Page 8 of Viper's Single Mom
Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact that should have rankled my hard-won independence but instead made me feel... safe.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of ordinary chaos tinged with extraordinary awareness. Viper's presence changed the entire dynamic of the diner. Conversations stayed quieter. Men kept their eyes on their plates when I served them. Even Earl, who usually made harmless faux-flirty comments about my figure that I pretended not to hear, kept his observations to himself.
At five minutes to two, I untied my apron in the back room, trying to calm the flutter in my stomach. This was insane. I was a single mother with a dangerous ex-husband and eight hundred dollars to my name. I had no business getting butterflies over a biker who'd decided I belonged to him.
But when I walked out front and found him standing by the door, jacket in hand, those butterflies turned into full-blown birds of prey.
"Ready?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Outside, his Harley waited like a patient beast. He handed me the helmet—the same one from yesterday that fit perfectly.
"My car?—"
"Is fine where it is. Climb on."
That tone brooked no argument. I hiked up my uniform skirt and settled behind him, muscle memory from yesterday guiding my arms around his waist. The engine rumbled to life, vibrating through both of us.
The ride home took the long way. Through downtown, past the hardware store where Elmer waved from the doorway, around the park where mothers watched their toddlers with eagle eyes. By the time we pulled into my driveway, the entire town had seen me wrapped around Viper Brennan on his motorcycle.
I suddenly realised what this was about. Message delivered. I was under his protection.
"Izzy gets home in an hour," I said as he helped me off the bike, his hands lingering on my waist a beat longer than necessary.
"I know." Of course he did. He probably knew her teacher's name, her favorite subject, what she ate for lunch. "Mind if I take a look at that bike in your garage? Noticed it yesterday."
"Izzy's bike?" I blinked at the subject change. “Well, it’s not really her bike. It was here when we moved in but she really wanted to have it. The chain's rusted, and the handlebars are loose though.”
"Got tools on the Harley."
Twenty minutes later, he had the small pink bicycle upside down on the front lawn, chain removed, rust treatment applied. His large hands moved with surprising delicacy, adjusting brake cables and tightening bolts. The contrast—this dangerous man being so gentle with a child's toy—made my chest tight.
"You know about kids' bikes?"
"Know about all bikes." He spun a pedal, checking the movement. "Plus, had a sister. She had one just like this."
"Had?"
His hands stilled for a moment. "Cancer. Ten years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"She would've liked you." He went back to work. "Would've called me an idiot for taking this long to find someone."
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. Someone. Not just someone to protect. Someone.
"Viper—"
"This should do it." He flipped the bike upright, bouncing it to test the repairs. "She'll need to grow into it a bit, but it's solid."
The school bus saved me from responding. Izzy bounced off, pigtails askew, backpack dragging. She stopped when she saw us, then her face lit up.
"Mr. Viper! You came back!"
"Told you I fix bikes." He gestured to the bicycle. "Want to try it?"
Her squeal could probably be heard three towns over. "It's the pink bike I wanted to keep! And it has streamers! Mama, can I?"
