Page 1 of The Biker's Single Mom
Chapter 1 – Daisy
I smell the smoke from my engine before I see it, acrid and chemical, seeping through the car's ancient vents.
"Mommy, are we there yet?" Violet chirps from her booster seat, oblivious to our predicament.
"Not quite, sweetheart." I force cheer into my voice while mentally calculating how much is left in my emergency fund. Not enough. Never enough.
The temperature gauge on my dashboard has crept into the red zone, and white steam now billows from under the hood. I manage to coast onto the gravel before the engine gives a final, shuddering cough and dies completely.
"Shoot," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
We're on the outskirts of Fox Ridge, having just passed the weather-beaten welcome sign. The late afternoon sun bakes the pavement, heat waves shimmering above the blacktop while cicadas drone from the pines lining the road.
I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel for exactly three seconds before straightening my shoulders. Through the windshield, I spot a sprawling garage about fifty yards ahead. Large bay doors stand open, and several motorcycles gleam in the summer sun.
My stomach tightens. I know those colors, that insignia. The Fox Ridge Riders MC.
"Is our car sick?" Violet asks, her small face scrunched with concern.
"Very sick," I confirm, unbuckling my seatbelt. "But I see a car doctor up ahead."
She nods with the solemn wisdom of a five-year-old. "Can I bring Mr. Wheels? He's sick too."
I glance at the small toy motorcycle in her hand, its wheel hanging by a thread. "Of course, baby. Maybe they can fix him too."
We climb out into the blistering August heat. I gather my purse, Violet's backpack, and her hand, then begin the walk toward the garage. Sweat immediately beads at my temples and between my breasts, making my dress cling uncomfortably.
"Stay close," I murmur to Violet as we approach. Music thumps with heavy bass that I feel in my chest. The smell of motor oil, cigarettes, and gasoline grows stronger.
I hesitate at the entrance, taking in the scene. The garage is cavernous, three motorcycles are hoisted on lifts, their gleaming engines exposed. Tools line the walls in perfect order, and a half-dozen leather-clad men move with purpose through the space.
But it's the man at the center who captures my full attention.
He's bent over the engine of an old motorcycle, his massive shoulders stretching the fabric of a black t-shirt that's seen better days. Dark hair pulled back in a low bun reveals the tattooed column of his neck. His beard is full and neatly trimmed, framing a mouth set in concentration. When he straightens to reach for a tool, I have to tilt my head back to track his movement. He must be six-four, maybe more, all hard muscle and controlled power.
The Fox Ridge Riders' patch on his leather vest reads "Road Captain" and below it, "Steel."
Appropriate. Everything about him looks forged from the metal itself.
I clear my throat. "Excuse me?"
Steel glances up, and I'm pinned by dark brown eyes that narrow with instant irritation. His gaze flicks from me to Violet, then back, assessing and dismissing in seconds. The raw masculinity rolling off him makes my skin prickle.
"We're closed for custom work," he says, voice like gravel against silk. "Shop's full."
I lift my chin, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. "My car broke down just up the road. I was hoping someone could take a look."
"AAA," he replies flatly, returning to his work. "Or Mitch's Garage on Main."
The dismissal stings, but I've survived worse than a rude mechanic. Before I can respond, Violet steps forward, fearless in the way only children can be.
"Are you a doctor for motorcycles?" she asks, clutching her broken toy.
Steel freezes. Surprise flickers across his face at being directly addressed by a tiny human with pigtails and glittery sneakers.
"Something like that," he finally answers, his voice marginally softer.
Violet holds up her toy. "Mr. Wheels is sick too. His wheel fell off." She steps closer, her little shoulders squared with determination. "Can you fix him, Mr. Fix-It?"
