Page 47 of Baby for the Bikers

Ryder steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

Before I can respond, he leans down and kisses me. Then he’s gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

I stand in my kitchen, lips tingling, surrounded by the smell of fresh bread and the lingering warmth of his presence.

I’ll take three days off, I decide. Three days to sort out what I’m feeling, to figure out what I’m going to do about the Kane brothers.

19

MADDOX

Three Days Later

The sun’sbarely threatening to rise as I tear down Main Street on my newly repaired bike. Six-thirty on a Thursday morning, and already I’m on a mission that has nothing to do with the garage or the diner.

Rowan’s been off for three days now—Brick’s idea, claiming she was working too hard and needed the break. I’m not buying the “sick” excuse. Not after Ryder showed up that first morning offering to “check on her” and then disappeared for half the damn day.

Whatever’s going on between them, it’s not my business.

Except it kind of feels like it is.

I lean into a turn, enjoying the familiar purr of my bike beneath me. This is the one Rowan trashed, and it’s now as good as new—better, even, with the upgrades I couldn’t resist adding during the repairs. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m riding to her place on the very machine she destroyed.

Wolf Pike is still mostly asleep, just a few early-shift workers heading to jobs and the occasional dog walker on the street. I’ve memorized the route to Rowan’s apartment building, though I’ve only been there twice before.

I park out front, taking the stairs two at a time. It’s time to fulfill our promise—letting her use one of our backup bikes now that our main rides are fixed. Ryder insisted on handling some “finishing touches” on the bike last night, working late in the garage with the door locked, which was weird even for him.

I knock once on Rowan’s door, surprised when it swings open at my touch. Not locked? That’s odd.

“Rowan?” I call out, stepping inside cautiously. The silence is broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the kitchen. “Hello?”

The smell hits me then—rich, sweet, with something else underneath that I can’t quite place. I follow my nose to the kitchen counter, where a tray of what looks like cookies sits cooling on a rack. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast in my rush to get here.

Surely she wouldn’t mind if I tried one. I pick up a square, still slightly warm, and take a bite.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, taking another bigger bite. The chocolate is deep and rich, with an earthy undertone that’s unusual but not unpleasant. I’m reaching for a second when a voice cuts through the apartment.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I turn to find Rowan standing in the hallway entrance, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her body. Her hair is wet,slicked back from her face, and water droplets still cling to her bare shoulders. The towel barely covers her, hitting mid-thigh and clinging to her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

“Door was open,” I manage, unable to tear my eyes away from her. “Thought you were expecting me.”

Her eyes widen in horror as they dart between me and the brownie in my hand. “You didn’t—tell me you didn’t just eat that.”

I look down at the half-eaten brownie. “Tastes good. What’s the problem?”

“Those aren’t—” She steps closer, clutching the towel tighter. “The door was open for Mae. She ordered these. They’re…special cookies.”

It takes my brain a second to catch up. “Special like…”

“Like they contain a fuck-ton of weed,” she hisses. “They’re not for you!”

I stare at the brownie in my hand, then back at her. “You bake pot? Like, edibles?”

“I bake whatever people pay me to bake,” she snaps. “Mae says it helps with her arthritis. Which is none of your business, by the way.”

I should be more concerned about accidentally ingesting edibles at six-thirty in the morning, but all I can focus on is how the water droplets are trailing down her neck, disappearing beneath the edge of her towel.

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