. You need help, we have prospects who need something to do besides nurse their hangovers."

"I can't just?—"

"You can and you will. Now, where's your go-bag?"

"My what?"

Ginger sighs dramatically. "Diaper bag? Baby stuff? Things required to keep tiny humans alive?"

"Second door on the right," I say, then shake my head. "Wait, no. I appreciate the offer but?—"

“What are the twins' names?” she asks, breezing past me.

"Abby and Amy, but how do you know about?—”

“Duck,” she answers, still walking toward the hall. "Abby! Amy! Who wants waffles?”

Two squealing tornados shoot from their room, nearly taking Ginger out.

"Damn, that's fighting dirty," I mutter.

"Honey, I haven't even started fighting yet." She bounces Adam, who naturally snuggles right into her chest.

“He likes boobs,” I grumble. “Any boobs, apparently.”

“Smart boy.” She turns toward Hawk's house. "Come on. I've got coffee and air conditioning."

"But—"

"And bacon."

My stomach growls traitorously.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll go out for breakfast and?—”

Ginger cuts me off. “Babe. Stop. You’ve had a rough few days having this thrust upon you. Let us help.”

I hate how my resolve weakens. “Just breakfast.”

Her grin nearly blinds me. “We’ll see. Come, girls!”

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the clubhouse kitchen, eating waffles while I watch a parade of leather-clad men carry my kids' essential belongings across the street.

The twins, having inhaled their food, are in the front yard with Steel, climbing all over the prospect as he ignores their delighted shrieks.

"Put that in the front spare room," Ginger directs a young prospect struggling with Adam’s cot. "And be careful with it!"

"I really don't think—" I start.

"Good. Don't think. Just drink your coffee and let us help." She shifts Adam to her hip. "Besides, Hawk won't mind."

"Hawk won't mind what?"

We both turn to find the man himself filling the doorway, his expression darkening as he takes in the scene.

"Perfect timing!" Ginger chirps. "Your new houseguests just arrived."

Hawk’s gaze sweeps the kitchen, taking in the chaos—the half-eaten breakfast, the baby supplies scattered across the counter, Adam contentedly drooling on Ginger’s shoulder.

“No,” he says flatly.

“But they don’t have power,” Ginger explains, as if he’s slow. “Or water.”

“Not the MC’s problem.”

I set down my coffee. “Exactly what I said. Ginger, give me Adam, and we’ll just be?—”

“Actually,” a gravelly voice interrupts. Duck appears behind Hawk, squeezing past him into the kitchen. “It is our problem. Club business.”

Hawk’s jaw ticks. “Duck.”

“Hawk.” Duck helps himself to coffee. “Ginger had a good idea.”

“Ginger has shit ideas.”

“Hey!” Ginger protests.

“The prospects need something to do,” Duck continues as if no one else is speaking. “And the clubhouse has the most space.”

“There are hotels—” I start.

“Which cost money you need for other things,” Duck cuts in. “Like diapers. And food. And lawyer fees.”

I deflate. He isn’t wrong.

“Besides,” Duck adds with faux innocence, “having you here makes it easier to keep an eye on things. With all the… problems … in the neighborhood lately.”

Something ugly crawls into my stomach. “Problems? What problems?”

Duck and Hawk exchange a look—one loaded with meaning I can’t decipher.

“Fine,” Hawk growls. “One night.”

“A week,” Duck counters.

“Two days.”

“Five.”

“Three,” I interrupt. Both of them turn to me. “I’ll call the utility company tomorrow and get this sorted. It’ll probably take another day, maybe two, to turn it all back on.”

“Deal,” Duck agrees with a satisfied smile. “Welcome to the clubhouse, kid.” He ruffles my hair then points a finger at the prospects who are hovering nearby. “No parties or public displays of affection until these kids are outta the house–you got me?”

Whatever answer the prospects may have offered is lost as Adam chooses right now to spit up all over Ginger’s shoulder.

“That’s my boy,” I mutter, reaching for napkins. “Showing them exactly what they’re getting into.”

