Page 7 of The Biker and His Bride

He crouched beside me without a word, reaching past me for a six-pack. His arm brushed mine—hot and rough—and I jolted a little. Not from surprise. From the electric zing that always seemed to come when he got too close.

“Careful,” I said, glancing up at him. “You might pull a muscle helping out like this.”

He smirked, eyes locked on the cooler like he wasn’t fully looking at me—but I knew better.

“Just keeping my eye on the stock,” he said casually. “And the scenery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He set the bottles in with quiet clinks. “You always this mouthy?”

“Only when someone’s watching my ass instead of doing their own job.”

His gaze flicked to mine. Bold. Teasing. Dangerous.

“Can’t help it,” he said, low. “Your ass is the best thing that’s happened to this bar since I installed the new tap lines.”

My breath caught. I straightened slowly, brushing past him as I rose, heart hammering harder than I’d admit. He stood too, towering, sweat glinting on his arms, eyes drinking me in.

“Keep talking like that,” I said, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands, “and I might start thinking you like having me around. Maybe I’m the best bartender this place has ever seen.”

He leaned in just a little, close enough that I could smell leather and pine soap.

“Best looking one. No doubt.”

I looked up at him, chest tight.

“Well,” I said. “In that case, boss… maybe I’ll stick around.”

He grinned.

“You better.”

The music thumped low from the jukebox—old-school rock, gritty and restless—and I was starting to find a rhythm behind the bar. Pour, wipe, smile. Repeat. My tip jar was overflowing and at this rate I could keep moving, if I was smart I would. But I felt comfortable here. More cozy in my small pine-framed bed and antique floored room than I ever did at Caleb’s state of the art mansion.

Then chaos ripped the air apart.

A fist caught the edge of my cheek—Joe “Pitbull” Harrison swinging at Rookie Nate over a game of eight-ball and an insult about somebody’s sister. The cue stick cracked in half like dry bone. Shouts erupted. Glass shattered.

Everything moved in slow motion.

Pitbull lunged again. Nate ducked, overturned a table, and sent beer and ashtrays flying. A chair skidded across the floor toward me. I froze?—

A wall of muscle slammed into my side.

Rogue.

He shoved me behind him, broad arm pinning me safely against the bar. His voice sliced through the roar.

“Stay.”

One word. Commanding. Unarguable.

I clutched the counter, heart pounding.

Rogue stepped into the fray like a storm given shape. He grabbed Pitbull by the collar of his cut and yanked him back so hard the man’s boots left the floor.

“What the hell’s this?” Rogue growled, shoving him against the wall.

---