Page 15 of The Biker and His Bride

“Brielle,” someone whispered.

My stomach dipped.

She finally stopped—of course—right in front of Rogue.

He’d been leaning against a beam, beer half-gone, trading stories with Diesel. Now he straightened so fast the bottle thunked against the floorboard. Color crept up his neck, staining the high planes of his cheekbones.

Well, well. The man could blush.

“Logan,” she purred, reaching out as if those manicured claws already owned him. “Miss me?”

Rogue froze. The tension in his shoulders could have snapped steel. I wiped my now-sweaty palms on a bar towel and tried to pretend it didn’t stab someplace soft to see her touch him—hand on his chest, nails tracing the ink that peeked from under his tee.

He cleared his throat. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“No?” She leaned in, cleavage practically weaponized. “I heard you were all grown up—President now. Thought I’d check on my favorite outlaw.”

Favorite. Like she’d ranked him on Yelp.

Jealousy lashed through me—sharp, unexpected. I’d only been here a few weeks. He wasn’t mine. Except maybe my heart hadn’t gotten that memo.

Brielle’s gaze flicked past him and landed on me. One sweep, head to boots, cataloging every sin in my Target jeans.

“And you are?”

I forced a smile. “Bartender. Need a drink?”

“Champagne,” she said, like we stocked it next to the well whiskey.

“House special is Jack Daniels or get out,” I said sweetly.

Her nose wrinkled. “I’ll pass.”

She turned back to Rogue, palm smoothing over his chest like petting a show pony. “We’ve got catching up to do.”

He stepped back; she stepped with him. The knot in my throat pulled tight.

Fine. If the princess wanted attention, she’d get it.

I grabbed two shots of Jack and strode over. “On the house,” I lied, handing one to her.

She eyed the glass like it might bite. “I said no, thanks.”

“It’s rude to refuse a gift,” I chirped.

Brielle’s eyes narrowed. “You know who I am?”

“Pretty sure.” I smiled wider. “But I don’t know why you’re still touching a man who clearly isn’t interested.”

Her laugh was sugar-frosted poison. “Sweetheart, we have history. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She tossed the drink—in my direction. Amber splashed my shirt; the glass shattered at my feet. Gasps rippled through the bar.

I blinked. “That was mature.”

“You’ll learn your place.”

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