Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jigsaw

The long ride to Margot's place soothes my eager soul. Twisting the throttle gives my hands something to do other than burn to touch Margot's skin. Paying attention to the road and surroundings keeps thoughts of peeling off her clothes at bay.

That all goes to shit the second I see her.

Prim and pretty, Margot steps off the porch and onto the asphalt of the parking lot behind the funeral home. Last time I saw her she was wearing teal and pink. Now she's dressed in a light-pink, short-sleeved cardigan, with a thin matching pink shirt underneath, and a full, pink swing skirt with layers of ruffled lace swirling underneath.

I rest my helmet on the seat of my bike and tug my gloves off.

She approaches slowly, as if she's afraid to get too close to the bike.

"All right to leave it here?" I parked close to the house, so hopefully it's out of the way—and out of sight of her father—unless he specifically walks around this side for some reason.

"Sure." She squeezes the small pink purse in her hands and twists the strap around her fingers.

I shouldn't find a woman her age so fucking adorable but damn, every time I see Margot she makes my mouth do weird shit like smile. Underneath all my desire to teach her everything about sex, I've been looking forward to just seeing and talking to her.

I squint at the skirt—are those tiny gray, black, and white poodles printed all over it? "Are you wearing an actual poodle skirt with poodles on it?"

She grins wide and it transforms her from pretty to blindingly beautiful.

"Yes." She grabs the sides of the skirt and swings it from side to side. "I wish I could've found it in yellow to match my car."

"The pink's nice." Good green goblins, since when do I care about things like the color pink?

Everything about Margot seems to fascinate me. I can't stop staring at her as we cross the parking lot to the multi-car garage. Three little shiny pins on her collar catch my attention but I can't quite make out what they say while we're walking. One looks like a red crab crawling out of a pot. Another is in the shape of a tiny pink dumpster? The third one's the smallest, a black, red, and white square.

We stop in front of the garage and she hands me a car key on a ring with a yellow daisy ornament dangling from one end. I hesitate before accepting it. "You want me to drive?"

"I assume you know how." She arches an eyebrow. "Since you drove me home the other night."

"Funny girl." The garage door in front of us rattles and starts rolling up, revealing the pristine yellow Thunderbird waiting in the bay. "I mean, you trust me to drive your fancy classic car? It's in mint condition."

She turns and tilts her head, staring up at me with a solemn expression that almost makes me wish I'd kept my mouth shut. "I'm planning to trust you with my body, so why wouldn't I trust you with my car?"

Excellent point.

I'm not sure how to answer. Instead, I drop my gaze to the pins.

The little crab on one pin is holding up a say no to pot sign. I burst out laughing. "Clever. Did you already have the pot pin before the wedding?"

She lets out an endearing giggle. "No, I saw it after my experience with Sparky's magic brownies, and thought it was perfect for my collection." She tilts her head to the side and lowers her lashes. "I knew you'd be the only one who got the joke, so I had to wear it tonight."

We already have inside jokes on our first date.

No. Not a date.

Moving on. The dumpster pin. Unsolicited Opinions from Random People. I let out a snort. "Amen to that."

"You'd be surprised how many men at the car shows come up to lecture me about what I should or shouldn't do with my car."

"No, I wouldn't be surprised at all." I scoff, "The kinds of men who do that aren't going to get the joke, though. Or they won't realize it's for them. They're going to use reading the pin as an excuse to stare at your tits."

She slaps her hand over her pins. "Ewww."

Don't worry. I'll handle anyone who stares at you for too long tonight. I shrug, then lift my chin. "What's the last one?"

She slowly removes her hand to reveal a tiny juice box with a poison apple on the front.

"I just thought it was cute." She shrugs and shifts her gaze to the house. "My father asked me not to wear my hex the patriarchy and slay all day grim reaper pins since they might offend people who could be potential customers."

"Your dad still approves your outfits?"

She tilts her head. "I took it as a suggestion. Not an order."

All right then. As much as it rubs against all my personal instincts, I see the man's point. Margot said the business is conservative. A grim reaper on the funeral director's daughter—while funny as hell to someone like me—might be bad for business.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

"Let's do it." I don't want to do anything to damage Margot's pristine yellow convertible, but she asked me to drive, so I get behind the wheel and fire it up.

