Page 3 of Regards, Mia

“Real estate,” I say. “I need to go.”

There’s no way I’m sharing details about my personal life with my boss. Jordan is the kind of man who uses every piece of information to his advantage. Who knows when the sorry state of my love life might come in handy to him?

“Enjoy the rest of your night,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I hang up and wrap my arms around myself. The crowds of people walking down the charming cobblestone sidewalks of Main Street have no idea a criminal is being set free to mingle among them.

God, I need a smoke.

Ducking further into the alley between the buildings, I reach into my purse for my emergency pack of cigarettes. I quit months ago, but it never sticks.

I step behind a dumpster and light a cigarette, feeling the immediate effects of the nicotine hit my system. I’m calmer, but the buzz of anger still vibrates through my body.

I’ll never give up on Mattson.

Not until he’s behind bars where he belongs.

Pulling out my phone, I tap out a text message to Elena, asking her to call me as soon as possible. Jordan gave me the heads up about Mattson, but I doubt he did the same for Elena. She needs to know what’s going on, and she needs to hear it from me. We’ve been in this together for months.

The roar of an engine sounds, and I glance up from my phoneto see the headlamp of a motorcycle coming from the other end of the alley. I step back into the shadows of the dumpster and watch as a man stops the bike and cuts the engine a few feet away.

He’s clad in all black, a combination of denim and leather, and he’s a formidable presence on the bike. His shoulders are broad, his legs are long, and his overall size is larger than average. He dismounts with fluid grace, throwing his leg to the ground in a practiced move.

My heart thuds against the tight walls of my chest as he pulls off his helmet and shakes out a wavy mass of long, dark hair. A throb of desire races through me, because this guy looks like Ryder Steelheart, president of the Shadow Vipers Motorcycle Club, just pulled into Mossy Oak for the weekend.

Desire surges in my belly as the streetlight plays over his rugged features. He’s dangerously handsome, with a close-cropped dark beard, and an intimidating presence. He’s not my usual type—I prefer men with hair shorter than mine and safer modes of transportation—but there’s no denying he’s off the charts sexy.

“Is this the new smoking section?” he asks, pinning me with his dark gaze.

Oh, hell. I must not have been as much in the shadows as I’d thought. Now, I’ve not only been caught smoking, but also staring.

“Want one?” I ask, reaching for my purse. There are a few more in my emergency pack, and I’m feeling generous in my misery.

“I don’t smoke,” he says.

“Neither do I.”

His dark brow lifts, and I try to explain. “This is an emergency.”

He stiffens and glances around the alley. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not in danger,” I say. “I’m just fucking pissed.”

His shoulders inch down, and his gaze zeroes in on me again. “You’re gonna freeze your ass off dressed likethat.”

I’m not in the mood for a lecture about my smoking habits or my wardrobe choices, no matter how appealing the lecturer. “Gotta go somehow,” I say on a long exhale of smoke.

In two long strides, he crosses the distance between us and peels off his jacket. “You want this?”

Without waiting for my answer, he drapes the jacket over my shoulders. It violates every instinct in my body not to shrug it off, but instead of tossing it off, I burrow deeper. The jacket is warm from his body and smells inticingly of leather and man.

“What’s got you so pissed you’re out here smoking an emergency cigarette without a coat?”

Light shines from the streetlamp directly on his face, illuminating the sharp planes and angles of his features.

“Bad news from work.”

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