Ginger laughs, already heading for the sink. “Please. You think this is the worst bodily fluid that’s been in this kitchen?”

“Or on your body, for that matter,” Tank says, strolling into the kitchen. “Need a hand, babe?”

“I got it.”

“And on that note,” I say quickly, “I need to get the girls ready for?—”

“Already done,” Ginger sings out. “Steel’s got them dressed and their teeth brushed.”

I blink. “How did you?—”

“I’m efficient.” She winks. “And Steel’s good at following orders. Speaking of…” She turns to Hawk. “Your room or the guest room?”

The muscle in Hawk’s jaw jumps. “Guest.”

“Shame.” She grins. “Your room has so much more… space.”

If looks could kill, Ginger would be a smoking crater in the floor.

I need to shut this down. Fast. “Listen, I appreciate everyone’s help, but?—”

A crash from the front yard interrupts me, followed by twin screams of delight.

“That’s my cue,” I sigh, heading for the door. But Hawk is already moving, his long stride eating up the distance.

“I got it,” he growls.

I watch him go, trying—and failing—to ignore how his ass looks in those jeans.

“Don’t fight it, honey,” Ginger says softly beside me. “Sometimes you need to let people help.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Yeah, you do. And that’s okay.” Ginger squeezes my shoulder. “Now come on, let’s get you settled while the boys do the heavy lifting.”

I let her lead me through the house, trying to convince myself this is temporary.

It’s just for three days. What could possibly happen in three days?

Ginger gives me the full tour, starting at the entry and walking me through the clubhouse room by room.

The bones of the old farmhouse still linger, sturdy and proud, despite the renovations that have transformed it into something far more imposing.

To the right of the entry is the garage, which backs onto the main bedroom.

Down the hall and to the left are two bedrooms, a full bath, and another bedroom.

It’s in the front two bedrooms where the prospects place me and the kids.

My bedroom is simple–a queen bed with a built-in closet and small desk.

There’s no room for a crib, so the kids are in the next door bedroom, their space slightly cramped with furniture but secure.

The original structure ended just past the hall.

The main bedroom, now Hawk’s, was once the heart of the home—the kitchen and dining area, if the old brickwork behind the bed is anything to go by.

There’s still a deep farmhouse sink built into one corner and it makes the space feel rooted.

Lived-in. His personal space is massive, fitted with blackout curtains and a king-sized bed.

The final bedroom in the hall, now a guest room, was originally the lounge. The exposed beams in the ceiling and the scuffed hardwood floors are reminders of what it once was.

The ground floor was expanded when the previous owners blew out the back wall, creating a sprawling lounge and sitting area, expansive deck, and two additional rear bedrooms and bathrooms. The extension feels both modern and grounded, as if it was always meant to be there.

The leather furniture is worn but comfortable, and a massive sectional dominates the space, facing a large stone fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the early morning light, while double doors open onto a back deck.

The kitchen and dining area have been pushed into the new extension, sleek and industrial with dark granite counters, a massive butcher block island, and steel appliances that gleam under the soft lighting.

A long wooden farmhouse dining table, scarred and well-used, sits nearby, clearly built for feeding a crowd.

There’s another hall at the rear of the dining room which leads through to yet another set of guest bedrooms neatly tucked away. These are cozy but simple, with a queen bed, a window overlooking the yard.

Up a set of gorgeous wooden stairs, the second floor feels entirely different.

The modern renovation extends upward, designed for VIPs—visiting MC chapter presidents, allied clubs, or people the club’s protecting.

A great room with a second kitchen, a formal meeting room, and two large guest suites dominate the level.

The guest suites have private sleeping areas, sitting rooms, and ensuites—comfortable, but still carrying that hard-edged, practical style.

There’s also a small meeting room, an office, two small bedrooms, another bath and a water closet.

But its the library that holds my interest, surprising me with its well-stocked shelves heavy with both worn paperbacks and hardcovers.

I could get lost up there for days if anyone would let me.

And then there’s the attic. It’s a fortress—there’s no other word for it.