The Thunderbird purrs beneath my hands as I ease it out of the garage and onto the road. Margot's quiet at first. I'm concentrating on not fucking up her car, so I don't have much to offer.

"Thank you for coming with me," she finally says. "I know motorcycles are more your thing."

"I like cars. Well, classic cars. Interesting cars. Not the generic shit boxes everyone drives."

She titters with laughter. "That's why I always wanted this car. Something different. And the yellow is so sunny and pretty." Her voice drops. "Opposite of the hearse."

A laugh pops out and I cover it with a cough. "Yeah, you could say that."

I find my way to Main Street; only a portion of it is blocked off for the car show.

"Drive right up to the cones." Margot leans forward and points. "They'll let us in."

I slow the car as I approach. Two old men with reflective vests and clipboards wave us closer. I roll down my window.

A worried frown creases the forehead of the guy who approaches us.

He ducks down to peer in the window. "Margot, is that you?"

"Hi, Fred!" She leans forward and waves.

"Hey there." He stares at me like I'm holding Margot at gunpoint in her own car.

I rest one arm on the sill and leave the other on the steering wheel. "Evening."

"Are you rolling in to show tonight, Margot?" he asks.

The fuck else does he think we brought the car for?

"Sure am." She beams at him and reaches for her purse.

"That'll be five dollars…" He looks at me expectantly as if he's waiting for me to give my name.

I'd stashed cash in my pocket earlier and pull out the five just as Margot's unzipping her wallet.

"I've got it, Jigsaw," she mutters.

Ignoring her, I hand the money to Fred. He dips his chin and nods, the older generation's version of "good boy," I suppose.

He hands me a blue ticket with the number sixty-nine on it. My lips curl into a smirk. It must be the universe's way of telling me that should be Margot's first lesson.

"Thank you, sir. Anywhere in particular I should park?"

He points straight ahead. "Front of the diner might be a good spot. There's no official areas designated, though."

"All right." I ease the car forward and crawl toward the diner, careful not to hit any of the folks walking in the middle of the street.

I back into a space next to a glistening seventies Ford F-100 pickup. The light blue metallic paint glitters under the late afternoon sun. "Now, that's my kind of classic," I say to Margot.

Her eyes widen and she does this little bounce thing in her seat that's cute as hell. "I love this truck! Wait 'til you see the interior, it's immaculate."

Her enthusiasm is contagious. My usual scorn for events that require civilian interaction fades to a dull disdain as I step out of the car.

Margot sets the blue tag on the dashboard, then pulls a small mirror and brush out of her purse. She runs the brush through her hair and by the time she's finished dabbing on some lipstick, I'm opening her door.

"Oh." She stares up at me in surprise.

"Ready?" I hold out my hand.

She blinks, then slowly sets her hand in mine. I gently tug her out of the car, pulling her flush against the front of my body. She stares up at me with questions in her eyes.

Kiss her. "You look really pretty tonight."

Her lips part.

"I should've said so sooner," I continue. "But I got distracted by the pins on your sweater, and the poodles on your skirt."

"Thank you," she whispers.

I'm unable to resist the magnetic pull of her lips for another second. I lean down and brush my lips against hers. A soft kiss. A fraction of what I actually want to do—absolutely devour her.

She presses her hands against my chest. Is she pushing me away? No. The fabric of my T-shirt tickles against my skin as she curls her fingers in the material. She's trying to pull me closer.

The sharp bleat of a horn tears us apart.

She pushes her glasses into place and fusses with her dress. "Sorry. I'm not very good at public displays of affection."

What do I say to that? Half my brothers downstate would include fucking on a pool table in front of everyone in the clubhouse as a "display of affection." A little kiss in the street is nothing. But it's obviously a big deal to Margot.

"I'm, uh…" She blushes and stammers as she pulls away.

I grab her hip, stopping her from moving farther.

"You said this wasn't a date…" She flicks her gaze to mine. "What are you doing?"

