I take a quick sip of water, trying to cool the sudden heat rising within me. Good lord, this man is dangerous in more ways than one.
"So, your stepfather," he says, dropping his arms. "You still have to deal with him?"
"He died a few years ago," I reply. "Liver failure."
"I'm sorry," Tank offers, though there's a question in his tone.
I shrug. "Don't be. He never apologized, never expressed any regret for how he treated me or my mom. Never even acknowledged it." I trace the rim of my glass with my finger. "That's just how it goes sometimes. Not every story gets a neat resolution."
Tank nods, understanding in his eyes. "Life rarely ties things up with a bow."
There's something in his expression that makes me wonder about his own unresolved stories. Taking a chance, I ask, "What about you and Lilly? I know your dad left when you were young. Did that shape who you became?"
He wrinkles his nose slightly—a surprisingly boyish gesture on such a formidable man—and considers the question.
"Maybe," he finally admits. "After he left, I was suddenly the 'man of the house' at twelve years old. Mom worked two jobs, so I was responsible for Lilly most of the time." He shakes his head slightly. "Probably gave me some kind of hero complex. Military was a natural fit for that."
"Did you like it? The military?" I lean forward, genuinely curious.
"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 someonelike 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."
