Broken Hearts (Open Road #5)

1. Lacey

CHAPTER 1

LACEY

Do not lust after the biker.

Do not lust after the biker.

And once more, because I know that today, of all days, my brain is not listening: Do not lust after the biker.

I repeat the phrase in my head over and over in time with the click of my high heels as I head into Villa Lantana. I work at South Florida’s most exclusive event destination, and coming to work here is normally the best part of my day. I love what I do, and—the cherry on top—I love where I get to do it.

Today, my stomach is clenching with anxiety. The events on the schedule this weekend—not just one night, but the whole damn weekend—are going to force me to look one of my worst mistakes right in the eye. And of course, I have to do it with a smile . Because even though my ex is a dirtbag, I’m the director of events. Living my dream working weddings, corporate events, parties. Planning every little detail, organizing, and making sure our guests are blissfully happy. But this weekend, I’m going to be one miserable woman—even if I have to eat a shit sandwich with a smile on my face.

I sigh as I stride past a stunning concrete fountain, the tinkling sound of falling water soothing my heart even though my nerves are particularly frazzled.

The Florida humidity is nearly melting my makeup off, so I hurry to pull open the aged brass door handle, grateful for the blast of chilly air that greets me as the glass door opens and I step inside the lobby.

The lobby walls are covered with elegant wallpaper that’s green and gold with lovely pink blooms that highlight the pink marble floors. Large mirrors in massive gold frames ordinarily make me smile, but today, all I see is my sour expression reflected back at me.

I straighten my shoulders and remind myself that no matter how hard this weekend will be, no matter how hard the meeting I have this morning will be, I’ve got this.

I just have to convince the bikers to help me.

“Quiet morning, Bob?” I ask, smiling at the older man behind the front desk as I pass.

“My favorite kind, Ms. Mercer,” he says with a nod.

I smooth back the loose strands that have slipped out of my bun and hustle down the pink marble corridor that leads to my office. Balancing my massive bag over my shoulder, I unlock my door, thrilled to find that my assistant remembered to program my coffeemaker before she left last night.

Do not lust after the biker , I repeat as I watch the pot brew. The dreamy aroma of fresh, strong coffee immediately releases the tension in my shoulders.

As soon as I pour a cup, I fire up my laptop and check my email, scolding myself for having yet another foolish crush on a man who can’t be any good for me.

Eagle.

He’s a biker, member of a local motorcycle club—not gang, as I was quickly corrected the first time I said it.

I had no experience with motorcycle clubs until Eagle and his brother from the club, Brute. I hired them two years ago to work security after one of the guys from the private security company we had been using failed to stop a fight between a brokenhearted groomsman and a groom. That was a serious PR nightmare for the Lantana, and I learned then that our event security needed to be ready to actually provide security. We needed a lot more than sweet old men in uniforms who were more interested in free dinners than keeping order and playing bouncer.

I tried hiring a few security firms, but that did not go well. There are a lot of legal issues when it comes to bringing on contract security, and while I absolutely follow the letter of the law in everything I do, I didn’t really feel safe with any of the firms I interviewed. That’s sort of ironic when you consider that I ended up feeling safe around the meanest-looking bikers I could find.

And that’s how I met him.

Eagle.

He has a real name, of course. It’s on his employment paperwork, but ever since he extended a heavily tattooed hand to shake mine and told me to call him Eagle, that’s who he’s been to me.

That, and the object of a lot of incredibly intense and hot fantasies lately.

Eagle.

Just thinking his name makes my body quiver and a little sweat break out along my hairline.

I don’t understand why I have this crush on him. He’s no Ken doll, that’s for damned sure. But the last few guys I’ve met have had the looks and the bodies to rival a Ken, and yet they were total shits.

Maybe I’ve been going after the wrong types all these years. Maybe giving in to lusting after my biker employee is just the thing to renew my faith in men.

I shake my head to get the foolish thoughts moving. Romance and love are just that—foolish. I see couples every single day who are supposed to love each other through thick and thin, and yet they fight, bicker, and betray each other.

I’ve been the fighter, the bicker-er, and oh, how I’ve been betrayed by guys I thought loved me. I should be done with romance. Should be over girlish dreams. Especially after my experience with the asshole ex I’m going to have to see this weekend.

Speaking of the asshole ex… He won’t just be attending the wedding I’m managing this weekend. But Dirtbag Dylan is the freaking father of the bride, who’s still married to the mother of the bride.

Was he always married? Yes, he was. Did he lie to me about being married during every single one of the fourteen months we dated? He did. And it wasn’t just a basic lie he told me. It was massive.

