Wrong Number, Right Biker (Wrong Number, Right Guy #6)

1. Jean

Chapter One

JEAN

This cannot be happening.

I stare at the smoke curling up from under the hood.

It’s like the universe is flipping me off.

My little car chose the absolute worst moment to die; halfway up a mountain with no people or buildings in sight.

The whistle of the wind through the huge pine trees lining the road mixes with the faint, terrifying scent of something burning.

I thunk my forehead against the steering wheel. “Seriously?”

All I wanted was a break. A few days at Shelby and Grayson's fancy mountain retreat, all by myself.

Just me, books, iced coffee, wine, pizza, and zero reminders of the public humiliation I just endured.

That viral video of me being escorted out of Harensby I'd flagged the discrepancy weeks ago, but nobody listened to the quiet accountant in the corner. Of course, when everything went sideways, guess who became the perfect scapegoat?

Instead of my peaceful retreat, I'm stranded on the side of a narrow mountain road, wearing a ‘Soft Girl Fall’ outfit that’s absolutely not rated for emergency wilderness survival. My fluffy rust-colored cardigan is cute and cozy, sure, but I'm one leaky head gasket away from freezing my ass off.

I yank my phone out of my tote and lift it above my head like I'm trying to summon aliens. A single, blessed bar of signal blinks into existence.

Yes. Please work.

I tap Shelby's number and fire off a message:

Hey, it's me. I'm on that road you told me to take, but the car just died. I think I'm about halfway up the pass? Can you come get me?

I hit send and hold my breath. The little "delivered" notice appears, and I nearly sob with relief. I slide back into the driver's seat and curl up, trying to rub some warmth into my arms. It's supposed to be fall, but up here, it’s more like early winter.

Still no reply.

After a few more minutes, I send another message:

Seriously, I'm freezing out here. Please hurry!

I stare at my phone like I can will a reply into existence. The battery is dropping fast, and the sun is slipping behind the trees. If I die of exposure out here, it'll just be the final chapter in the worst month of my life.

My phone buzzes.

Got your message. On my way. What's your location?

That was fast. And weirdly formal for Shelby, who usually responds with a string of heart emojis.

Mountain road toward Snowflake Falls. Maybe 10 miles out? I’m in my little blue car with the engine smoking, you can't miss it

Stay put. Be there in twenty.

Again, not very Shelby-like, but maybe she's driving and using voice-to-text. I settle back to wait, pulling my cardigan tighter around my body.

Then it comes.

A deep, growling rumble. That’s not a car. The growl is lower, more dangerous than a car engine.

A motorcycle.

Headlights cut through the mist. The bike roars around the bend like it was born from the road itself; all glossy black and shining chrome. The man riding it makes me do a double-take.

He's huge. Shoulders so broad they stretch his patched leather jacket to the limits, paired with dark jeans and heavy boots. He parks like it's second nature, kicks the stand down, and swings off the bike with a deftness that doesn't match his size.

Then the enormous biker pulls off his helmet.

Sweet mercy.

Dark hair, streaked with silver. Even darker eyes, with a scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. He’s scowling in a way that should have me locking the doors of my car instantly.

The biker walks toward me like he owns the road, and every responsible instinct I possess screams that this is trouble. A snake tattoo climbs up the side of his neck, making him look like every "don't talk to strangers" warning I've ever ignored. He’s my mother’s worst nightmare.

“Uh…” I step out of the car slowly, keeping the door between us like it'll help. As always, my first instinct in any uncomfortable situation is to make a joke.

I flash him a smile. “Are you lost?”

He holds up a phone. My text is open on the screen.

“You’re the one who sent this?” His voice is rough around the edges.

My stomach drops to my fluffy boots. Oh no.

I never saved Shelby's new number, but I thought I had it memorized. Numbers being my specialty and all. I must have messed up the digits.

A blush heats my cheeks. “I... that wasn't meant for you. I meant to text my cousin.”

He doesn't look offended, but raises a thick, dark eyebrow. “You're alone on a mountain. And your car's done. You think I'm just gonna leave you out here?”

“I mean... that's kind of the stranger danger protocol, right?”

One side of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not really. But close.

“You got a better plan, Red?”

“I was going to wait here and hope someone less scary-looking came by.”

He nods toward the road. “Tough odds. No one comes up here unless they're locals. Or lost.”

“I'm definitely one of those.”

He studies me, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “Big bag. Skimpy clothes. I’m guessing a city girl having a crisis.”

I cross my arms. “You're very observant. I’ve been fired. And these clothes are not skimpy. It’s soft girl fall chic.”

“I need to be observant. I’m the sergeant-at-arms for the Ridge Renegades.”

I blink. “That's... a biker gang?”

“Motorcycle club,” he corrects, voice flat.

Oh. Totally different.

“My name is Viper,” he adds, like that clears everything up.

Of course it is.

“I'm Jean. And... I'm really sorry for bothering you.”

“You didn't.” His voice is rough but firm. He moves to my hood, lifting it with one hand like it weighs nothing. I can’t help staring at how his jacket pulls tight across his back, how his jeans hug his thighs, the size of his hands as he pokes around my engine.

Big hands. Strong hands. Hands that could…

Stop it, Jean.

“This car isn’t going anywhere without help tonight,” he says, straightening up. “Give me your bag. I'll take you wherever you're staying.”

I glance at the bike. Then back at him. All that leather and muscle and danger. “Have you ever seen what happens when a marshmallow rides a motorcycle?”

That almost-smile is back. “I'll go slow.”

“Do you have a helmet for me?”

He pulls one off the back of the bike. It's black, with a snarling tiger painted on it. It looks like it eats other helmets for breakfast.

“You're very prepared for rescuing damsels in distress.”

“I got four sisters. And a grandma. Plus, this mountain loves to catch people out. This isn't my first rescue, Red.”

There's a note in his voice that makes me pause. Not softness, exactly. But there's more behind all that leather and muscle than I expected. Something that makes the knot of apprehension in my chest loosen a little.

He grabs my duffel bag from the back seat and straps it to the bike’s rear rack. After twenty-six years of playing it safe, of doing exactly what everyone expected, I'm about to get on a motorcycle with a biker called Viper and ride off into the sunset.

I gulp.

“Okay,” I say, heartbeat fluttering. “Let's ride.”