A note of confusion or hurt lingers in her question. What am I doing? "Lesson one. Getting comfortable with being affectionate in public."

Her eyebrows scrunch together in a frown of concentration.

"Any man you're with should want to claim you in public. Let other men know you're taken."

"How very primal."

I lean down and whisper in her ear, "Deep down, we're all just animals, Margot."

Margot

My heart's thudding so hard, Jigsaw can probably hear it over the hum and roar of engines.

He kissed me in the middle of Main Street. Daniel never even wanted to hold my hand in public. I kissed him on the cheek once and he spent the next half hour lecturing me on my inappropriate behavior.

This isn't supposed to be a date, though. How do I handle this? Treat tonight like a date where I'm gaining experience? A dress rehearsal of sorts? That doesn't seem fair to Jigsaw, but he did agree to our…arrangement. And he's the one who kissed me .

"Yes, I guess we are all animals," I finally say. I can't tear my eyes away from him. He has to be the most brutally handsome man I've ever had in my presence. Having his attention so intensely focused on me is addicting.

"What year is this?" someone shouts, shattering the moment.

Jigsaw growls and puts his arm protectively around my shoulders. A guy, probably a few years older than me, stands by the driver's side of my car, waving at us.

"Sixty-five," I answer.

"It's really nice." He skims his hand over the hood without quite touching the paint and leaving fingerprints. "You do the work yourself?" He nods to Jigsaw.

"No," I answer. "Jerry's Garage does the maintenance for me."

His eyes spark with interest. "Yeah? Are they local?"

"Yup. Actually." I open my purse and pull out one of the cards with Griff's name on it. "Jerry used to do all the work himself. He does all sorts of classics." I circle around to meet him at the front of the car. "But Griff's done the more recent work."

The guy accepts the card, glances at it and nods. "Thanks. I'll have to check them out. I just moved to the area. I have ‘67 Mustang Fastback I need someone to take a look at."

"Oh, I love the design of those. Does it have the in-line six or a V8?"

He lifts his eyebrows. "V8." His gaze shifts to something behind me. He taps the card in his hand. "I'll definitely check this place out. What's your name so I can tell them you sent me?"

"Margot."

He flicks his gaze over my shoulder again, then sticks out his hand . "Noah."

His hand's warm, his grip firm. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Instead of walking past us, he turns around and strides away from us. Quickly.

I turn and collide with Jigsaw. "Have you been standing there the whole time?"

The harsh lines of his face soften, and he stops glaring twin holes into Noah's back. "Yup."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"He kept things polite, so there was no reason to interrupt you." He lifts one shoulder. "And I didn't have anything to add to the conversation."

What am I supposed to do with that? I probably should've made more effort to draw him into the conversation instead of being rude.

I nod to the Ford pickup truck he'd shown some interest in. "I'm ready to check this one out."

"Me too." He captures my hand.

We approach the truck slowly. Jigsaw stands back to admire the paint. "It's very glittery." He wiggles his fingers in the air over the hood.

"It's a special paint with holographic glitter in it."

He nods and slowly walks around the truck. The owner's sitting in a chair near the tailgate, and he waves hello to me.

The look on Jigsaw's face is almost wistful as he peers inside and checks out the blue-and-white leather seats. "Damn, it is immaculate."

"The seats are all custom too."

He takes a step back. "Is picture-taking allowed?"

"It's encouraged."

He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the truck from the front, then taps at the screen a few more times before tucking the phone away.

"My friend's uncle had a truck like this when we were kids. Well, year and model. Nowhere near this condition." He chuckles. "It was good ol' seventies bronze and orange. I think Rooster's aunt would've preferred glittery blue."

"Did his uncle show it?"

"No, it was a grocery getter." An almost affectionate smile brightens his expression then twists with sadness. "He used to joke that he wanted to be buried in that truck."

By the change in tone, it sounds like his friend's aunt and uncle are no longer with us. I'm not sure how to ask that, so I wait for him to continue.

He shakes his head like he's tucking away a bittersweet memory for safekeeping. "Anyway, you don't see a lot of them anymore. And definitely not in this condition. I sent the pic to Rooster."

