Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Before I can respond, another text arrives.
Tony:
And if work shut down, you’ve officially run out of reasons not to come to Salemburg.
I stare at the screen.
My pulse trips.
Holley:
Are you serious?
Tony:
I don’t say shit I don’t mean.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I shouldn’t.
I absolutely shouldn’t.
It’s reckless.
It’s impulsive.
It’s insane.
Except the idea of seeing him again sends a warmth through my chest so fierce I almost gasp.
Holley:
You really want me to come?
Tony:
I asked, didn’t I?
And then:
Tony:
Doors are always open. Your call.
That does it.
I put the car in drive before I can talk myself out of it.
Five hours later, I’m still gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
The long road into Salemburg feels like driving into a different world. The sky is clearer. The air heavier with pine. The town itself is small, tucked between long stretches of open road. The houses look lived in, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Bikes rumble somewhere in the distance—low, familiar thunder.
My stomach twists.
He invited me.
I didn’t warn him I was actually coming.
Which seemed romantic and bold an hour ago—until I pulled onto the street where he said the compound is.
The gate is open, guarded by two men who give me once-overs sharp enough to peel paint.
“Hey,” one says, stepping forward. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“No,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’m looking for Tony.” They give me a look like I’m speaking a foreign language. I’ve read biker books so I trust my instinct. “Stud?”
They exchange a look.
“You Holley?” the other asks.
Shock flickers through me. “How did you—?”
“He said you might come around.” The first one jerks his head inside the gate. “Garage is down the left side.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
He told them I might come?
I drive slowly into the compound. It’s not what I expected. Cleaner. Organized. Bikes lined in neat rows. A couple of men working under a lifted truck. Another washing down chrome. The clubhouse itself looks like a converted warehouse—weathered, but sturdy.
Then I see him.
Tony stands in front of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a shop rag, back turned, head bent over something he’s been working on. His tattoos flex as he moves. His shoulders are tense, drawn tight like he’s working out a problem in his head.
I pull in beside the garage.
My heart is in my throat.
His broad back turns toward me.
He doesn’t see me yet.
I take a breath and kill the engine.
Before I open the door, he speaks.
“I swear,” he growls without looking up, “if this is Miles asking me to check his carburetor again, I’m burning the damn garage down.”
I laugh under my breath. I don’t have a carburetor on my car, it’s fuel injected, but I wish I did right now just to give him a hard time.
His head snaps up at the sound.
He freezes.
Completely freezes.
For a moment, Tony looks like a man who stopped breathing mid-sentence. His hands still. His jaw locks. His chest rises slowly, visibly, like he has to remind himself how lungs work.
Then his brows slam together.
He stalks toward me.
Not slow.
Not casual.
Not indifferent.
Full stride, deliberate, every step precise enough to shake something loose inside me. Determined.
When he reaches the car, he plants a hand on top of the door, leaning down until he’s eye level with me through the open window.
“What the hell are you doing here without telling me?” he demands softly.
Not angry.
Not yelling.
But intense.
Cutting.
Shaken, if I’m reading him right.
Heat floods my cheeks. “I… you said to come. So I came.”
“I meant eventually,” he mutters. “Not immediately. Not without warning. Jesus, Holley—I could’ve been on a run. Out of town. Busy. Anything.”
My breath catches. “Do you want me to leave?”
He stares at me.
Long enough that my heart practically stops.
Then—something inside him breaks. Or softens. Or gives up fighting, I can’t tell which.
He exhales sharply and shakes his head.
“No,” he says, voice dropping into something raw. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”
My shoulders sag in relief.
He runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to pull himself together. “You got no idea what you’re doing to me showing up like this.”
Fear flickers through me. “In a bad way?”
“How the hell could it ever be bad?” he snaps, then catches himself. “Holley, sweetheart, you can’t just walk into my world without warning. It knocks the wind out of me.”
My chest warms in a way I don’t have words for.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He leans both palms on the car roof, looking down at me like I’m the only thing he can see.
“You’re here,” he says quietly, each word deliberate. “That’s all that matters now.”
He steps back.
I open the door and climb out. He watches every second of it, eyes trailing my face, my hair, the hoodie I’m wearing—his hoodie, still far too big on me.
Something in his expression melts.
“You kept that,” he says.
I tug at the sleeve self-consciously. “It was warm.”