Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC #8) - Anne Malcom Page 0,48

a Prospect came once a week to do the job my husband could no longer do. I’d scared him off earlier this morning, which didn’t say much about his potential for getting patched in. You had to be able to survive a lot more than the wrath of an Old Lady. Okay, maybe not a lot more, but close.

Since I was paying attention now, deciding to try to figure out how to live my life without my husband, I thought it was beyond time for me to learn to do things like mow the lawn. No way was I going to be the woman who had the club take care of all of this shit. Like some kind of burden. A charity case.

Fuck that.

How hard was it to mow a lawn?

After an hour, an inner temper tantrum and a crying jag in our garage, I’d deduced it was very fucking hard if you had no idea how to operate a lawn mower. Which I realized was totally fucking pathetic. I was a single mom raising two kids, I should be able to teach them every life skill. Ranger should’ve taught me every ‘man job’. He should’ve fucking known there was a possibility I’d be right here, alone, unable to mow the goddamn lawn without someone on a Harley feeling obligated to save the day.

“I’ll go and grab some, fill ‘er up and finish this job. For you, but mostly for the lawn that’s just trying to survive,” Kace smirked.

Friendly. Funny. Who the fuck was this guy?

“That’s not necessary,” I argued, not hiding the irritation in my voice. “I’m more than capable.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agreed, lying expertly. “This isn’t some alpha crap where I don’t think a woman can do the work. It’s just I know for a fact that Cade would reem me out for driving past, seeing you doing this shit and taking no for an answer. Especially when my Sunday afternoon plans include a cold beer, a football game and not much else.” He paused and I took the time to drink him in.

He was taller than me, though that wasn’t hard since most of these men were over six foot and I was only five six. Muscles, but of course. Vibrant tattoos covering one of his sinewy arms. Hair long enough to almost brush his shoulders if it were down. But he’d slung it back into a messy bun at the nape of his neck.

I was not a fan of the man bun. At least, not before this moment.

“Now I can see you’re rearing up to argue with me,” Kace said. “I bet you’re damn good at it too. But I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned in, and I held my breath, not wanting to smell him, and I could only imagine what he was smelling on me. “I’m damn good at it too. And as I mentioned before, I don’t have any plans, so I’ve got all the time in the world to stand here and argue with you.”

I stared at him. This man I’d met once. Who had shared personal information with me because he felt it was only fair since he knew my shit. Who’d stopped his bike on his way home to drink and do nothing in order to argue with me about mowing some lawn.

The nerve.

Seriously. Who did he think he was?

I’d been geared up to argue with him. I really had. On principle mostly, and also because I couldn’t face the fact that I’d failed at being two parents before I’d even really began. Fighting back was what I should’ve done. Should’ve straightened my spine, jutted out my chin and assumed the female battle stance.

But I was tired. Tired in every way a person could be tired. I did not feel like fighting this stranger in the middle of my half—okay, quarter—mowed yard in the ninety-degree heat. Nor did I particularly want to finish mowing this lawn after a fight with this stranger.

So I sighed and stepped back. “Whatever. If you want to waste your Sunday, be my guest.” I paused, wiping sweat from my brow. “Just know this is not me approving a male coming in to take over a job that I’m totally capable of finishing. It’s me realizing that my children have been far too quiet, which worries me, and I fucking hate mowing the grass.”

I shouldn’t have relented, but I was tired. To my bones. And I didn’t have the energy to