Page 64 of The Games We Play

Or perhaps King is right ... I always feel like something is off.

And when I finally ride home, I feel as though I just left the very best part of me in Iris’s living room.

21

IRIS

The following morning, I wake up alone and it feels unusual.

Anticlimactic, even. Although I consider what Spark said. About King worrying about the trouble Cillian could cause. He has good reason to be concerned.

Spark spent the night at his own place at my request. I got all the stuff done that I needed to. Clean laundry hangs in my closet. Lessons are planned. And I shaved my legs as best I could in the bath without getting my arm wet, because I’m meant to leave the brace on twenty-four seven unless it’s a life-or-death situation.

I was happy in my own company right until I climbed into bed and missed the way Tyler’s body felt pressed up against mine. It’s like having my own sexy hot water bottle.

The weekend went a long way in reassuring me that we wouldn’t have the gangster’s moll kind of life I’d been imagining. My moral compass is resetting itself. I’m questioning just how much I’d be willing to compromise the values I’ve always held dear.

The truth is, I see a path to him. To us.

And my uncle is blocking it.

I’m confused by Cillian. Why would he tell Clutch to ensure Spark stays away from me, while forcing me to spy on him? Is he deliberately setting me up to fail, or is he trying to throw the Iron Outlaws off my trail? I wish I knew the endgame of this outlandish plan.

I slip an earring in, then another, and glance in the mirror. The kids are going to want to know all the details when they see my hand; they can’t help themselves. They’re still at the age where they give each other hugs of comfort whenever one of them has a boo-boo. It’s why I’ve worn pants with a belt for most of the term. I only made the mistake of wearing an elasticated waist skirt once on my first teaching appointment. When you teach little kids, there is always someone tugging on your clothes to get your attention.

There’s a knock at the front door, and my heart trips over itself in the hope it’s Spark. I hurry to open the door and find Kasey on the step. She offered to drive me until my car is dealt with and I can drive myself.

And I realize that even though I love my friend, I’m a touch deflated it’s not my biker.

“Morning,” she says, handing me a bag of warm croissants from the new bakery down by the shore. “I brought offerings and came early so you can tell me all about the weekend with the man who chased the driver of the car that smashed into you. So, what gives with you and Spark?”

I let her in and direct her to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

I grab a clean mug and pour her coffee, then top up my own. “We appear to be dating.” It seems like a safe way of describing it but doesn’t even begin to reflect things.

“What about all the drama stuff you said you wanted to avoid?”

I huff as I place the mugs between us on the kitchen breakfast bar. “Drama stuff finds you where you are.”

“So tell me everything. Tell me about him.” She tips her head in the direction of the street.

“I feel like this should be easier to answer,” I say, before sipping my coffee.

“Is it serious?” she asks.

“I think so, but I don’t know. I see a future with him and am slightly terrified at the same time. And there’s a beef between Cillian and the motorcycle club that, despite my best efforts, I’m stuck squarely in the middle of.”

“What do you mean?”

I place my elbows on the counter and blow out a breath. I have to tell someone, or I feel like my brain will just explode. “Part of me wonders if this thing between me and Spark is even real. I mean. It feels real, but it started with him stalking me. And look at him. I still don’t know what he sees in me, Kasey. He’s ...”

Kasey watches me expectantly. “Attractive, caring, protective?”

“Yes, but Tyler’s a member of a club. He’s the sergeant at arms. I looked up what that is. He’s literally responsible for the safety of his club. And he’s a veteran.” I don’t tell her about the nightmare and the tattoos and what he lived through. Those things are too personal for me to share, even with my close friend. Spark deserves his privacy, not me blurting his trauma to a person he barely knows.

“You’re falling for him.” Kasey’s words are not a question but a statement.