Page 10 of Snared Rider

I stare at the screen. His outright refusal to come to Kingsley with me is pissing me off.

Okay, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, but it would be easier to face Logan with Alistair by my side. The problem is, I can’t imagine Alistair ever fitting into this side of my life.

I don’t see him having a drink with Jem and Adam or talking to Grandad about bikes. He would have a heart attack if Tap or Slade spoke to him.

At first, I was attracted to him because he didn’t fit the biker world. Alistair is corporate and, as Adam said, snobby. I thought that was what I wanted, and maybe it was. Maybe it still is. He’s different from everything I’ve ever known, from everything I left behind in Kingsley.

Most importantly, he isn’t Logan.

And this is also our biggest problem.

He’s not Logan.

I leave the bathroom, but instead of heading back to the table I go outside to the small covered deck area.

I expect to see a brother or an old lady out here, but I find no one. Secretly, I’m glad. I need to think, and I can’t do that with an audience.

Slowly, I cross the decking and head for the nearest picnic table, my boots clipping on the wood underfoot.

It takes some manoeuvring (not to mention wobbling), but I climb onto the table, putting my bum on the top and my feet on the bench. Leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees, I try to slow my thoughts.

Being in Kingsley feels right. I didn’t realise how much I miss my friends and family until tonight. And, okay, I’m drunk as a Lord, so I’m probably feeling more sentimental than usual, but it’s also true. I do miss them and I hate the distance between us—both physically and emotionally.

I also hate that I can’t come back, not permanently anyway.

I can’t return home because Logan still holds my heart in his hands and I can’t give him the power to hurt me again. I can’t and I won’t.

I was drowning in Kingsley. I had no prospects and no options. What would my life have been then? I wouldn’t have my education, I wouldn’t have my sixty-plus hours a week job.

Sighing, I glance up at the dark sky. If Logan and I had gone public as planned, I would never have left Kingsley. Would we be married by now? Have a couple of mini-Harlows?

I close that thought down. It hurts to dwell on the past.

I left to find my happy. After ten years away, I don’t think I succeeded. I didn’t expect London to be paved with dreams (or unicorns), but I’m thirty and my life is shit. I hate my job and I hate my flat. I hate that I left my family behind.

And then there is Alistair.

I do love him. That seems strange, given my feelings for Logan, but it is true. I love him.

But I don’t think I’m in love with him.

Logan would tell me he loved me at every opportunity; in two years I can count on one hand how often Ali has uttered those words.

Then again, Alistair hasn’t yet ripped my still-beating heart out of my chest with no explanation. That gives him an edge over Logan.

Being in Kingsley, surrounded by family, is hard. My drunken mind questions if coming back would be so bad. I’m hardly giving up the perfect life. I have a job that demands more of me than I can physically deliver, a boyfriend who wants me to be something I’m not and friends who are more like acquaintances.

The roar of a bike draws my attention and I raise my gaze in the direction it’s coming from. A single headlight moves towards the parking area and I watch as a Harley rolls into the first available space.

My heart pounds wildly beneath my ribs and my breath rips out of me as I watch the rider dismount and help his passenger off the back. She’s smaller than him, a lot smaller, and when she pulls off her helmet, her light curls fall around her shoulders. She’s pretty, petite and I hate her. I hate her because in that instant I know the rider.

I’m surprised by the jealousy that hits me. I should leave, I should walk away, but I’m transfixed. All I can do is watch the scene unfold as he pulls off his own helmet, releasing his tumble of dark hair. My stomach twists as he reaches down so she can wrap her arms around his neck. She doesn’t hesitate, and why would she? No sane woman would when faced with him.

She jumps into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist in a move so familiar, so intimate it makes my stomach twist in agony. Then they’re kissing and my heart is no longer pounding but breaking into pieces because the man she’s kissing is Logan Harlow.

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