Page 38 of Stitch & Steel
I was gonna give Bella something to remember.
A first date under the stars.
By the time I reached the clearing near the lake, the sky had turned a soft gold, brushing the treetops with light like fire kissing the leaves. I killed the engine and sat for a second, just breathing.
It had to be perfect.
Not fancy. Not flashy. Justreal.
The kind of night a woman like Bella deserved.
I got to work fast—setting up the generator first, running the lines through the trees. The string lights flickered to life one by one like fireflies. I strung them wide across the clearing, low enough to feel warm, high enough not to get caught in the breeze. The rug went down next. Then the table. Chairs. The checkered cloth.
Pledge’s oil lamp flickered softly in the center like it belonged in some movie scene instead of a biker’s dinner date.
The canoe had already been placed down by the water earlier that day—floating lanterns and soft glimmers of light making the surface shimmer like something out of a fairytale. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t checked it three times already.
I popped open the warming box and checked the food.
Italian. Pasta. Garlic knots. Salad. Two plates. Real silverware. The works.
Even grabbed a cloth napkin to wipe her mouth like I was civilized or something.
Damn.
What washappeningto me?
Everything was set.
And yet, I stood there for a long second, hands on my hips, chewing the inside of my cheek like I was waiting for a bomb to go off.
I wasn’t nervous about the setup.
I was nervous about her.
Bella.
Hell, I’d faced off with rival MCs, disarmed a cartel runner in broad daylight, patched brothers up after bullet wounds with my bare hands—and yet somehow, the idea of knocking on Gran’s door and picking up a girl in jeans and a sundress had me sweating through my shirt.
Because Bella wasn’t just another night.
She was the kind of woman you only got one shot with.
The kind of woman who made your future shift shape without even trying.
I looked down at myself—black jeans, clean shirt, boots polished, kutte left behind for once. I didn’t want her thinking tonight was about the club. This wasn’t MC business. This wasme.
Logan Hayes.
A man trying to show a woman he gave a damn.
And then some.
I exhaled hard, grabbed the bouquet of wildflowers Bear had tucked in the backseat like some wiseass romantic, and got in the truck.
Time to pick her up.
The bouquet was a mess of color—lavender, Queen Anne’s lace, black-eyed Susans, and a few wild daisies that had survived the heatwave. Not wrapped in tissue or tied with a bow. Just rubber-banded together with a strip of leather from one of my old tool rolls.
