Daddy’s Little Secret: Rejected by the MC President

Chapter 3

Five minutes later, I’m carrying my first tray, and the shift settles into its usual rhythm. Orders come in, drinks need refilling, burgers and fries disappear from the kitchen, and customers wave whenever they need something. A young couple struggles to keep two screaming toddlers from throwing fries across the booth, an elderly man orders the same cheeseburger he gets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and three high school boys split one basket of fries while arguing over who gets the last one.

I move from table to table, listening to people complain about their food, laugh about stupid things, and argue over who forgot to bring their wallet, and somewhere between one refill and the next, I almost forget about the motel.

I almost feel normal.

Then the front doors open.

Four men walk inside wearing leather cuts with the Steel Deacons patch stretched across their backs, and the room reacts before anyone says a word. A couple near the counter shifts aside, one of the servers straightens, and someone starts clearing a larger table for them.

I recognise the patch.

Then the boots.

Then him.

Dominic walks in behind the others.

My fingers tighten around the tray.

He’s wearing dark jeans, black boots, and a gray T-shirt beneath his cut, and at forty-one, he carries himself with the quiet confidence of a man who has spent decades being obeyed. He looks completely at home here, surrounded by men who know him, while I’m standing twenty feet away pretending I didn’t spend the night wrapped around him.

My heart betrays me immediately.

I hate that it still does.

Dominic doesn’t look at me while they wait to be seated, which should make it easier, but somehow it makes me more aware of every second he spends in the room. When his eyes finally sweep across the dining area, they pass over me without stopping, and his face gives nothing away.

To everyone else, he’s just another customer.

To me, he’s the man who left me in a motel room less than six hours ago.

I force myself to focus on the family in booth six, carry their food over, check that they have everything they need, and head back toward the kitchen without looking in his direction.

A few minutes later, Lisa taps my shoulder as she passes.

“Your regulars are back,” she says, nodding toward the table where the four men have been seated. “And they tip well, so congratulations. They’re yours.”

My stomach tightens.

Of course they are.

I grab four menus and four glasses of water, then make my way across the dining room, keeping my face professional even though my pulse is climbing with every step.

“Good afternoon,” I say as I reach the table, setting the menus down before placing the water glasses in front of each man. “What can I get you gentlemen today?”

One of the brothers orders without opening his menu, while another asks for coffee, and I write everything down carefully because keeping my hands busy is easier than thinking about the man sitting across from me.

Then I look at Dominic.

Our eyes meet, and for one second, neither of us looks away.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, something I recognize because I saw the same look in the motel room this morning.

“I’ll have the usual,” he says, leaning back in his chair as though I’m nothing more than another waitress taking his order.

“Of course,” I reply, keeping my voice professional even though my heart has started beating harder.

I write it down even though I already know exactly what he wants, a double cheeseburger with no onions, extra pickles, large fries, and black coffee, because I’ve memorized the little things about him without ever meaning to.

When I reach for the empty mug beside him, my fingers brush his hand.

The contact lasts less than a second, but his fingers close lightly around mine before his thumb brushes the edge of my newest nail.

My breath catches.

His eyes drop to my hand.

“New?” he asks, his voice low enough that it disappears beneath the noise of the restaurant.

I glance at my nails, then back at him. “You noticed?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You always serve me so I have to notice these things.”

My stomach tightens.

It’s such an innocent thing to say that nobody at the table reacts, but Dominic knows exactly what those words would do to me. His thumb moves once over the edge of my nail before he releases my hand.

“I like them,” he adds, his gaze holding mine for one dangerous second.

Hearing those words makes heat rushes up my arm.

I pull my hand back, forcing myself to collect the mugs before anyone can notice the way my fingers have started trembling and this becomes something neither of us can explain.

“I’ll get that coffee,” I say, turning toward the kitchen.

I walk away before my expression can betray me, carrying the empty mugs against my chest while his touch burns against my skin.

Nobody noticed.

Nobody says anything.

Because to everyone else, it was nothing.

But I know Dominic.

And I know exactly what he was saying.

Except that, looking back now, I know something else.

I know I have started this story too late.

By the time I was sitting in that diner pretending Dominic was just another customer, the important part had already happened. I had already met him. I had already learned the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice, the way he could make a few words feel like they carried an entire conversation underneath them. I had already been to the motel enough times to know which faucet needed to be turned before the water warmed.

I was already in it.

But that wasn’t where it began.

It only felt like the beginning because, by then, I could see what I had become.

The real beginning was quieter.

There was no motel room waiting for me. No Dominic. No Steel Deacons. No Bethany sitting somewhere in the edges of my thoughts, no history I didn’t understand, no man whose name could make my heart beat faster before I even saw his face.

There was just me.

Twenty-two years old.

A few months younger in every way that mattered.

New to town, short on money, driving an aging Honda, and trying to convince myself that I hadn’t made a mistake by coming here.

I hadn’t met Dominic yet.

I hadn’t learned that some people don’t have to chase you to become important to you.

Sometimes they simply walk into your ordinary life and make themselves familiar before you realize you’ve started making room for them.

That was where I should have begun.

Not here.

Not with the motel.

Not with the money.

Not with the man.

With the girl I was before any of it had a name.

Months earlier.

That was the beginning.