"That was sweet."

He shrugs.

We walk all the way around the truck. The owner grins at me.

"How you doing, Margot?" He stands and nods at Jigsaw. "You going to introduce me to your fella?"

I let out an awkward chuckle. Should I correct him? No, he probably saw us kiss earlier, that'll be weird if I say he's just a friend.

While I'm debating it, Jigsaw introduces himself and compliments the truck.

Burt eyes Jigsaw up and down. "You're a big fella, aren't ya?"

Jigsaw's eyes widen and he quickly stares down at his boots. "Damn, I guess so."

Burt grins wide and laughs, then winks at me as if giving me his approval.

"I'll keep an eye on your car, Margot," Burt says to me. "You two go look around."

"Thanks."

Jigsaw takes my hand again and we move on to the next car—a purple Corvette. "I love these. If I ever decide to get another classic, it'll be a Corvette."

And then I can't stop rambling about engines, bodywork, and restoration. Jigsaw's quiet but keeps his head cocked my way the whole time. Almost like he doesn't want to miss a word.

"Sorry," I finally say. "I didn't mean to keep talking."

"I'm listening to everything you say." He squeezes my hand. "How'd you get into classic cars?"

"The T-bird was my grandmother's."

He stops and stares at me. "Really? It's been in your family that long?"

I nod quickly. "Yup. Dad was convinced he'd sell it after she passed." A slight smile tugs at my lips as I recall the way his jaw dropped when we sat down at the lawyer's office for the reading of her will. "But she left it to me."

"Was he mad?"

"No. Just surprised." I glance around at the line of classic cars rolling down the street, searching for places to park. "Speaking of surprises, there seem to be way more cars tonight than I anticipated."

His gaze follows mine, and he nods. "Seems that way. That's a good thing, though, right?" He gestures to the shops lined along either side of the street. "More business for the locals?"

"Yes. More variety in vehicles too."

The corners of his mouth lift. "You thirsty? I could use a drink."

"A little." I point to the diner. "Their lemonade is really good."

"I'll grab it." He lifts his chin to the line of cars in front of us. "While I'm gone, make a plan for what other cars you want to see." He circles one finger in the air, his relaxed smile making it clear he's game for whatever I choose.

"That's easy. All of them."

Jigsaw

Laughing, I hurry into the diner. Of course she wants to see all of them. I do too, honestly. It's fun listening to her get so animated about cars.

I don't want to leave her alone for too long, so I don't bother checking out the menu and just order two lemonades.

The gray-haired man behind the counter nods to my cut. "What'd you roll in with tonight, sir?"

"Nothing." I swipe my card through the reader without looking at the total. "My girlfriend's got a yellow Thunderbird."

What the fuck just came out of my mouth ?

It was just easier to say girlfriend, instead of friend who's a girl . That's it. Nothing more.

The man frowns. "Yellow Thunderbird? Are you talking about little Margot Cedarwood?"

I narrow my eyes and pull my shoulders back. "Yeah, why?" My tone hovers between keep her name out of your mouth and fuck off .

"No reason. Didn't know she was seeing someone. That's all. You two have a good time." He passes me the two cups of lemonade.

Shit. Does he know Margot's dad? That'll be fun if it gets back to the old man that she's "dating" some sketchy, scarred biker.

Fuck it. What's the old man going to do about it?

I grab two straws from the counter and head outside, scanning the area for Margot.

A flash of pink sweater and blonde hair grabs my attention. There she is. Across the street, near a 1980s silver Corvette, deep in conversation with an older, pot-bellied man in a goofy hat, too-small T-shirt, shorts, sandals, and ankle socks. Even from where I'm standing, his posture and the way he leans in close to her sends a possessive fiery streak through my veins.

For someone who seems so shy at times, she sure talks to a lot of people.

Margot's too sweet to realize this old creep's coming on to her. Like that guy Noah, earlier. I could tell he was debating whether he should ask for her number by the way he kept checking me out. At least he didn't seem like a perv.

