Page 38 of Biker's Babygirl

“Don’t worry.” She makes shooing motions toward the door. “She’ll be fine.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there is a knowing twinkle in her eye. I open my mouth to ask what trouble she’s planning for the two of them to get into, but before I can, Elvis is clapping me on the shoulder.

“Yeah, bud, I’m ready. Let’s ride.”

CHAPTER NINE

Ginny

“How are you feeling?”

Though the sudden sound of her voice makes me jump, seeing Ellie’s smiling face helps me relax. The guys’ missions turned into longer ones, and Ellie and I have been here by ourselves for a week now. I’m on edge, but so far nothing bad has happened, and though I find myself jumping at every noise and looking for him around every corner, Lucas hasn’t found me. I feel bad for Ellie getting stuck taking care of me when I’m sure she’d rather be out with the guys, riding and helping people. But she’s a good caretaker, and a lot less strict than Duke.

“I’m okay, I think. Um, I think the uh, medicine is starting to kick in.” I can’t rely on much in life, but I can always depend on a searing blush to surge across my face when I’m the least bit uncomfortable. Thinking about Duke always does it. I’d felt unsure about where we stood before he left, but each passing day without hearing from him makes me more uncertain and the memories of our brief time together grow dimmer. It all feels like a distant memory now, or a story I invented to keep the monsters in my mind at bay.

If Ellie notices or happens to wonder why I’m suddenly turning the color of a lobster, she doesn’t mention it.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you still should eat a little something. To keep up your strength.” As she strides away, leaving me in a sort of dazed awe, she calls over her shoulder. “You coming?”

I scurry off Duke’s bed and follow her. I only had the clothes on my back when I got here, and Ellie threw them in the wash this morning, so I rifle through Duke’s drawers, selecting a pair of gray lounge pants and an Avengers t-shirt. It’s three times too big for me, but just the sight of it makes me smile. Duke is so tough, so no-nonsense that it makes me happy to think of him liking something as simple as a superhero movie.

Stop that. You’re becoming too invested in what he likes, thinking about what would make him happy. Youneedto be focused on getting out of here.

But I dismiss the thought like flicking a piece of lint off my shoulder. Because just in a week, everything had changed. If I stayed, Duke could be my Daddy, and I could be his babygirl. I could love him, and he could love me. Why should I count that out just because I’ve made some bad choices in the past? Not that I love him already, and he certainly doesn’t love me, but he makes me feel safe, and that might be even better. Don’t I deserve to relax for a little bit? To let down my guard?

Whether I deserve it or not, I’ve decided to do it. To ignore my fight-or-flight instinct that’s set permanently to flight and give this—whatever it is—a chance.

It’s the fever talking, my chatty, inner skeptic warns. But I haven’t had a fever in days—Ellie has been checking every few hours and keeping me updated.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ellie asks as I slide onto a bar stool.

“Yeah, of course.”

But she doesn’t get to work, instead she stands there and scrutinizes my face, reminding me of Duke. “You just look like you’re thinking pretty hard,” she says at last. “Anything I can help with?”

“Uh, no, I’m good, thanks.” I duck my head to avoid her seeing another blush. What kind of superpowers do these people have? First, Duke takes a chance on me, the most unlikely girl, and makes me feel like I might actually be able to trust him, and now Ellie shows off her mind- reading abilities. It’s freaky.

“Eggs?”

“Oh, sure. That sounds good,” I answer, caught off guard. I expect her to continue to poke and prod, but the fact that she doesn’t puts me at ease. We fall into an easy silence, and I watch her as she cooks.

She’s methodical. It’s evident that everything she does, she does well, even when that’s just making breakfast. She sets a cast-iron skillet on a lit burner before she gets the eggs out of the fridge and hums to herself as she cracks eggs into a bowl, adding a bit of half and half and cheese before whisking them.

As soon as she pours the contents into the skillet, it begins to hiss, but she ignores it and puts a package of bacon on the counter. Then the bread and butter are put by the toaster to wait until she’s ready for them.

“Fruit?” she inquires.

“Um, sure,” I answer, mesmerized by the way she moves around the kitchen.

She effortlessly dices strawberries while flipping the bacon, and scrambling the eggs in the pan with just enough time to catch the toast.

It’s like watching an intricate dance, and I’m spellbound. Well, that, or incredibly hungry.

She plates the food with just as much efficiency and flair as she used to cook.

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