Page 18 of Boulder's Weight

It's uncharted territory, and I'm not sure I like it.

But I don't hate it either, which is even more concerning.

"I should get going," she says, glancing around the room for her clothes, which are scattered across the floor where we tore them off each other.

"No rush," I hear myself saying, the words coming out before I can stop them. "I can make coffee."

She pauses mid-movement, eyebrows rising slightly. "You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to," I reply with a shrug, trying to play it casual. "But I'm getting coffee either way. Might as well make enough for two."

Kelsey studies me for a moment, like she's trying to figure out my angle.

That look in her eyes reminds me of Zorro, our Sergeant at Arms, when he's trying to figure out if a prospect is lying.

Calculating.

Weighing the risks.

Finally, she nods. "Okay. Coffee would be good."

"I heard there's a cat café not far from here," she adds as she pulls the sheet around herself and begins gathering her scattered clothes. "Maybe I'll wait to get coffee there instead."

My interest piques immediately. "Astra's place? CatsAndJava?"

Kelsey pauses, t-shirt halfway over her head. "You know it?"

"Everyone in the club knows it," I say, watching as she pulls the shirt down, covering the breasts I was just admiring. "Astra's Python's old lady. The Enforcer," I clarify when she looks confused. "She opened it about seven years ago. Good coffee, from what I hear, though the cats freak me out a little."

"You don't like cats?" There's a hint of amusement in her voice that does strange things to my insides.

I shrug, watching as she shimmies into her jeans, the denim sliding up her thighs in a way that makes me want to rip them right back off. "Never had pets growing up. More of a dog person, I guess."

"Mmm, dogs are too needy."

"And cats aren't?" I counter.

She actually smiles at that, a real smile that transforms her face. "Cats want you on their terms. I respect that."

I tease her, stepping into her space as I pull a t-shirt over my head. "You saying I'm needy, Montana?"

Her eyes flick down to my chest before I cover it, and there's heat there that makes me want to forget about coffee altogether.

"I'm saying you'd make a terrible cat," she retorts, but there's a playfulness in her tone that wasn't there before.

Once she's fully dressed, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and lead her downstairs to the clubhouse kitchen.

It's early enough that most of the guys are still passed out—either in their rooms or wherever they fell the night before.

The main room of the clubhouse looks like a hurricane hit it—beer bottles scattered across tables, overflowing ashtrays, a bra hanging from the antler chandelier.

It smells like stale beer, weed, and the lingering scent of perfume from the hang-arounds who were here last night.

"Looks like I missed quite a party," Kelsey comments, eyeing Doom—one of the other prospects—passed out on the pool table.

"Just a typical Tuesday night," I say with a shrug. "You should see it after a real rager."

We make our way to the kitchen, stepping over Rooster, who's snoring on the floor, an empty tequila bottle clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.

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