Page 20 of Mason

Turning to her, I shake my head. "No, what's it for?"

"Abused kids," she says softly, her eyes holding mine. "We raise funds and give 'em a day to forget their troubles. It's one of the biggest things we do all year."

"Sounds amazing," I respond, my heart squeezing for those children. "Can I help?"

"Absolutely!" Sarah beams. "We could use someone like you. You should ride with us, show your support."

"Me? On a bike, on the ride?" I can barely contain the excitement bubbling up inside me. This is a chance to make a difference, to be part of something bigger. "I'd love to!"

"Great! Ask Mason, it'll mean the world to him and the kids." She squeezes my arm before walking away.

MASON

She's coming over, that eager light in her eyes that gets me every time. "Mason, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Anything for you, Darlin'." I push off from the bar and tilt my head, signaling for her to lead the way.

"Sarah told me about the charity ride for the kids. I want to go, be part of it. Can I?" Her words rush out, tripping over each other in their haste.

"Shit, Carlie..." I can't hide the grin splitting my face. "I was gonna ask if you'd ride with me. You beat me to it."

"Really?" Her smile mirrors mine, all wide-eyed wonder and joy.

"Really." I tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Having you there, on the back of my bike, it's more than I could ask for."

"Then it's a date." She stands on tiptoes, planting a soft kiss on my cheek.

"More than a date, it's a beginning," I whisper, knowing this ride's gonna tie us together in ways neither of us can even guess yet.

TWELVE

CARLIE

The sun isn't even properlyup yet, and I'm standing in my kitchen, gaping at the package on the counter. It's from Mason, no doubt. Ripping it open, I find leather and denim - biker gear that smells like freedom and feels like a second skin. My fingers tremble as I pull out a helmet, black and sleek with 'Pres' emblazoned across the side. It's official now; I'm riding with the Iron Reapers today.

I slip into the gear, the vest hugging my curves, and I catch myself in the mirror. There's a wildness staring back at me, Carlie Meadows transformed. I'm one of them now, or at least for today. My heart races with nerves and excitement as I head to the clubhouse.

It's buzzing like a hive when I get there, engines growling and laughter slicing through the morning chill. Bikers hug, slap backs, their families weaving through the crowd like threads in a tapestry. Kids run around, their joy infectious. For a moment, I'm an outsider again, watching this family I'm about to be part of.

Then he pulls up.

Mason.

Even the rumble of all those bikes can't drown out the sound of his arrival. He cuts through the noise, commanding attention without asking for it. His bike is a beast beneath him, chrome and black, power personified.

He swings off, and damn, he looks every inch the president of the Iron Reapers, all rugged edges and inked stories on his skin. That leather jacket fits him like it's molded from his muscles and bones, and his dark gaze sweeps the crowd until it lands on me.

My heart skips, does a little shimmy, then thumps harder. Pride swells in my chest so fierce it's almost painful. That's my man, the one who commands respect from hardened bikers and melts my heart with a single look.

"Lookin' good, Darlin'," Mason says, voice rough like gravel but warm as summer asphalt. He stalks over and I can't help but smile.

"Thanks to you," I reply, hoping my voice doesn't shake as much as my hands are. The way his lips twitch says he hears it anyway, but there's no teasing in his eyes, just something soft and fierce.

"Ready for this?" he asks, close enough now that I can feel the heat of him, see the tiny lines around his eyes, evidence of the miles he's ridden and the life he's lived.

"Let's do it," I say, because with Mason by my side, I feel like I can take on the world, let alone this ride. This day isn't just about charity. It's about stepping into a new skin, finding where I belong. And with Mason looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, I know I'm right where I need to be.

I swing my leg over the sleek body of the Harley, the leather seat cool against my thighs. Mason's back is a wall of muscle, and I press myself close, arms snaking around his waist as if they've found their home there. My fingers interlace over his stomach, feeling the vibrations of his laughter through the thick fabric of his cut.

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