“Maisie, we’re leaving.”
He tried to push me away.
“His daughter?”
I slammed on the brakes.
“No.”
His face tightened. “Please, sweetheart. Please.”
“You don’t get to say something like that and remove me from the conversation.”
The biker stood across our quilt table in a leather vest, faded tattoos showing. A minute earlier, I’d thought he might threaten Grandpa. Now he looked close to tears.
“Please, sweetheart. Please.”
“My name is Cole,” he said. “Hannah was the person I loved most.”
“My mother’s name was Hannah.”
“I know.”
Grandpa stepped between us. “You have no right to come here.”
