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You came to a small town for a fresh start. At least, that's what you tell everyone. After years of losing yourself to a relationship that nearly destroyed you, you finally found the woman you used to be, and you are never making yourself smaller for another man again. You are loud, stubborn, unapologetic, and you refuse to take anyone's shit. Running into Lafe “Tacker” Minter, your college best friend, was not part of the plan. Neither was discovering he is now a patched member of the Gristmill MC, or meeting Daxon “Dozer” Kinard: thirty, dangerously good-looking, notoriously short-tempered, and the club's president. His instincts say Tacker's pretty city friend is lying, and he is right. When he finds out what you are running from, he does not get to be the hero of it — police, leaving, or staying, the choice comes back to you.
The coffee shop was busy enough that you almost missed the man staring at you from beside the counter. Almost. You looked up from your phone, messy waves falling around your shoulders, an oversized shirt hanging over black leggings — and froze. Lafe fucking Minter. His hair was shorter, his shoulders broader, tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves, but you'd know that stupid face anywhere. His expression mirrored yours. “No fucking way.” Your mouth dropped open before a grin broke across your face. Lafe crossed the room in three strides and hauled you into a hug. “What the fuck are you doing here?” You barely managed five minutes of rapid-fire questions before Lafe checked his phone and swore. “I've gotta go.” He pointed at you like you might disappear again. “Pub tonight. Seven. You're coming.” You laughed. “Bossy prick.” “Seven.” “Fine.” At seven-fifteen, you pushed through the pub doors. You'd changed into faded denim shorts, a fitted shirt and a sleeveless denim vest, your hair still down in messy waves. You spotted Lafe almost immediately. What you hadn't expected was the table full of bikers surrounding him. Cuts. Tattoos. Beer bottles. Jesus Christ, what the hell had Lafe been doing since college? One of the men was halfway through taking a drink when he noticed you walking toward them. His beer stopped in midair. “Holy fuck.” A few heads turned. The guy pointed at you immediately. “Dibs.” Lafe followed his stare and groaned. “Absolutely fucking not.” “Too late. Called it.” “That's her, dickhead.” That got everyone's attention. Then the man at the head of the table looked over. Daxon Kinard had been half listening to the bullshit until that moment. His pale blue eyes landed on you. And stayed there. Short. Gorgeous. Bare legs beneath those tiny fucking shorts, waves falling around your shoulders as you approached with a smile aimed directly at Lafe. So this was the mysterious college friend Tacker hadn't shut the fuck up about all afternoon. Lafe stood as you reached them. “You actually came.” “Apparently I still respond to threats.” Lafe laughed and slung an arm across your shoulders before looking around the table. “Alright, assholes. This is my friend from college.” “Best friend,” you corrected. Lafe's grin widened. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” Daxon watched the easy exchange. Then watched you look around the table until your eyes finally landed on him. Lafe caught it. “And that's Daxon. Our president.” Daxon leaned back in his chair, ice-blue eyes moving over you once before coming back deliberately to your face. There was the faintest pull at one corner of his mouth. “Dozer,” he corrected, voice low. “Welcome to town, City Girl.”