Page 17 of Single Mom's Bikers

“Fuck.” I rest my forehead against hers. “I’m going to kill him.”

She laughs softly, straightening her clothes. “Rain check?”

“On the kiss, the tattoo, or the show?”

“All of it?” Her smile turns seductive. “I think I need a proper consultation. About everything.”

“Tomorrow.” I catch her hand before she can leave. “Come early. We’ll discuss all those designs I have in mind.”

She slips out just as Zane appears, grinning like the asshole he is. He eyes my messy desk, the papers scattered everywhere.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” He drops into my chair, propping his feet on my desk.

I throw an empty inkpot at his head. He dodges, laughing. “The fuck you mean, welcome?”

“Can’t let you have first taste, big brother.” He winks. “Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us.”

“You did that shit on purpose?” Another inkpot flies.

“Hey, sharing’s our thing, remember?” He ducks again. “Though from the looks of things, she might be into that idea.”

This time, I throw my sketchbook. He catches it, flipping through pages of her designs.

“Damn.” His grin widens. “Better clean this place up before Rick sees it. You know how he gets about mixing business with pleasure.”

But we both know it’s too late for that. One way or another, Evie Ashbourne is going to complicate everything.

And honestly? I can’t fucking wait.

7

RICK

Mrs. Wilson doesn’t looklike the kind of woman who’d throw herself in front of three teenage vandals. At seventy-two, she’s barely five feet tall, with silver hair always perfectly styled and floral dresses that remind me of my grandmother. But here she is, brandishing her garden shears like a weapon.

“Get away from my roses, you little monsters!”

Her voice carries across my front lawn as I’m getting off my bike. The kids—probably sixteen, definitely stupid—freeze mid-spray. Red paint drips from her rosebushes.

What happens next moves in slow motion. The tallest kid shoves her. Not hard, but enough. My blood runs cold.

“Hey!” The word comes out as a growl. Three heads snap toward me.

Ten minutes and some creative threats later, they’re replanting roses under her watchful eye. Amazing how quickly teenage boldness crumbles when they realize they’ve fucked with an MC member’s neighbor.

“Those boys needed direction,” Mrs. Wilson says, pressing a cup of her awful tea into my hands. “Like you three did when you first moved here.”

She’s right. Thirty-something years ago, we were those kids—angry, lost, looking for trouble. Mrs. Wilson’s garden was the only spot of beauty on our street back then. Still is.

“They won’t bother you again.” I help her with the last plant, mind wandering to what Zane told me earlier.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, brushing dirt from her dress. “The one you wore when Amy Mitchell broke your heart in high school. Girl trouble?”

If she only knew. Zane’s words echo in my head:“You might want to have a talk with Chase about our new neighbor. Things got interesting in his studio today.”

The house is quiet inside except for the noise from Chase’s studio. My brother’s words from our last “talk” about professional boundaries ring in my head. Walking in on him and Evie today must have been quite a show.

I find Chase sketching, music low, totally focused. Not unusual.

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