Tig had been leaning in the hall long enough to hear every heated word—her voice sharp, Clay’s stubborn as stone. When she finally stormed out and slammed the door behind her, Tig straightened instantly, eyes hooked on her like he couldn’t look away.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping into her path with that wicked little grin, “someone’s got some real daddy issues today.”

He shouldn’t be this close. Clay’s daughter was the ultimate off-limits. Gemma would murder him. Clay would bury him. But Tig never had much impulse control, especially around her. He tilted his head, stepping just close enough to test gravity. “You wanna talk,” he teased, voice low, “or you just wanna keep stompin’ around lookin’ like a sin waitin’ to happen?”