Page 19 of Claimed By the Bikers
“It’s been wonderful. Everyone’s been so welcoming.”
“Good to hear. Small towns can be cliquish, but most folks here are decent.” He takes a bite of cornbread, then grins. “Though I have to say, you’ve certainly made an impression. My buddy Carl from the auto shop hasn’t stopped talking about the new waitress who actually listens when he rambles about carburetors.”
I laugh. “Carl’s sweet. And surprisingly knowledgeable about classic cars.”
“That he is. So what brought you to our little corner of nowhere?”
“Change of scenery, mostly. I needed somewhere quiet to figure out what I want to do next.”
“Well, you picked the right place for quiet. Sometimes I think nothing’s happened here since the gold rush.” He pauses, studying my face. “You seem like someone who’s used to more excitement, though.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling. You carry yourself like someone who’s seen the world, not someone who’s spent her whole life in small-town diners.”
Before I can respond, a shadow falls across our table. Atlas appears beside us, his expression pleasant but carrying something that makes Jake sit up straighter.
“Evening, Jake. Hope you don’t mind if I steal Ember for a moment. There are some people I’d like her to meet.”
It’s not really a question. Jake glances between us, reading the subtext. “Of course. It was lovely meeting you, Ember. Maybe we can finish our conversation another time.”
“I’d like that,” I say, though Atlas’s hand on my elbow suggests he has other ideas.
He guides me away from the table, his palm warm against my skin. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Very much. Jake seems nice.”
“Jake’s a good man. Also, recently divorced and looking for company.”
“Ah.” I glance up at him. “Are you warning me off?”
“Just making sure you know the lay of the land.” His tone stays casual, but there’s steel underneath. “Wolf Pike’s a small town. People talk.”
We approach a group of older women who immediately brighten when they see me. Atlas introduces me as the new waitress, and for the next fifteen minutes, I’m subjected to the kind of friendlyinterrogation that only church ladies and town matriarchs can deliver. Where am I from, do I have family, am I planning to stay, have I met any nice young men yet?
“She’s met plenty of nice young men,” Garrett’s voice interrupts, appearing at my shoulder with two plates of dessert. “Including some not-so-young ones.”
He hands me a slice of apple pie that looks homemade and delicious. The gesture is casual, but the way his fingers brush mine when I take the plate sends electricity up my arm.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Couldn’t let you miss Mrs. Morris’ famous apple pie. She only makes it for special occasions.”
“This is special?”
“Everything’s special when you’re around, lass.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the Scottish endearment. One of the older women, Mrs. Patterson from the grocery store, fans herself dramatically.
“Oh my. Garrett McKenzie, you always were a charmer.”
“Just being honest, Mrs. P.”
He stays beside me as the conversation continues, his presence warm and solid. When someone mentions the upcoming harvest festival, he automatically includes me in the planning discussion, as if my participation is assumed rather than requested.
“Ember’s got good ideas about community outreach,” he says when Mrs. Morris asks about promotional strategies. “Knows how to talk to people.”
I haven’t shared any ideas about community outreach, but I nod along, playing the role he’s created for me. It strikes me how naturally he’s claiming space for me in this community, making me part of their future plans without asking.
