Taking the gooey sandwich to the table, she ate it while she itemized her budget. Willa was only charging five hundred a month for the house, as well as offering to co-sign a loan when she had enough money saved for a deposit to buy it from her.
Closing the small notebook, she tucked the coupons and sale ads she would be using that week, then stood, carrying her dirty plate to the sink. Putting her notebook into the small drawer beside the kitchen sink, she then went to her room to change her clothes. She had the morning off from the bakery, and it was her afternoon to work for The Last Riders.
She worked half a day for Willa at her bakery and the other half at The Last Riders’ clubhouse, cleaning and cooking, rotating morning and afternoons between the two. She enjoyed both. So far the most demanding job they gave her was cooking enough food to satisfy the enormous appetites of the men who lived there. She had to make an extra pack of bacon just to keep Train and Rider happy.
The cleaning wasn’t bad. Most of the men and women who lived there cleaned up after themselves. On the days she worked the morning shift, after making breakfast, she vacuumed, dusted, and washed clothes. She wasn’t allowed upstairs.
The one thing Lisa West had taught her was to keep everything in its place and keep everything neat and orderly. The habit was so ingrained in her that she used her own money to buy coasters and had set them around on the various tables in the clubroom.
Since she was heading to work at the clubhouse, she changed into her favorite worn denim and a plain T-shirt. Leaving her room, she was about to knock on Bliss’s door to tell her that she was leaving, but then dropped her hand. She would just leave her a note and text her later to ask if she wanted her to pick up anything on her way home. Ginny didn’t expect to receive a text back, but she wanted to extend the offer.
Bliss had, so far, resisted her friendship. Ginny wasn’t upset by the rebuffs; she felt she understood Bliss’s unhappiness better than the petite woman gave her credit for. Treepoint was a small town, and it was common knowledge that Bliss had been thrown out of the club. She had lost The Last Riders, which she considered family and friends. Ginny had seen her too many times at the diner with them not to have noticed more than a couple of intimate touches and glances she had shared with the men, so when Bliss had lost her relationship with The Last Riders, it hadn’t just hurt; it had burned.
When she had been ten years old, Ginny had begged Silas to let her help cook Thanksgiving dinner. He had given her simple tasks, like peel the eggshells for deviled eggs, tear the bread apart for the stuffing, and butter the rolls. Looking back, Ginny had been more of a hindrance than a help, constantly badgering him what to do next.
She had been grating the carrots for the cake he’d been making, when he stopped mixing the batter to take the turkey out of the oven. It had been a thing of beauty, all golden crust and huge enough to feed the small army of children, who were complaining of hunger.
“It’s beautiful, Silas.” Placing the peeler down, she went to the counter where he set the turkey, as Silas dug through the cabinets for the platter.
“Don’t touch, Ginny; it’s hot,” Silas warned, bending down while keeping his eyes on her as he pulled the platter out.
“I won’t,” she promised, keeping away from the metal pan. She slid her eyes over the breast where a thermometer stuck out. Thinking to help Silas, she reached over to pull it out.
“No!” Silas yelled, dropping the platter with a crash as he ran toward her.
The warning came too late. Agonizing pain had her trying to drop the metal thermometer, but it stuck to her hand. The unconceivable sensation of her flesh melting sent her to her knees as she cradled her hand.
“Pa! Pa!” Silas shouted as he snatched her up into his arms and ran to the sink to turn the water on, placing her hand under the flow.
Whimpering in pain, she felt dizzy because it hurt so badly. Opening her mouth to scream at how bad it hurt, she looked at Silas and made herself stop. She pressed her trembling lips together, seeing the self-recrimination across her brother’s face as he inspected the damage to her hand.
“It’s okay, Silas,” she soothed him. “It doesn’t hurt.”
The palm of her hand had felt like it was on fire, but she hadn’t wanted him to know how badly it hurt, more intent on making him feel better than herself. She never forgot that first burst of agonizing pain, or the pain she experienced when her father and Leah had died and she was forced to leave her family.