Page 7

"For a while, yeah," he answers, his eyes growing distant with memory.

"The structure, the brotherhood, the clear chain of command.

All of it made sense to me. It was good for a long time.

" His expression shifts. "But eventually I started to question the objectives.

The endless deployments with no clear endgame, the political bullshit that got good men killed. "

"And the biker club is different?" I ask.

"In the club, there's no violence without purpose," he explains. "We don't move against someone unless there's a clear reason, a clear objective. It's more... honest, in a way."

I nod slowly, thinking about Dylan and his friends, about how the "proper channels" failed Lilly completely.

"Sometimes I wish Sweetheart County had something like that," I admit. "Not necessarily an MC, but... people who could actually protect those who need it. People who wouldn't let someone like Dylan walk free just because his daddy plays golf with the sheriff."

"A town like this might not be ready for an MC," Tank says with a small smile. "We tend to upset the status quo."

"I'm ready for someone to upset the status quo," I counter. "And I'm not the only one. There are people here who need protection. Real protection, not just empty promises from authorities who are in the pockets of men like Thomas senior."

"Sounds like you're trying to convince me to stay."

The question catches me off guard, forcing me to examine my own motivations. Am I trying to convince him to stay? This man I've known for less than a day, who represents everything I've avoided in my small-town life?

He's older, harder, dangerous in ways I can't even fully comprehend.

But there's something between us… A recognition, a pull that I can't deny.

Something I'd like to explore if circumstances were different, if he wasn't just passing through on his way back to a life that has no place for someone like me.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, meeting his gaze directly. "Maybe I'm just thinking out loud about what this town needs. Or maybe..." I hesitate.

"Maybe?" he prompts, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges.

"Maybe I'm just not ready to say goodbye to someone I've barely had time to say hello to," I finish quietly.

Tank pushes away from the counter, closing some of the distance between us. Not crowding me but making his presence impossible to ignore.

"Katty," he says my name like he's testing the feel of it. "This isn't a good idea."

"I know," I acknowledge. "You're leaving in a few days. You have responsibilities back home. I have a life here. And Lilly is right down the hall."

"All excellent reasons to keep things simple," he agrees, but he makes no move to step back.

"You started it," I point out, a smile tugging at my lips despite the tension.

"Did I?" His eyebrow raises.

"The Ferris wheel," I remind him. "The hot chocolate."

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who wiped whipped cream off my lip first."

"A purely practical gesture," I defend, but my voice betrays me with its breathiness.

"Of course," he agrees, his eyes dropping to my mouth for just a second. "And mine was equally practical."

We're playing with fire here, dancing around something that can only lead to complications. I should step back, put more distance between us, suggest we both get some sleep and face tomorrow with clear heads.

Instead, I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn by whatever gravitational pull he exerts.

"We should probably get some sleep," I say, not moving away. "It's late."

"Probably," he agrees, not moving either.

The kitchen clock ticks loudly in the silence, counting seconds that stretch like hours. Outside, a night bird calls, the sound carrying through the slightly open window. The house settles around us with the familiar creaks and sighs of an old structure.

"Tank," I start, not sure what I'm going to say next.

I never get to find out because a phone rings shrilly, shattering the moment. Tank steps back, pulling his cell from his pocket.

"It's the club," he says, checking the screen. "I should take this."

I nod, both relieved and disappointed by the interruption. "Of course. I'll just..." I gesture vaguely toward the living room. "Give you some privacy."

As I move past him, he catches my wrist gently, just for a moment.

"This conversation isn't over," he says.

“I know," I reply, then slip out of the kitchen, leaving him to his call.

In the living room, I sink onto the couch, heart racing like I've just run a mile.

What am I doing? Getting involved with Tank—even considering it—is complicated at best, foolish at worst. He's passing through, dealing with Dylan, then gone back to his world of motorcycles and brotherhood that has no place for a small-town librarian with commitment issues.

And yet, as I listen to the low murmur of his voice from the kitchen, discussing whatever club business couldn't wait until morning, I can't help but wonder: what if? What if he stayed? What if I went with him? What if we found some middle ground between his world and mine?

Dangerous thoughts. Impractical thoughts. The kind that lead to exactly the messiness I've tried avoiding in my adult life.

I pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around my shoulders, suddenly cold despite the mild summer night. Through the window, I can see Tank's Harley parked beside my truck—a visual representation of just how different our worlds are.

And yet, something in me recognizes something in him. The guardedness, the reluctance to put down roots, the understanding of what it means to stand your ground when necessary. Maybe we're not so different after all.

As I settle deeper into the couch, waiting for him to finish his call, I can't shake the feeling that whatever happens next will change things—for better or worse, I'm not yet sure.

But when Tank returns, we'll have to decide: pursue this spark between us, knowing it has an expiration date, or snuff it out before it can truly ignite.

Either way, I suspect neither of us will emerge from this unscathed.