Page 59 of Baby for the Bikers

I dress quickly in comfortable clothes, knowing I’ll need to start the birthday cake preparations today. The kitchen is still tidy from when Maddox cleaned up after our…activities…last night.Another memory that sends heat flaring through me—how he tucked me in afterward and kissed me softly before leaving.

It was so different from that night with Ryder. The same intensity but wrapped in something warmer, something that made me feel cherished rather than just desired.

With Ryder, it was raw and primal, a claiming. With Maddox, it was playful and passionate, almost tender at times, despite the filthy words and exhibitionist fantasy.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. I need coffee and breakfast, not daydreaming about the Kane brothers and their different approaches to reducing me into a trembling mess.

The coffee machine hums to life, and I lean against the counter, trying to focus on practical matters. I need to check my supplies for Ben’s cake. I should stop by the store for more food since Maddox demolished my leftover lasagna. I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do when my two weeks are up.

Open my own place? Keep working at the diner? Both? Neither?

The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a generous cup, adding a splash of cream. The first sip helps clear my mind a little, but the fundamental problem remains: I’m afraid of building something permanent here because I’ve grown too attached—to this town, to this life, to three brothers who’ve gotten under my skin in very different ways.

I’m halfway through my second cup when my phone rings. The number isn’t saved in my contacts, but something about it looks vaguely familiar. Probably another commission request. People in town are starting to know I bake on the side.

“Hello?” I answer, setting my mug down.

There’s a pause, just long enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Then—

“Rowan.” My father’s voice, cold and precise, slices through the quiet of my kitchen. “You little piece of?—”

I drop the phone like it’s burned me, my heart hammering against my ribs. How? How did he find this number? I’ve been so careful, changing burners every few weeks and never using the same one for too long.

His voice continues, tinny but distinct, spilling threats from the phone on my floor. I snatch it up, hands shaking so badly I can barely press the power button. It’s not enough. He’s found this number. He could trace it, track it, find me.

In a surge of panic, I grab a hammer from my kitchen drawer and smash the phone, again and again, until it’s nothing but broken plastic and shattered glass. Only then does his voice finally stop.

I sink to the floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest. After all these months of running, of building a new life, of thinking I was finally safe—he’s found me.

Or at least he’s getting closer.

I need to run. I need to warn Emma. I need to disappear again before he can trace this call, before his men show up at my door.

But as I sit on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of my destroyed phone, a different thought surfaces: I don’t want to run. Not this time.

I’m tired of running. Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of giving up pieces of myself every time I start to build something good.

For the first time since I left San Francisco, I don’t want to run away.

I want to stand my ground.

24

BRICK

“What the fuck.”

The words hang in the early morning air as I survey the damage. The diner’s back door hangs off its hinges, splintered near the lock. Inside, the pantry has been ransacked—flour covers the floor like fresh snow, and shelves are emptied of spices and baking supplies. The register sits untouched, which makes this break-in all the more bizarre.

“Who the hell breaks into a diner to steal flour?” Maddox steps carefully through the mess, boots leaving tracks in the white powder.

“Someone sending a message,” Ryder suggests, examining the doorframe with practiced eyes.

My thoughts exactly. Normal thieves don’t ignore cash registers to steal cooking supplies. This has Cypher written all over it—a warning that he can reach us anytime, anywhere. The fact that they targeted the pantry—Rowan’s domain—makes my blood run cold.

“Call Teller,” I tell Maddox. “I want extra patrols around our properties.”

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