Page 38 of Baby for the Bikers

“Great,” I mutter, looking down at my saturated top. “Just great.”

I need to change, or at least get this shirt off so it can dry. The diner’s closed, and it’s just me and Ryder. It’s not like I haven’t been seen in a bra before.

Still, privacy seems wise. I head for the pantry, which has a small fan we use to keep it ventilated. Perfect for drying a soaked top. I close the door behind me, twisting the little lock for good measure, and peel off my wet shirt. The air is cool against my damp skin, raising goose bumps along my arms.

I wring out the shirt as best I can before hanging it directly in front of the fan. With any luck, it’ll be dry enough to wear home in twenty minutes or so. I rub my arms, trying to warm up, wondering if there’s a spare shirt somewhere I could borrow.

The sound of footsteps approaching makes me freeze. There’s a pause, then a sharp knock on the pantry door.

“Just a minute!” I call out, reaching for my still-soaking shirt. Before I can grab it, the door shudders under a sudden impact.

Wood splinters around the lock. The door flies open, hitting the wall with a bang.

Ryder stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable as his eyes lock on me—standing in just my bra and jeans, water still dripping down my skin.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.

And somehow, I forget to breathe.

16

RYDER

When I finish takingout the trash, the back alley is quiet, and the evening air holds that stillness unique to small towns after closing time. Something feels off the moment I step back inside the diner. The mop lies abandoned on the wet floor, water pooling around its base.

For a moment, my mind races back to the morning’s meeting about Cypher. Panic rises—a feeling I’m not used to. Have they taken her?

The main dining area is empty. Kitchen clear. Storage room—nothing. A quick sweep reveals no signs of struggle.

The pantry door is locked.

I don’t hesitate. One solid kick and the door splinters open.

The sight stops me cold.

Rowan stands there, her wet top barely covering her chest. Water droplets trace paths down her skin that I can’t help but notice.

“Don’t you people ever knock?!” she yells.

I don’t answer. Instead, I take three strides and pull her into a hug. The relief is unexpected. Overwhelming.

Pulling back, I hold her face in my hands. My voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

Confusion clouds her eyes. “What do you mean?”

My hands move to her bare shoulders. The scent of her—without clothes—is intoxicating. Her lips are parted, full, and inviting. “What happened out there?” I ask, my fingers tracing her skin.

She explains about the broken tap, but I’m barely listening. She’s so close. Too close. I want her, but I’m not like most men. I know I’m rough. Intense. I don’t do subtle.

Her words barely register. Not when she’s this close. Not when her skin is warm under my hands, and her eyes are dark with something beyond surprise. I should step back. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. My brothers who might want her too. A job she needs. Enemies who might target anyone close to us.

But none of those reasons seem important with her looking at me like this, her breath coming faster, her pulse visible at the base of her throat.

I want her. Have wanted her since that first day in her apartment when she stood her ground despite being cornered by three men who’d broken her door.

I should walk away. She deserves better than what I am—a man of violence and silence, someone who takes what he wants and leaves marks on whatever he touches.

Before I can move, she rises to her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.

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