But this guy? It's almost painful to watch her talk to the empty potato sack who's so obviously attempting to flirt with her. He leers and smiles too wide. Laughs too loud. Keeps trying to touch her upper arm so he can graze his thumb against the side of her breast.

Satan take the wheel.

Eyes on Margot, I march across the street. Just as I called it earlier, he leans down and practically shoves his chin in her cleavage to "read" her pins.

Please curse this fool with the urge to fuck a blender.

Time to put an end to this.

I shift both cups into one hand, walk up behind Margot, and rest my free—but cold—hand on the small of her back. She startles, then leans into me, as if she knows I'm here to put a boot up this guy's ass. She turns and stares up at me with wide, surprised eyes.

"Hey, darlin', everything okay?" I hand her one of the lemonades and ignore the man who's suddenly standing telephone pole straight and staring anywhere but at Margot's tits.

"Yes, thank you." She waves one hand in the air. "This is Glen. Glen, this is my friend, Jensen."

Friend.

I guess introducing me as her "sex tutor" would've required a few minutes of uncomfortable explanation. But "friend" doesn't sit right with me.

Glen slides his slimy gaze over my cut. His head swivels back and forth, as if he's trying to figure out how the hell the biker and the poodle-skirted princess met each other.

"Lost Kings…I know Bricks. He's done some work on my bike," Glen says. "Good guy."

At least he's not dropping names just to hear himself talk. If he really is a customer at Rock's custom bike shop, I don't want to be a total dick. "Yeah, he is," I agree. "You ride?"

"Nothing like the miles you put on your bikes." He laughs and sweeps his hand toward the car parked next to the Corvette—a black-and-gold eighties Trans Am. "My first love."

I nod, even though a Trans Am is nothing I'd brag about.

"Nice ride," I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "You come to these shows often?"

"Every chance I get," Glen replies, his tone dripping with an attempt at casualness that feels anything but. "It's a great way to meet like-minded enthusiasts." He smirks, his gaze lingering on Margot a moment too long. "But we know each other from Jerry's Garage, right, Margot?"

The corners of her mouth hitch into a patient smile. "We do."

Glen grins like an idiot. "The car world is small, small, small."

I step closer, wrap my arm around Margot's waist and subtly pull her against my side. "Yeah, it's a small world," I say, my voice lowering. "Never know who you'll run into. Or where ."

Glen chuckles, a nervous edge to his voice. "True, true. Well, I should probably get back to my car. Don't want anyone touching it," he says, casting a final lingering look at Margot. "It was good seeing you again, Margot. Nice meeting you, Jensen."

"Likewise," I reply, my tone flat. I wait until he's on the other side of his car, talking to someone else, to pull a few inches away from Margot. I still keep my hand on her back, though. "You okay?"

She nods, but a bit of pink dusts her cheeks. "I'm fine. Glen's alway…chatty."

"Too chatty," I mutter, handing her one of the straws. "Let's keep walking."

She pokes the straw into her cup and takes a sip. Fucking hell. Her lips would look so much better wrapped around something else.

"Thanks." She hesitates, then looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. "Are you mad at me?"

"What? No," I say quickly. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"You seem tense." She stops walking and faces me. "Edgy." She waves her hand in front of my body.

"Edgy, huh? I've been called worse." The street's full of more people now, so I move us to the sidewalk, out of the flow of traffic. "I didn't like the way Glen was leering at you. That's all. I was worried about you."

"Oh!" Her face brightens. "Nah, Glen's a big blowhard. But he's harmless. You were right, though." She brushes her fingers against her pins. "He stared at my chest for so long—either he can't read, needs glasses, or he was trying to guess my cup size."

"He can read fine," I grumble.

She tips her head down and plays with her straw. "It's nice having you with me." She takes a quick sip of lemonade.

"Just think of me as your attack Doberman."

She blinks. "Oh, I hope that's not why…that's not the only reason?—"

" I'm the one who asked if I could come with you, remember?"

Her apologetic expression softens. "Oh, right. You did." She stares at the cup in her hand, then fiddles with her purse. "Let me pay you for the lemonade."

"Are you kidding?" I tap the hand holding the purse. "Knock it off."

