Itug at the hem of my yellow tube top, the fabric fitting snug against my skin, while my baggy, ripped jeans hang loose on my hips. Sandals softly slap against the wood floors as I walk. My gold hoops catch the light, and layered necklaces gently twinkle against my chest. My hair falls in loose waves down my back, with the ends tickling past my shoulder blades.
Reed’s already waiting by the door, dressed like only he can pull off—dark jeans, scuffed boots, and a flannel in muted navy that strains across his broad shoulders. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing scarred skin and tattoos that wind up from beneath the fabric.
My gaze travels across his jawline, up to his trim beard and devastating mustache, until it reaches his dark, tousled hair. When he looks up at me with those steady green eyes, something sharp stirs in my chest.
It’s then that I notice the dog tags hanging from a chain at his neck, half-hidden beneath the flannel.
“Reed,” I murmur, stepping closer, my gaze snagging on the metal catching the light. “Are those yours?”
He stiffens instantly as his eyes dart to mine. For a split second, I see a glimpse of hurt, raw, and anxiousness flicker across his face before he pushes it away.
My stomach twists as I open my mouth, then close it again.
Words choke in my throat. I shouldn’t have freaking asked.
God, Layla, why can’t you shut up sometimes?
He doesn’t answer or explain. He looks at me for a heartbeat longer before pressing the helmet into my hands, and this time a leather jacket.
“Let’s get to work, Layla.”
I swallow hard, forcing a smile even as my chest burns. “Right. Let’s go.”
Throwing on the jacket and sliding the helmet on, I push the panic down where it can’t show.
He moves past me, the weight of him so solid, so steady, as he straddles the motorcycle. The bike roars to life, the sound filling the quiet afternoon.
I climb on behind him, my arms wrapping instinctively around his waist. The world narrows to the thrum of the engine beneath us, the press of him against me, and the endless hum of tension I can’t seem to shake.
He pulls out of the driveway, gravel spitting under the tires, and we head toward Boots & Bourbon.
All I can think, heart pounding against his back, is that I’m playing with something dangerous here.
The bike roars down the open road, the afternoon wind rushing against my skin, tangling through my hair where it escapes the helmet. I clutch him tighter as he leans into a curve, my fingers spread against the hard plane of his abs beneath the flannel.
God, he’s ripped just from the way my fingers flex against his body.
Every movement is steady and controlled, his body warm and unwavering beneath my hands. The engine’s vibration hums through both of us, and I can’t tell if the tremor in my chest is from the ride or from him.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
He’s six years older than me. He’s the quiet bartender with scars he doesn’t talk about, with a gaze that burns through me as if it sees everything I try to hide.
And I’m engaged.
The thought slices through me. Brian’s ring still rests heavily on my finger, even though his words from last night sting.
“I don’t fucking care.”
I grip him tighter as the bike accelerates, my pulse pounding. My thoughts keep circling back to the fact that I’m in another state with another man, while my fiancé is back home.
Burying my thoughts deep, locking them away where they can’t burn me alive, I tell myself it’s just the adrenaline, just the rush of the ride, just the contrast between his silence and my chaos that makes me feel this way.
But when he shifts slightly under my arms as his muscles flex, the heat rising through me reveals every lie I try to tell.
And the scariest part is, I don’t want to let go.
His motorcycle shifts to a softer growl as he downshifts, leading us down Ruby Ridge’s quiet main street—morning sun bathes the rooftops, reflecting off the glass shopfronts, and the air carries the scent of cut grass, asphalt, and freshly baked bread from a bakery two doors down.
