Page 40 of Single Mom's Bikers

“About the woman we’re teaching to ride?” Zane’s voice holds challenge. “The one who’s raising amazing daughters? Who runs our gallery better than we ever could?”

“The one who fits,” Chase adds quietly.

The moment stretches. Then her phone chimes—time for another circuit.

“Watch this,” she says, swinging onto her bike with new confidence. “Think I’ve got turns figured out.”

We step back, giving her space. She takes the first curve perfectly.

“She’s a natural,” Chase murmurs.

“Beautiful,” Zane agrees.

They’re not talking about her riding. Not entirely.

The lesson ends too soon—she has to pick up the girls from their morning activities. We help her park, our hands finding excuses to brush the skin.

“Same time tomorrow?” She looks at each of us in turn, no longer pretending this is just about motorcycles.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Zane helps her remove her helmet, fingers lingering in her hair.

“I have to check the chain tension anyway.” Chase’s excuse fools no one.

I just nod, anticipating tomorrow’s dawn. More lessons, more touches, more of this thing growing between four people who shouldn’t work but somehow do.

“I like who I am with you three,” she says suddenly.

She rides away in her truck, leaving three brothers standing in an empty lot. None of us speaks. None of us needs to.

15

CHASE

Some women shinein evening wear. Evie practically glows as she fixes Rick’s crooked tie, cursing my brother’s inability to dress himself. The gallery’s biggest event of the year starts in twenty minutes, and she’s got all three of us lined up like schoolboys.

“Hold still,” she scolds Zane, attacking his collar with purpose. The local arts council is coming to review our grant application, and apparently, we clean up nice or die trying.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I tell her, already perfect in my suit because I’m not a savage like my brothers.

“Obviously.” She smooths Rick’s lapels one last time. “Rose has the girls for the night, so I can enjoy torturing you three properly.”

Tonight, we could fund our community programs for another five years. But watching Evie fuss over my brothers, I’m more fascinated by how she’s transformed us.

She works the room like she was born to it. Charming council members, directing staff, keeping us from saying anything toocrude to potential donors. Every so often, she touches one of us—straightening Rick’s tie again, brushing lint from Zane’s shoulder, squeezing my arm as she passes.

Small touches with equal attention. Like she’s figured out exactly what each of us needs.

Hours later, when the last donor leaves and the grant is practically guaranteed, I find her in my studio. She’s kicked off her heels and curled in my leather chair like she belongs there.

“Successful night.” I pour two whiskeys and hand her one.

“Mmm.” She takes a sip, eyes closed. “Think Mrs. Peterson noticed I matched my lipstick to my tattoos just to spite her?”

“Noticed? She nearly swallowed her pearls.”

Her laugh fills my studio, and something in my chest tightens. “The girls okay with Rose?”

“Having the time of their lives. Apparently, Rose knows all the best bedtime stories.”

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