Plum: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance by Cate C. Wells

Author:Cate C. Wells [Wells, Cate C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

ADAM

Besides feeling like the world’s largest asshole, I feel like the world’s largest person.

Jo-Beth’s house is perfectly sized for her, but I have to duck every time I enter a room. When I go upstairs to take a piss, my shoulders brush the walls.

I don’t think she was exaggerating about never having a man in her house. Her sofa has two seats, not three. There’s one toothbrush in the bathroom and one chair at the small table in her kitchen. There’s another chair, but it’s pushed against a wall and stacked with catalogues and magazines.

I knew she was overthinking letting me in, so I didn’t give her time to back out. As soon as we pulled up in front of the house, I picked her up, ignored her fussing, and barged in with her in my arms. I saw the rock where she keeps her spare key. That’s coming inside tonight.

I sat her on the sofa, propped her foot on an ottoman, and then I left her to piss and poke around her kitchen to see what I can pull together. I could hear her stomach grumbling in the car, and she needs to eat to take one of the pain meds.

She hasn’t complained once since the club, but there’s strain around her eyes. Every time I notice it, I get more pissed at myself. I’m keeping it calm, though. She needs a break from the drama. We both do.

She’s unsettled, following my every move, tense and fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. “What are you looking for?” she calls.

She has a pass-through between her living room and kitchen, so I can keep an eye on her. I’m in and out of her sight, though, and she’s craning her neck to keep track of me.

“Something to make for dinner.”

“I ain’t been shopping lately.”

From the looks of her staples, she hasn’t been grocery shopping in a while. She has some peanut butter, ramen, spaghetti, potatoes in a box, and cans of soup, corn, and tuna. There’s no meat in the freezer. No fresh vegetables. She does have green bananas in a fruit bowl, so she has been grocery shopping. This is what she bought. Damn, but it reminds me of the Gilson Avenue days. My chest tightens.

“How about a peanut butter and banana sandwich?” It’s been awhile, but Cook used to make that for me when I came begging for a snack before dinner.

“That’s gross.”

“What would you like then?” I don’t see any pasta sauce. I suppose I could flavor the noodles with butter.

“A peanut butter sandwich is fine. With a banana.”

I chuckle under my breath, and make us sandwiches. I pour us both glasses of milk, and I take it to her in the living room, but she’s already up, unsteady on one leg.

“Whoa. Where do you think you’re going?”

“We’re not eating in here.”

“We’re not?”

She looks at me like my mother did when I mixed up the salad fork.

“Mice. No food except in the kitchen.” She points to the other room.

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