"You know, if you keep paying for everything, then this is kind of like a date," she points out in a low, amused whisper.

I definitely don't need her thinking that. "Can't we do things my way without slapping a label on it?"

Margot opens her mouth.

"Jigsaw!" a high voice squeals, cutting off whatever Margot was about to say. Then another screech splits the air. Dozens of people turn to stare at us.

Two barely dressed dancers I recognize from Crystal Ball slide off the hood of a purple hot rod and clomp over the pavement in their heavy, platform boots.

What the motherfuck did I do to deserve this?

Johnsonville is far enough outside of Empire, I didn't expect to run into anyone I know here. It's a small, local car show that still advertises in the local Pennysaver for fuck's sake.

"Hi, Jiggy!" Stacia lunges like she's going to hug me, then must remember I'm not Ravage—who'll use any excuse to let the strippers rub themselves all over him. She stops short and rests her hand on her hip, striking an unnatural pose to show off her tiny purple string bikini and shiny, black platform boots.

Kyla, mousy girl that she is, maintains a respectful distance, her hands anxiously twisting in front of her red, orange, and yellow bikini top. "Please don't tell Dex we're moonlighting."

"I doubt Dex gives a fuck what you do in your off time." I glance at Kyla, then Stacia. "As long as you're not missing a shift to do this , he won't care."

"Oh, good!" Kyla leans up on her tiptoes like she wants to whisper in my ear, but I don't bother leaning down. "We're letting guys know they can come see us dance at CB too."

"Good." I shrug, not really giving a fuck. I cover shifts there once in a while to help out the MC when Dex is short on bouncers. But other than that, I don't have anything to do with running the place. Dex has infinitely more patience to deal with all the bullshit that comes with running a strip club than I do. He's a fuck of a lot nicer to the dancers than I'd be too.

Stacia's gaze keeps bouncing from Margot to me, as if she finally noticed I'm not alone. "Oh." She wrinkles her little button nose into a sneer. "Who are you ?"

I wrap my arm around Margot. "None of your business."

Margot hasn't said a word, but she glances up and frowns. Time to go. I don't need these little twits interfering in my life or being rude to Margot.

I steer her away from the girls. "Have fun, ladies."

"See you at the club, Jiggy!" they shout, as loud and obnoxiously as possible.

"Friends?" Margot asks in a tight voice.

"No." Shit, is that embarrassment snaking over my chest? It's been so long, it's hard to identify the uncomfortable feeling. I don't owe Margot an explanation.

Or do I?

"I'm sure they'll just think I'm your sister or something," she mutters.

"I doubt that."

Margot starts walking faster, heading straight for her car. I'm on her like a sweater, using my arm around her shoulders to slow her steps.

"Margot, stop."

Girl's stronger than she looks, she keeps powerwalking as if I'm not hanging on her like a bag of concrete. "Can we go?"

At the car, I force her to face me. "Stop. They're just girls who work at the club the MC owns. That's it. I didn't want to give them your name because then they'd run back and gossip about us to everyone." I cock my head. "I assume you don't want it to get back to your dad about our arrangement?"

The pink on her cheeks deepens. "Oh. I guess not." She presses her hand to her mouth and giggles. "That might be awkward."

"Right."

"So that means you didn't tell anyone in your club?"

"No. I told you I wouldn't."

"Only because of the arrangement between your club and my dad, though, right?" She lowers her gaze. "Not because you're embarrassed to be with me?"

I really need to find whoever gave this woman such a low opinion of herself and beat them senseless. "Not at all. I'm not in the habit of telling my brothers anything about who I spend time with."

Shit, that sounded a fuck of a lot worse than I meant.

But Margot doesn't seem too bothered. She nods. "I'm still ready to go, though."

"Are we allowed to?" I whisper, casting an overly dramatic wide-eyed glance at the barricades blocking off the end of the street. "I feel like a hostage," I joke to lighten things up.

She sighs. "Everyone usually rolls out together at the end, but we can leave whenever we want."

As if on cue, the blue Ford next to us rumbles to life. The old man throws a wave at Margot and slowly pulls out of his spot.

"Let's follow him," Margot suggests.