I thought he was a widower.

I thought his wife was dead .

Turns out being dead and spending a couple of months at a med spa in Turkey mean the same thing to some people. Of course, he tried to tell me that he “thought” his wife was going to die. She went abroad to try some experimental treatment that she couldn’t get here in the States. But then I met her when the whole family—both the bride’s side and the groom’s—came for a final walkthrough of the property.

That was when I discovered that the experimental treatment his poor, ailing wife got in Turkey was not experimental at all. It was just far cheaper to get a facelift and neck lift there than here in the States. And a far more discreet way to get a whole lotta work done before their daughter’s wedding than having her show up with black eyes and bandages at the country club.

I ended things immediately when I found out that, no, his wife wasn’t dead, and holy shit, she’s hotter than a Barbie doll, although probably more plastic. But there was nothing I could do about the wedding.

The bride booked the venue more than a year before I met her father. And somehow, she has beaten the odds and is actually getting married to her fiancé, so now I have to sit through one whole weekend of events where the man who stomped on my heart walks his daughter down the aisle with his very much alive wife on his arm.

Yay, me.

I fill a second mug of coffee two-thirds of the way, stir in a touch of sugar, and splash a bit of milk from my mini fridge under the coffee bar. Then, holding my mug carefully so I don’t spill a precious drop, I walk to the clothing rack hanging in the corner of my office.

I am never, ever going to get Eagle to agree to this. But I have to. He’s simply got to do this. I can’t find new security on short notice, and this change in our process is something Dirtbag Dylan’s Botox Barbie wife just sprung on me last week.

Even through the transparent garment bag, I can see the designer tuxedo is luxurious. The fabric looks so dense and smooth, I want to run my hands down the midnight-blue panels. A bloom of heat threatens to break my entire body into a sweat. Damn it. This is exactly the reaction I did not want.

But who could blame me? The suit isn’t just beautiful; it’s massive. It has to be to fit Eagle’s muscular shoulders. I imagine him, tuxedo jacket open, a slim matching tie loose around the collar of a crisp white shirt that hides all his tattoos except for the ones on the backs of his hands. It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. And even for someone who’s too heartbroken to date, Eagle is quite simply a walking wet dream.

Sweet mother.

I’m failing dismally at my efforts to stay cool. Picturing Eagle unbuttoning the cuffs, loosening his tie, moving the sumptuous fabric away from his colorful skin to give me a closer look…

“Not today, Satan,” I remind myself. “Not any day, in fact.”

I shake my head at my stupidity.

Still, I can’t stop the naughty thoughts that make my skin tingle.

“Pull it together,” I remind myself.“You’re a professional.”

“Pull what together?”

Flutters of electricity quiver along my nerve endings.

Shit. Fuck. Crap.

He’s here . He’s early .

I take a second to compose my expression, take a sip of coffee to fortify myself, and then slowly turn on my five-inch heels to face Eagle.

“You’re early.” I nod, all serious and professional, as though I don’t feel like my entire body has melted an inch into my shoes at the sound of his voice. “Thanks for coming in.”

The man filling the doorway of my office has shoulders so broad he fills up the entire width of the space. He’s wearing a dark gray T-shirt that looks like it’s painted over his sculpted chest and arms. The distressed black leather vest he wears over his tee has his biker name embroidered on a patch over his heart.

I suck in my lower lip as I take in thick biceps covered in colorful tattoos when he lifts an arm and leans it against the doorjamb. He tugs dark aviators from his eyes with a heavily tattooed hand and looks me over.

“Mornin’, boss…” His voice is low and a little raspy. A bedroom voice. The voice of a man who can bring chills to a woman’s skin just by whispering in her ear. His eyes, bright blue like the Florida sky on the most perfect day, seem to study my lips, waiting for me to find my words.

I clear my throat, feeling every bit as awkward as I probably look, and walk back to my desk, putting a little too much swagger in my step in my hurry to get as much of the solid cherrywood between him and me as possible. Then I set down my mug and motion for him to come in.

“Have a seat,” I say, my voice trembling slightly.I give my head a little shake, frowning and desperately hoping to clear my muddled thoughts.

Do not lust after the biker.

I’m going to have to treat myself to a new vibrator after this weekend. I’m going to need a hell of a release to manage the pent-up desire I feel for this man. After a whole weekend? And if I can get him to do what I need him to do? I’ll be an embarrassing puddle of need before the bride even tosses the bouquet.

