Page 1 of Stitch & Steel
One
BELLA
If Gran’sporch had a heartbeat, it would be the slow creak of the rocking chair and the sharp snap of a flyswatter.
But right now, all I could hear was gravel crunching beneath my tires as I pulled off the winding Appalachian road and up to the old cabin I hadn’t seen since I was twelve. A place that smelled like pine needles and brewed sweet tea, with hummingbirds flitting like gossiping old women near the porch feeder.
I parked my dusty sedan beside a hulking black motorcycle that looked more like a war machine than a mode of transportation. The thing glinted in the sunlight like it had never known a day of rust. It looked out of place next to Gran’s rusted mailbox and the hanging flower pots she still somehow kept alive.
I blinked.
So the club really did check in on her.
She’d always said they would.
I slid out of the car, stretched the road trip out of my spine, and brushed my hair off my sticky forehead. The summer air here was heavier than I remembered. My sandals sank a littleinto the dirt, and I walked up the steps, trying not to trip on the broken one I knew she'd never bother to fix.
Before I could knock, the screen door flew open.
“Bells!” Gran’s arms were open before her mouth even closed, and I fell into the hug like it was my first breath in weeks.
“I missed you, old woman,” I whispered into her silver hair.
She pulled back, eyeing me with narrowed suspicion. “You look skinny. They feed you up in that city?”
I laughed. “Too much grading and not enough time to eat.”
“Well,” she said, patting my cheek. “You’ll eat here. I made biscuits. Real ones. None of that tube crap.”
She tugged me inside with surprising strength, but my eyes kept flicking back to the motorcycle. “Someone here already?”
“Oh, that’s just Logan,” she said casually, like he was a stray dog she let in for scraps. “Been helpin’ with the gutters, the woodpile, little things.”
I froze halfway into the living room. “Logan?”
She gave me a look. “Goes by Diesel with the club. Big fella. Road Captain or whatever they call him now. Sergeant? I can’t keep it straight. Anyway, he’s a good one.”
Of course she’d remember every detail except the title.
“And he’s helping you... why?”
Gran plopped down in her rocker with a satisfied sigh. “Because I once sewed a man’s shoulder shut with fishing line and kept my damn mouth shut. Loyalty runs deep with these boys.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
She’d told me the story before—how one night, years ago, a man had stumbled onto her porch bleeding and half-dead, and instead of calling the law, she’d boiled water, stitched him up, and let him hide in the crawlspace until his club brothers came for him. All she asked for in return was peace and quiet.
Apparently, that extended to porch repairs now.
I was about to ask more when the back door opened—and a shadow filled the hallway.
The man that walked in was not what I expected.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black tee stretched across his chest, jeans worn just right. Tattoos curled around his forearms like stories waiting to be told. He had a military stillness to him—calculated, coiled—but his eyes were what stopped me.
They were this deep, stormy gray, like wet slate, and they locked onto mine like I was a threat.
Or a puzzle.
