Page 7 of Stitch & Steel
I raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m not safe?”
“I’m saying,” he said, stepping back in just enough to crowd my space, “even with me watching, you still lock the door. Every time. No exceptions.”
I nodded, the breath hitching in my chest.
“And be good.” His voice dropped just a little lower. His gaze swept down my body and back up—slow enough to make my skin prickle.
Then he smirked.
That same damn smirk that curled his mouth like a secret and made me want to throw something—or climb him like a tree.
His lips pressed together, that teasing little purse like he knewexactlywhat he was doing to me.
And then he was gone.
Just the growl of his bike fading down the dirt road, the echo of his words wrapped around my ribs like a corset cinched too tight.
I stood there in the doorway, blinking like I’d just walked out of a dream.
Hot.
Bothered.
Mad.
Mad at him, mad at myself, mad at how his voice made my stomach twist and my knees feel like I was made of paper mâché.
He made me feel like some 1950s housewife waiting on her man to fix the sink and ride off into the sunset.
I fanned my face with both hands, muttering to myself. “Get a grip, Bella.”
But the way he’d looked at me?
Yeah, no amount of iced tea or cold showers was going to cool that down anytime soon.
Four
LOGAN
I’d been riding toohard and sleeping too little.
Three nights patrolling the ridge, checking old cartel drop points, and running interference with a rival crew sniffing around the rail yard left my body sore and my fuse short. The only thing keeping me from exploding was the sound of my engine and the distraction of rebuilding the '63 Panhead that’d been rotting in the corner of the garage for five years.
Cranking. Tuning. Sanding. Grease under my nails and oil in my blood. It was therapy, the only kind I trusted.
But it didn’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to her.
Bella.
Smart mouth. Peach blossom lips. The schoolteacher with no business looking that damn good in cutoffs and faded cotton.
I’d only met her once. But somehow she stuck in my head like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.
By the time I rolled into the clubhouse that afternoon, the mood was lazy and loud—pool balls clacked in the back room, and someone had lit a joint that stunk up the whole bar.
That’s when Naomi walked in.
Leather jacket zipped halfway down her chest, jeans so tight they had to be illegal, and that look in her eye like she wanted to start something.
