Page 20 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Hi,” he says slowly.

Miss Mercy looks between us.

I can almost hear her regretting every life choice that led to this hallway.

“This is Sweet,” she says.

His mouth tilts. “That right?”

“For here,” I say.

“For here,” he repeats, still studying me. “And what are you when you ain’t here?”

“Not telling.”

That makes his smile grow.

Oh, that smile is gorgeous but trouble.

Not friendly trouble either. Not boy-next-door trouble. This is the kind of smile that should come with a waiver, a tetanus shot, and a woman friend waiting in the car with the engine running.

“Not telling,” he says. “Ain’t that mysterious.”

“Miss Mercy said not to use my government name around bikers.”

His gaze slides to Mercy. “Did she now?”

“She listens,” Miss Mercy says. “Already my favorite.”

“I listen too,” Bitter says.

Mercy snorts. “You listen like a raccoon in a trash can. Only until something shiny distracts you.”

I press my lips together.

Bitter catches it. “You laughing at me, Sweet?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m smiling near you.”

His eyes heat with amusement. “You sound guilty.”

“I’m practical. Plausible deniability.”

For a second, he just looks at me.

Then he laughs.

The sound does something strange to his face. Makes him look younger for half a heartbeat. Less like a threat and more like a man who forgot he owned one.

Miss Mercy sees it too.

Her expression sharpens.

“Well,” she says. “As touching as this disaster waiting to happen is, Sweet has orientation.”