Page 19 of Viper's Single Mom
"Morning, sweetheart. Got news."
The smile faltered. "Harrison?"
"Signed everything. Full custody. He's gone."
She sat up, sheet pooling at her waist, all those incredible curves on display. The morning light loved her skin, highlighting every dip and swell I'd mapped with my mouth hours ago.
"Really? It's over?"
"It's over."
The sob that escaped her was half relief, half disbelief. I pulled her against me, her tears hot on my chest. Forty-two years I'd lived without this—without someone who mattered more than the club, more than myself. Now I couldn't imagine going back.
"Mama?" Izzy's voice from the doorway. "Why are you crying?"
Tara wiped her face quickly. "Happy tears, baby. Just happy tears."
Izzy climbed onto the bed, settling between us like she belonged there. Because she did.
"Is it about Daddy? Lucy's mom said he went away."
Small towns. News traveled faster than light.
"Yeah, princess. He's gone. Won't bother you or your mom again."
She studied me with those serious eyes. "Did you make him go away?"
No point lying to kids. They always knew anyway. "Your mom and I did, yeah."
"Good." She snuggled against my side, casual as breathing. "Can we have pancakes?"
Just like that. Six-year-old problems, six-year-old solutions. Bad man gone? Great, what's for breakfast?
An hour later, I stood at Tara's stove flipping pancakes while she showered. Izzy sat at the table, coloring and chattering about school. Domestic as hell, and I loved every second of it.
"Mr. Viper?" Izzy's voice went quiet. "Are you gonna live here now?"
I set the spatula down, giving her my full attention. "Would that be okay with you?"
She chewed her lip, considering. "Would you fix more stuff? The bathroom door sticks."
"I could fix everything that's broken."
"And make pancakes?"
"Every Saturday."
"And keep the bad people away?"
My chest went tight. This little girl, asking for so little. Safety. Pancakes. Someone to fix the door.
"Always, princess. Nobody's ever going to hurt you or your mom again."
She went back to coloring, satisfied. "Okay. You can live here."
Tara emerged from the hallway, hair damp, wearing one of my t-shirts that hit mid-thigh. The look on her face said she'd heard everything. But more than that, the way that shirt clung to her damp skin, the way her nipples pressed against the thin fabric—morning shower and my clothes was a combination designed to kill me.
Later, after breakfast, after Izzy had run outside to test her newly-fixed bike again, Tara pressed me against the kitchen counter.