Eagle’s still a good ten feet away from me, yet I swear, as I pull in a breath through my nose, a subtle whiff of aftershave and soap reaches my nose. I take in as much of the heavenly scent as I can before I realize he can probably tell what I’m doing.

As he approaches, the thick, well-worn soles of his boots scuff lightly against the floor. His stride is long, his legs looking muscular even through the faded denim of his well-worn jeans. I watch him a little too intently until he stops in front of my desk and lifts his brows.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

He looks down at the pristine silver fabric of the guest chair in front of my desk like he’s afraid he’s going to dirty it or break it.He mutters something low in his throat but drops into the chair and looks helplessly down at the armrests.

He’s so big, he has to wedge himself into the seat. A lost expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, comes over his face. His legs are spread wide, and he finally decides to rest his hands on his knees.

I’ve been watching him this entire time like a hormone-soaked teenager with a crush, and I immediately scold myself for being a weirdo. I’m his boss, for God’s sake. And men suck. Love sucks. I need to pull myself together and get down to business. I snap my eyes to my laptop and start tapping at the keys just for something to do.

“So, what’s up? Am I fired?” Eagle asks.

His pale skin is dusted with freckles and fine lines, weathered from years riding in the wind and sun. His hands are muscled like they’ve seen years of hard work. The silver threaded through his reddish hair and brows makes him look like a man who would chop down trees for fun.

I chuckle, a little too loudly, and answer his question. “Wait. What? Fired? Oh God, no. Why would you think that?”

He motions around with a tattooed hand. “Been working security for these fancy parties of yours for, what now…two years? I think this is the first time I’ve been called to the boss lady’s office. Leads me to prepare for the worst. Unless you’re here to offer me a fat raise, in which case, I accept.”

I laugh at his joke about the raise, but then I swallow, thankful for the reminder. He’s right. That’s what I am. I’m the boss lady. His boss.

All the more reason why I can not lust after the biker.

Even if I can hardly help myself.

I force a smile, grateful he can’t read my thoughts. “Eagle, no,” I tell him. “God, no. You’re not in trouble. Not at all. And I’m sorry, but I don’t have a raise for you. Though, I do have some news. We have a special request for the wedding this weekend. The bride and groom have arranged some formalwear for you.”

At that, a slow smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “Formalwear.” He repeats the word, his eyes sparkling like he’s about to burst out laughing.

“Yes, a tuxedo,” I explain. “The bride and groom have covered the cost. We just need to fit you so you’re comfortable at the event.”

“A tuxedo?” He says the word low in his throat, and I find myself swallowing hard at the deep rasp.

God, how he can make saying a word like tuxedo sound erotic, I’ll never know.

“Sorry, doll.” Eagle shakes his head slowly. “Tux and comfortable don’t fit in the same sentence. There ain’t no way you’re getting one of those things on my body.” He stands to leave, pushing himself out of the tiny formal chair opposite my desk.

I knew he would take some convincing, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

“Eagle, wait. You’re leaving? Are you serious?” I rush to my feet.

He must be serious because he’s halfway to the door before I realize I have to stop him.

I scurry around my desk and run as fast as my heels will allow across the marble. “Eagle, wait. Please. I need you at this wedding.”

His back is to me, and I reach for his arm to stop him. My fingers are only resting on the bare skin of his bicep, but my traitorous bitch of a body tells me to hold on much tighter than is necessary.

His skin is so smooth and hot. I don’t know what I expected him to feel like, but this is the first time I’ve touched him since I shook his hand when I hired him. I know, because I’ve been so, so careful not to touch him for this exact reason.

He looks down at my hand, and I yank it back, feeling horrible that I’ve crossed a line. He’s my employee and I didn’t do anything, but still. I take a fast step back just as Eagle turns to look down at me.

“Um, excuse me. Is Lacey there?” I hear a familiar voice calling past the mountain of man blocking her view of me. “You ready for the fitting?”

I clasp my hands together so I’m not tempted to do any more unauthorized touching. “Margaret,” I call out. “Yes, please. Come on in.”

Eagle steps aside to let the tailor I’ve hired past him. He crosses his arms over his chest and peers down at me. “I was just leaving,” he reminds me, lifting his chin slightly.

“Eagle, please,” I say. Hell, at this point, I’d drop to my knees and beg. That’s all I’d do— beg— if that meant I could get Eagle to work this weekend. But if he’s going to work this wedding, I’ve got to get him to wear the tux.

“Eagle, meet Margaret, the tailor,” I tell him. Then, without thinking, I blurt out, “Please, come back into my office. I need to get you out of your clothes.”