Emma
Apparently, fleeing to a secret biker ranch required snacks.
A lot of snacks.
I stood in the clubhouse kitchen watching Raven dump half the pantry into a canvas grocery bag while Nash argued that beef jerky counted as dinner.
“It absolutely does not,” Raven said.
“It’s meat.”
“So is dog food.”
Nash looked offended. “That’s not remotely the same thing.”
“Depends on the jerky.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Everyone stopped.
I stared at them. “Why are you all looking at me?”
“Nothing,” Raven said quickly.
Nash suddenly became very interested in the refrigerator.
Jake leaned against the counter with his arms folded, and there was something warm in his expression that made my stomach do something completely unrelated to morning sickness.
“Don’t,” I warned.
His mouth twitch
