He crosses his big arms across his chest, and something flickers in his expression, but he quickly smothers it.

“Well, give him to Santana tonight,” he says, and my heart drops. “I want to spend some time,” he hesitates looking at me, his eyes intense, “discussing things.”

Things? What things? Does he know about Gregor? My heartbeat picks up and I begin to struggle for air. No, he couldn't possibly know about Gregor. God, maybe he knows about Samuel. It’s possible. But what it’s probably about, which I hate to admit, is that I just announced to an entire biker club that I wanted to ride him.

Ride. Him.

“I’m thinking having dinner with Ash,” I lie.

He cocks a brow. “Didn’t hire you to have dinner with Ash.”

“So I can’t have a social life?”

He narrows his eyes. “Never said that. But you’re on duty, it’s a weekday.”

Fuck.

“Well, she can come over for dinner, and—”

“We’re talkin’,” he mutters, cutting me off.

“About?” I squeak.

He leans in close, getting in my space. “You’ll find out.”

“Give me something,” I plead.

He tilts his head towards my ear. “You can think about it on the ride home.”

Oh. My. God.

He totally just used my words against me. I was right, I was totally right. He wants to talk about my little sexual fantasies, and I don’t want to talk to him about my little sexual fantasies.

“I have to call my best friend,” I cry, stepping back.

“Then call her, and then we’ll talk.”

“You don’t talk. You just growl.”

His lips quirk, and then he murmurs, “That’s the point.”

Then he’s gone. Gone. Leaving me standing there, terrified of heading home.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I put Diesel down for his nap as soon as I get home, then I pick up my phone and sit out on the patio. I need girl advice—Josie advice, to be specific. She’ll know what to do. She’ll know how to deal with this awkward Mack situation. If there’s even a situation.

Of course there’s a damned situation. He now thinks I want him, and I’m nearly sure he’s going to approach me about it.

I don’t know what I’ll say if he does.

God.

“Hello?”

“Josie!” I cry, tucking my legs beneath me.

“Jay, is everything okay?”

“No.”

Her voice comes out concerned. “What’s happening?”

“Well, there’s this thing going down . . .”

“Is Gregor there? Are you okay?”

“Oh, no, everything is fine with Gregor. This is about Mack.”

“Mack?”

“You know¸ the biker I live with . . .”

She’s silent for a minute, then she breathes. “Mack is a biker?”

“Yes, Josie, pay attention.”

“Okay, hang on, let me sit down.”

“You’ll need to,” I advise. “It’s good.”

“Right, I’m done. What have you done?”

“Me?” I cry. “What makes you think it’s me?”

She laughs. “It’s always you.”

She’s right, dammit.

“Well, I was talking to the girls from the club, and they kind of pushed out of me that I’m kind of, well, into Mack . . .”

“Into?”

“Well . . .”

“Are you banging him?”

“Josie!” I cry.

“Explain yourself.”

“I just said it to please them.”

“Said what?”

My cheeks burn. “That I wanted to, um, ride him?”

“Ride him?” she squeaks. “Like . . . load up the saddle and fuck his gorgeous brains out?”

I snort. “Not quite that, ah, dramatic.”

She giggles. “So, what happened then?”

“He heard me.”

Her giggle turns into laughter. “Oh my God, that’s brilliant.”

“It’s not. Now he said he wants me home so he can ‘talk’ to me tonight. He’s going to ask me to fuck him, isn’t he?”

Her laughing turns hysterical.

“It’s not funny, Josie!” I cry.

“It’s hilarious. I can’t wait to see your face when he asks you to jump on.”

“There’ll be no jumping on,” I snap. “I’m his nanny.”

“Ohhhh, sexy nanny.”

“I hate you.”

She tsks. “You do not.”

I sigh. “No, I don’t.”

“You have to tell me what happens . . .”

“I will.”

“Unless, of course, he’s got you pinned beneath him.”

“Josie,” I warn.

“Drilling your brains out.”

“Drilling?” I giggle.

“A man like that drills, baby!”

I laugh. “I got to go. I’m starving and need to start dinner before Diesel wakes.”

“Okay, make sure you call me.”

“I will, later.”

I flip the phone closed and push to my feet, heading into the kitchen. I open the fridge door and stare inside. Hmmmm. I’m not the best cook in the world—okay, another lie, I suck. I can make toast, which is considered somewhat of a success, but aside from that, zilch. I suck.