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.
Chapter 7 - Tank
The call from the club comes at the worst possible moment. Just as something was building between Katty and me—something I shouldn't want but can't seem to resist—reality intrudes.
I check the screen. Hellfire. The president himself. Fuck.
"It's the club," I tell Katty. "I should take this."
She nods, slipping past me. "Of course. I'll just... give you some privacy."
I catch her wrist briefly as she passes, unable to let her go without some acknowledgment of what's happening between us. "This conversation isn't over," I say quietly.
"I know," she replies, then she's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a ringing phone and a sense of interrupted potential.
I swipe to answer. "Tank here."
