Page 1 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

CHAPTER 1

POPE

Two years of staying away from her, and it takes a rumor about money trouble to finally break me.

The clubhouse smells like cigarettes, cheap beer, and the leather conditioning Diesel uses on his cut like it's some kind of religion. Normal night. Brothers scattered around the common room, shooting pool, talking shit. I'm in the corner booth going over supply invoices for the garage when Hammer's voice cuts through the noise.

"—looked like she hadn't slept in a month. Place was half-empty on a Saturday night."

My pen stops moving.

"Marco's Trattoria?" Diesel asks, cracking open a fresh bottle. "Damn. Used to be you couldn't get a table without a reservation."

"Not anymore." Hammer drops into the chair across from him, his scarred knuckles wrapping around a whiskey glass. "Word around town is she's barely keeping the lights on. Supplier issues, staff quitting. The whole thing's circling the drain."

She.

Mara.

I don't look up from the invoices. Can't let them see what that name does to me—the way it lands like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing the air from my lungs. Two years of keeping my distance, of making sure she's safe without ever having to see her face, and three sentences from Hammer tears through all of it like tissue paper.

"Shame," Diesel says. "Marco would've hated seeing the place struggle like that."

Marco.

The pen cracks in my grip. I set it down carefully, flexing my fingers, watching the brothers like I'm not falling apart inside. Like hearing his name doesn't drag me right back to that night—his blood on my hands, his voice going thready and weak, his eyes finding mine in the dark.

Take care of her. She's gonna need someone. Promise me, brother.

I promised. Of course I promised. What else could I do with my best friend dying in my arms?

But I've been keeping that promise from a distance. Having Diesel swing by the restaurant once a month, casual-like. Getting Hammer to check that her apartment's secure. Watching her from the shadows like some kind of fucked-up guardian angel who doesn't deserve the title.

Because I can't be near her. Can't look at her without the guilt crushing me flat. Can't see her smile without remembering that I wanted that smile aimed at me long before Marco ever worked up the nerve to ask her out.

"President."

I blink. Hammer's watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You good?"

"Fine." The word comes out rough. I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. "She got anyone helping her out? Family?"

"Mara?" He shrugs. "Not that I know of. Parents passed before Marco did. No siblings. Think she's pretty much on her own."

On her own.

Because I left her that way. Because I told myself staying away was the noble thing, the right thing, when really it was just cowardice dressed up in good intentions.

"I'm heading out," I say, pushing to my feet.

"It's barely ten."

"Got something to handle."

Hammer and Diesel exchange a look, but they know better than to push. That's the benefit of being president—nobody questions when you need to disappear. Even when they probably should.

The night air hits me like a slap when I step outside. Cold enough to bite, carrying the copper-and-rust smell that Saint's Hollow never quite shakes. I stand there for a minute, keys in my hand, telling myself to go home. Take a shower. Sleep off whatever this feeling is.

But my feet carry me to my bike instead, and my hands start the engine without permission, and before I can talk myself out of it, I'm riding toward the one place I've been avoiding for twenty-four months.