Page 34 of Cain

Though why he wanted to get into arms dealing instead of the vacation rental business was something I’d have to ask him when he got here.

“Think the kitchen will be open today?” Croft asked, nodding over toward where I had it taped off with plastic so no one accidentally touched the drying cabinets.

“Yeah, should be good.”

No one had really missed the kitchen. The coffee machine was on the bar. And everyone was happy to order in or go out for the past few days.

“I have an ice cream in the freezer that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all night,” he admitted, patting his stomach.

I walked over, pulling down the plastic and moving inside to test the cabinet in a discreet area with a fingernail. But the paint held.

I’d gone with white uppers and backsplash—to keep the small, enclosed space feeling airy—but medium wood lowers. The floor was tile made to look like wood too. It left the area feeling warm and open. And maybe more importantly, updated. The appliances were supposed to arrive in a few days; then the whole project would be done.

I had no idea what the hell to do with myself after that. It’d been good to keep my hands busy. And keep my mind distracted. Because anytime it got an unguarded second, she came rushing back.

And that was just pretty fucking pathetic for a grown-ass man. One who could, yet couldn’t seem to find the desire to, hook up with any club girl any day of the week.

I didn’t want a club girl.

I wanted the one who clung to me in the haunted house. And beamed at me when she held up her banner to show me how it turned out. And looked at me like I’d hung the moon just for buying her a coffee and some sweets.

The problem?

She was going through a contentious divorce. She was clearly still reeling from whatever her dick of an ex had put her through.

She didn’t need another man shouldering his way into her life.

She knew where to find me if she wanted me, I reminded myself when the urge to go grab some club member’s dog and walk it down the street near the closest extended-stay hotel almost got overwhelming.

There was no reason to keep researching local pottery studios to take her on a date, I added. Since she’d shown no real signs that she was interested in seeing me again.

I pulled the plastic off all the new white countertops and backsplash then moved the coffee machine back into the room.

I’d just chucked the pint of pistachio ice cream at Croft when there was a knock at the door.

He climbed off the couch, taking the spoon from me, and standing a few feet back as I made my way to the door.

I pulled the door open, and there he was.

Briggs Maddox.

He was about what I expected.

Tall. Fit. Dark hair. Classic bone structure with a strong jaw, stern brow, and a nose that looked like it might have been broken at least once.

He was dressed in jeans, a black tee, and a scuffed brown leather jacket that looked like it had lived through at least half a dozen presidential terms.

Slung over his shoulder was a green duffle bag, and there was a small, worn paperback shoved inside the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Didn’t hear a bike,” Croft said.

Brigg’s dark blue eyes flicked past me toward him. “I wasn’t riding sixteen hours on my bike with nowhere to put my shit. Brought my truck.”

He nodded behind him, and I glanced out to find an old red and white pickup truck parked in line with all of our bikes.

“Cain,” I said, offering my hand. “And that’s Croft.”

“Patched or prospects?”