Page 25 of Baby for the Bikers

“Her food’s worth more than the bikes,” I admit. “But watching her try to please us? That’s priceless.”

We lock up the garage early. Brick heads to the clubhouse for a meeting with Teller, the President of Black Wolves MC, while I drive home to grab a shower before dinner. Not that I’m making an effort to look good for anyone in particular. I just hate smelling like motor oil when I’m not working.

Our house sits on three acres at the edge of town—a four-bedroom duplex that’s way too big for three guys who spent most of their lives in cramped spaces. But Matthews from Cerberus insisted this was what “heroes” deserved, handing us the keys before we even set foot back in Wolf Pike.

I still don’t feel like a hero. I’m just a guy who did some ugly but necessary things, got paid too much for them, and came home changed.

I spend the evening tinkering with bike designs and nursing a beer while watching some mindless action movie. Ryder hasn’t returned home when I head to my room. After setting my alarm, I drop into my bed, thinking of tomorrow’s opportunities with our debt-paying baker.

My alarm blares,jerking me awake. I slam my hand down, knocking it off the nightstand. Shit. The red numbers show 8:30 a.m. I was supposed to be up at six.

“Damn it,” I groan, rolling out of bed. So much for my early start at the diner.

My bedroom reflects the contradictions in my personality that my brothers love to mock. One wall holds bookshelves filled with everything from motorcycle mechanics to Russian literature. Another displays my hat collection—the one childhood obsession I never outgrew. Leather jackets with skull designs hang next to pristine suits I never wear.

I shower quickly, changing into clean jeans and a black shirt that shows off the tattoos covering my arms. Not trying to impress anyone. Just looking like myself.

Ryder’s already gone by the time I head downstairs, even though I know he came home pretty late last night. He still picks Rowan up every morning, like it’s his sacred duty or something. At least it means I can take the second backup bike—Brick crashed at the garage last night, so he won’t need it.

The ride to the diner takes longer than necessary because I make a detour past the track. Wolf Pike’s underground racing scene is one of the town’s best-kept secrets—a full quarter-mile strip hidden in an abandoned quarry just outside town limits. Tank established it years ago as a controlled environment for speed demons who would otherwise race on public roads. Only locals know about it, and that’s how we keep it.

The track sits empty this early, but tonight, it’ll be filled with the roar of engines and the smell of burning rubber. Friday nightsare race nights. Maybe I’ll bring Rowan to see if our little baker has a taste for speed that matches her spicy attitude.

The thought of her clinging to me on a bike, her body pressed against mine as we take corners at dangerous speeds, is enough to put me in a good mood that lasts all the way to the diner.

Black Dog Bites is already humming with early customers when I arrive. The bell above the door announces my entrance, drawing several gazes—mostly appreciative, a few wary. The town still isn’t sure what to make of the Kane brothers’ return, but they sure as hell love our food.

Ryder’s at the grill, his back to the main room. Rowan weaves between tables, coffeepot in hand, stopping to chat with customers we’ve somehow acquired in just a week.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, which means I get to watch her for a moment—the way her body sways slightly as she walks, and the way her genuine smile transforms her entire face. Today, she’s wearing form-fitting black pants that hug curves designed to make a man lose his mind.

“You gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna make yourself useful?” Her voice breaks through my admiration. She hasn’t even turned around. Eyes in the back of her head, this one.

“Depends on your definition of useful, sweetheart.” I move behind the counter, grabbing an apron. “I make a mean cup of coffee.”

She finally faces me, one eyebrow raised. “Your brother didn’t mention you were joining us today.”

“Surprise inspection.” I tie the apron with practiced movements. “Making sure you’re not slacking off on your debt repayment.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real anger there. “We’re short on table seven’s order. Two breakfast specials, extra bacon.”

Just like that, I’m put to work. The morning rushes by in a blur of coffee orders, bacon sizzling, and the constant hum of conversation. I wasn’t lying about the coffee—it’s my specialty. Years of working the counter at Tank’s old place taught me how to match brew to personality. Strong black for the construction workers. Lattes with extra vanilla for young mothers. Americanos for the businessmen pretending they’re not stopping at a biker-owned establishment.

I catch Ryder watching Rowan and me interact, his expression unreadable as always. But there’s something in the way his jaw tightens when I lean close to her to grab a clean mug, something in how his eyes track my movements when I’m in her space.

“Heading out,” Ryder announces around noon, wiping his hands on a towel. “Need to finish the paint job on the bikes.”

Rowan looks up from the ticket she’s writing, her face revealing surprise. “You’re leaving me with him?”

The outrage in her voice makes me laugh. “Don’t worry, princess. I know my way around a kitchen.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mutters, but quickly shifts to business mode. “The lunch special needs to be started. Prep’s in the walk-in.”

Ryder gives me a look that clearly saysbehavebefore heading out the back door. The lunch crowd trickles in as he leaves, keeping us too busy for conversation until midafternoon.

As the crowd thins, I take the opportunity to look at Rowan. Really look. The way sweat beads slightly at her temple, the wayher chest rises and falls with each breath, and the grace in her hands as she plates a sandwich. The tight pants she’s wearing cling to every curve, the seam running right up the center of her ass when she bends to retrieve something from a lower shelf.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she snaps, catching me staring.

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