Page 2 of The Biker's Savage Desire

“I’m helping.”

“Helping me look?” He still sounds so damn annoyed.

“Yeah,” I snap, no longer willing to offer this man pleasantries. “She’s my truck… so I’m helping.”

“You’re not helping, you’re blocking the light.” I glance back at the sun, letting it blind me for a moment instead of trusting that he’s, in fact, correct about me blocking his light.

I hate admitting I’m wrong, especially to this stranger of five minutes, apparently.

“Oh,” I jump down off the bumper, trying to ignore the burning in my cheeks, “there’s no reason to look, anyway. It’s the alternator. Sheila does this all the time.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just grunts low and non-committal, as he fiddles with something under the hood. “You named your truck?”

“Yes, don’t pretend like you don’t. I’m sure your pretty little bike over there has a first and last name.”

He laughs under his breath and wipes his hands on his jeans before turning toward me. “It’s not alittlebike, and it doesn’t have a name. It’s a machine. Machines don’t have names.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of joyful masculinity?” I toss my empty water bottle into the truck with a soft thud. “Next, you’ll be telling me feelings are optional and how soap is a government conspiracy.”

I swear I watch his jaw tighten. “Alternator’s definitely not happy.”

“Really? Is that right?” I land my hand on my hip and twist to the side. “It’s almost like I said that already.”

“You could fix the corroded wires, and you’d stop having this problem, but maybe first start with your attitude. This a Bridezilla thing?”

“Bridezilla?”I narrow my brows. “What are you talking about?”

“The wedding gown hangin’ out in your backseat.”

“Oh, God.” I roll my eyes and lean against Sheila for support. “Yeah, that’s going to Goodwill. I’m officially no longer engaged.” I probably shouldn’t tell this man anything, but I feel an urge to set the record straight.

He steps back from the truck and slams the hood back in place like it owes him a steak dinner. “So, you’re one of those runaway brides… like on TV?”

I narrow my brows, taking the bait. “No, I’m not a runaway bride. I’m a woman who came to her senses.”

“Right,” he groans, smirking.

Smirking? The man smirked!

“I’m sorry, did someone die? Is your entire family being held hostage by forest trolls with sharp spears and poisonous mushrooms, or were you raised by a pack of wolves up on the darkest part of this mountain?”

He laughs under his breath. “Wolves would’ve been friendlier than my parents. Pretty sure about that one. And forest trolls,” he straightens his back as though he’s showing me how enormous he is again, “I’m pretty sure I could take ‘em.”

“Of course you could,” I say with a sarcastic tone so intense it rattles my bones.

“Look,” he groans as he brushes his hand down over his salted beard, “I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’ve got a million things on my mind, and then you pop out of nowhere like a Disney side character, desperate to judge every facial expression I have.”

I hold up my finger. “Okay, first of all,I’m themain character. Second, you could’ve just waved and kept riding.”

“And miss getting insulted by a runaway bride with a sharp tongue and a truck full of trauma?” he says, the corner of his mouth tilting into the hint of a sneer. “Nah, this is way more fun.”

I stare at him, part furious, part flustered, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit charmed in spite of myself.

“Okay, grumpy pants. What’s the plan, then? You just gonna keep roasting me until the sun goes down, or can you drive me into town?”

He stares at me, then up toward the darkening sky. “You notice the clouds rolling in, princess? There’s a storm coming, and it’s supposed to be real bad. Hail, wind, buckets of rain. I’m gonna hole up in a cabin a few miles west of here until it blows over.”

Of course there’s a storm coming. That’s the start of every murder mystery. Stupid girl goes back to a woodsy cabin with a strange man. “Don’t call me princess.”

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