"All right."

We hustle into her car. I start the engine and slide the Thunderbird behind the truck, keeping some distance between us.

It seems to take forever to roll down the quarter mile of city street, but we finally pass the barricade. The truck turns right at the first intersection, and I finally stomp on the gas and speed away.

Margot

This was never a date.

What was that insane surge of jealousy that shot through me when those girls screamed out his name? He knows those women. Has probably seen them naked. I mean, I practically saw them naked, they were wearing so little. And I'm supposed to let him see me naked sometime tonight?

No way.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine." I'm being ridiculous. Everything I've read about motorcycle clubs focused on salacious details. Why am I surprised he's on a first-name basis with exotic dancers? "Was it more fun than you expected?"

"Yeah. The club goes to bike rallies and shows all the time. The participants here were just older and more tame, but otherwise it's kinda the same thing."

"Bike shows? That sounds like fun."

"It can be. They're crowded, though, sometimes."

"You don't like crowds?"

He waits a beat or two before answering, "Depends on the crowd."

I let out a light chuckle and smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt. "I can relate."

He glances over. "You seemed fine. People wanted to talk to you."

"I told you it's a small area."

"I guess so."

"Where'd you grow up? Union?"

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Oregon. Then Washington State. And eventually I ended up in New York."

"That's a big move," I say, intrigued by such a massive change. "What brought you to New York?"

He hesitates, a slight frown creasing his brow. "We patched into the Washington charter first. And after a few years, it was time to find a new home."

" We , as in you and Rooster?"

"Yeah." He casts a quick sideways glance my way. "And I wanted to get my sister as far away from our father's side of the family as possible."

A protective edge to his explanation touches me. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two. Just got her to transfer to a college in New York so I can see her more often."

"That's nice. You're close?"

"Not really…it's?—"

"I get it. Families are complicated." I hate that I've made him uncomfortable with all my questions.

"What about you?" His posture relaxes to the easygoing driver he'd been earlier. "You've never wanted to leave Pine Hollow?"

"Never had the chance." I stare straight ahead at the dark road, my gaze sweeping left and right, checking for deer. "The family business is here." My voice falters. That didn't stop my brothers from pursuing other careers. "Since my brothers decided not to help out, I feel…obligated, I guess?"

Jigsaw's voice lowers, almost to a whisper. "That's not a way to live, Margot."

"I like what I do." I cross my arms over my chest. "I think I help people."

"You do." He glances over at me, his gaze piercing through me. "I see how much care you take with everything you touch."

"Sometimes, I see my life in two paths." I draw in a shaky breath. Do I really want to reveal the gnawing doubt that eats at me? "I could go this way." I slowly extend my left arm, curving to the left. "And do anything I want. Move somewhere new. Start over someplace where no one knows me as that weird girl who grew up in a funeral home."

Jigsaw's grip tightens on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched. "Who said that to you?"

"Uh, everyone throughout school."

"Kids are assholes."

"Please." I try to deflect with a shaky laugh. I glance sideways at him, taking in his strong profile and muscular arms. "You were probably captain of your football team and dated all the cheerleaders."

He snorts a laugh. "No, that was Rooster." The smile quickly fades. "I was the kid from the wacko religious commune who wore strange clothes and freaked people out by quoting fiery lines from the bible."

"Oh." That was probably the last thing I expected him to say about his background. "What religion?"

"One of those aggressive branches of ‘Christianity' that breaks away and forms a smaller group of nutjobs who all follow the orders of the supreme nutjob leading them."

"Like a cult?"

"Yup." His voice is tight, like he isn't going to discuss this much longer.

I'm sorry doesn't seem right but I'm not sure what else to say. "But you…made it out?"

"I did."

"And saved your sister from it?"

He glances over again. "Yeah, I did."

My house comes into view. Large, yellow, and imposing on the quiet street. Jigsaw pulls into the parking lot and heads for the garage bays.

He turns the car off and hands me the keys.

Disappointment and nerves swirl through me. I wanted to keep talking. To find out more about him. But I think the conversation part of the evening is over.

What if I'm not ready for what comes next?