Page 2 of Burly Biker of Misty Mountain

“Oh. That.”

My stomach twisted into a knot. I really didn’t want to discuss this. Especially not with Bristol. At twenty-seven years old, I still didn’t have any romantic experience. No first kiss, no holding hands, not even a talking stage.

Meanwhile, it seemed that every time Bristol and I called to catch up, she had an endless list of stories to tell about her love life—sizzling one-night-stands, dreamy Valentine’s Day couple vacations, and a proposal of marriage or two.

I never told Bristol what a hellish experience high school and college had been for me when it came to boys. Getting bullied for my curves had sent my self-esteem plummeting to rock bottom. The fat jokes on dating apps only poured salt in the wound. And when my one and only crush found out I liked him, it became the running joke across campus all year long.

“I’m too busy with work,” I said, avoiding her gaze.

Bristol clucked her tongue.

“Katie, sweetie, that’s no excuse. Don’t let life pass you by. I keep telling you—dating apps are the way to go. You live in Colorado. Hockey players are everywhere. They have stamina for days and they’re eager to please.”

I made a non-committal noise, scrambling for a way to change the subject.

“All you need is one little spark,” Bristol continued. “And the rest is history.”

I stifled a sigh. That was the whole problem.

I didn’t know what that spark of attraction felt like. For years, I’d been targeted for my curves, scoffed at, mocked, and ridiculed. But no one had ever looked at me with desire in their eyes.

A cry of dismay went up from the girls when a teacup was knocked over, spilling liquid across the lacy white tablecloth. Grateful for the distraction, I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began mopping it up.

By late afternoon, the party was over. Bristol and I began packing everything away. I balanced a box on my hip while I opened the back door of my Volkswagen.

“God, I could use a stiff drink,” Bristol muttered, rubbing her neck. “You’d think I’d be used to jet lag by now, but it still wipes me out.”

“You’re welcome to take a nap at my place,” I offered.

She snorted.

“And waste precious time with my best friend in the entire world? Absolutely not. An early dinner would be great though. I could eat a whole cow."

My heart warmed at Bristol’s words. She could have easily forgotten about me in this little mountain town, especially since she was growing increasingly popular on the world stage, but our friendship was still as strong as ever.

“Pick the place,” I replied. “My treat. I owe you one after lending a hand with the tea party today.”

Ten minutes later, the car was loaded up and I was pulling into the Rusty Elk Tavern. Despite my best attempts to steer Bristol in another direction, she was dead set on a juicy steak and a beer—her sole indulgence before her show next week.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and the dark wood paneling of the tavern. The lingering scent of cigar smoke and liquor hung in the air. The owner and bartender, Hank Montgomery lifted his hand in acknowledgement from behind the counter—a gruff ex-military man who was as cuddly as a teddy bear on the inside.

Since it was early in the evening, only a handful of patrons populated the room. Hank had built the tavern as a safe haven for anyone who needed it, and he never lacked clientele. Misty Mountain was a blue collar town, full of lumberjacks, truckers, military veterans, and travelers passing through. I didn't do any drinking myself, but the comfort food never failed to make my mouth water.

After we settled at our table and the waitress delivered our menus, Bristol gestured to the ladies’ room.

“I need to freshen up really quick. The airport grime is practically clogging my skin as we speak. While I’m gone, you better take a nice, long look at the biker who has been checking you out as soon as we walked in.”

My eyebrows shot up and I scanned the room. I spotted him at the bar—sharp dark eyes, tattoos covering his thick arms, and a black leather vest, tattered and well-worn, with NOMAD stitched across his broad shoulders. His salt-and-pepper curls suggested he was at least ten years older than me, but that did nothing to detract from the immediate flush that colored my cheeks when I met his gaze.

Then the biker shifted his attention back to his beer bottle and something in my gut twisted with disappointment.

“If you don’t say hi,” Bristol said. “I’ll do it for you.”

“Bristol,” I hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

Before I could stop her, she twirled on her heel with a smirk and waltzed toward the restrooms. Walking right by the biker.

I held my breath, hoping and praying she didn’t do anything that would make me want to sink straight through the floor.

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