Chapter 1
Chapter One
Livie
I cross the town line, and something in my chest loosens. Two years. Two years of Los Angeles traffic, smog, and pretentious salon clients who treated me like I was invisible while I perfected my craft.
I roll down my window, letting the crisp autumn air rush in. The scent of pine and fallen leaves replaces the perpetual smell of exhaust fumes I'd grown accustomed to.
My phone buzzes with a text from Aunt Brittany. Studio’s ready when you are. So proud of you, baby girl.
I smile, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of an old country song that would've been mocked in my LA apartment.
Here, it feels right. Aunt Brittany's salon, Steel Magnolias, has been a town fixture for fifteen years.
When she called last month offering me a chair, it felt like the universe was giving me permission to come home.
The truth is, I never quite fit in LA. I made friends, dated a few guys, even got promoted at the upscale Beverly Hills salon where I'd been working.
But something was always missing. That sense of belonging, of history, of people knowing who you are beyond your perfectly executed balayage technique.
My parents' house comes into view. Dad's bike is parked in the driveway alongside Mom's SUV. The porch light is on even though it's barely four in the afternoon.
They're waiting for me.
Before I can even put the car in park, the front door swings open.
Mom rushes out, her arms already reaching for me.
Behind her, Dad tries to maintain his tough-guy exterior, but I can see the relief in his eyes.
Mason is right behind them, along with my twin brothers who are home from college, flanking him like sentinels, their faces split with grins.
"You're home," Mom whispers against my hair as she pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and comfort.
"I'm home," I agree, feeling the words settle into my bones like truth. "For good this time."
Dad clears his throat. "Your aunt's been talking everyone's ear off about how you're going to revolutionize that salon of hers."
I laugh, extracting myself from Mom's embrace to hug him next. "Just wait until you see what I can do with those gray hairs of yours, old man."
His arms tighten around me, and suddenly I'm fighting back tears.
The familiar scent of leather and motor oil that's uniquely him breaks through my carefully constructed walls.
Every lonely night in LA, every flat tire I changed myself, every spider I'd trapped instead of screamed about all those moments I'd stubbornly refused to pick up the phone and ask for him flood back at once.
"I missed you, baby girl," he murmurs, his voice gruff with emotion.
I swallow hard, burying my face against his cut. "I missed you too, Daddy."
My brothers make gagging sounds behind us, but I can hear the affection in their teasing. Mom swats at them, muttering something about helping with my bags.
When Dad finally releases me, he holds me at arm's length, his critical gaze taking inventory. "You're too skinny. Those LA people not feeding you right?"
I laugh, wiping away a stray tear. "The food was fine. Just expensive."
"Well, your mom's got a feast waiting that'll put some meat back on those bones." He drapes his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the house. "The clubhouse is having a welcome home party for you tomorrow night."
"Dad, you didn't have to…"
"Try telling that to your uncles. Whole club's been counting down the days." His voice drops lower. "Some more than others."
My heart stutters, but I force myself to ignore it. Two years is a long time. Whatever childish crush I'd harbored for Greyson Reed was surely extinguished by now. He's probably married with kids, running the Devil Souls with the same commanding presence as his father.
The house is exactly as I remember—family photos covering every available surface, the worn leather couch that's witnessed countless movie nights, the kitchen where Mom taught me to bake. It smells like homecooked food and, well, home.
"Your room's just how you left it," Mom tells me, following my gaze up the stairs. "Though I may have washed the sheets once or twice."
"Appreciate that." I laugh, dropping my purse on the counter.
"So," my oldest brother, Mason, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "How long before you get bored with small-town life again?"
"Mason," Mom warns, but I wave her off.
"I'm not the same kid who left," I tell him, meeting his gaze head-on. "I needed to go then. I need to be here now."
Something in my tone must convince him because he nods, his posture relaxing. "Good. Because Aunt Brittany's already booked you solid for the next month."
"Speaking of which," I say, pulling my phone out, "I should probably stop by the salon before it closes. Get the lay of the land."
Dad frowns. "You just got here."
"And I'll be back for dinner," I promise, kissing his cheek. "I just want to see the space. Maybe start setting up my station."
"That's my girl." Pride is evident in his voice. "Always ready to work."
If only he knew how much of that work ethic came from trying to prove I could make it on my own. But that's a conversation for another day. Right now, I just want to savor being home, even as I brace myself for whatever complications tomorrow might bring.
* * *
Greyson
I grip the handlebars of my Harley tighter than necessary, knuckles white against the black leather. Two fucking years. Two years of checking my phone whenever her name came up in conversation. Two years of pretending I didn't pay attention when her mother showed new pictures at club gatherings.
I fucking stalked her, found out where she was working in LA, and then I would watch her to make sure she was fucking okay.
Her little blue Honda crosses the town marker, and something inside me unlocks.
I exhale a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding since she left.
The late afternoon sun catches her dark hair through the windshield, and even from this distance, I can see she's rolled down her window.
Probably taking in the pine-scented air she couldn't get in LA.
"Welcome home, Livie," I mutter to myself, watching until her car disappears around the bend toward her parents' place.
I feel a presence behind me before I hear his voice.
"You know, there are laws against what you're doing."
Trenton, the old vice president's son and my number two, smirks when he sees me. He leans against his bike, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too satisfied with himself. The bastard enjoys catching me like this.
"Fuck off," I mutter, swinging my leg over my bike. "Just making sure she got home safe."
"Right," he drawls, his smirk widening. "Because that's what normal people do—hide behind trees to watch women drive by."
"I wasn't hiding." The defense sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Of course not, Prez." Trenton pushes off his bike, moving closer. "You were just admiring the foliage while coincidentally positioned at the exact spot where you could see the town line."
I glare at him, but there's no real heat behind it.
Trent's been my best friend since we were kids throwing dirt clods at each other.
When I took over the club last year after my old man stepped down, making him VP was my first decision.
He knows too many of my secrets to be anywhere but at my right hand.
"She looks good." His tone shifts to something more genuine. "LA didn't break her."
"No," I agree, feeling pride swell in my chest. "It didn't."
"You going to finally talk to her at the party tomorrow? Or just stare creepily from across the room like usual?"
I start my bike, drowning out whatever else he might say. "Club meeting in twenty. Don't be late."
She left for a reason. Wanted something beyond this town, beyond the life of an MC princess. I respected that enough to keep my distance, even when it felt like carving out my own insides.
But now she's back. For good, according to her father.
The clubhouse comes into view, the familiar brick building with our insignia painted on the side. A few prospects are outside washing bikes, and they straighten as I pull in.
But all I can think about is dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze and the woman who's finally come home.
* * *
Livie
As I pull up to Steel Magnolias, nostalgia hits me like a physical force. The quaint storefront with its hand-painted sign and window boxes filled with autumn mums look exactly as I remembered, though Aunt Brittany has added string lights that twinkle along the awning.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the familiar scent of shampoo, hairspray, and coffee envelops me. Aunt Brittany looks up from where she's sweeping hair clippings, her face lighting up when she sees me.
"There's my LA girl!" she exclaims, dropping the broom to rush over. Her hug is fierce and smells like the lavender oil she's worn since I was little. "Or should I say, my Steel Magnolias girl now?"
"The latter has a nice ring to it," I admit, squeezing her back.
She pulls away, her hands still on my shoulders as she studies me. "You look good, baby. Tired, but good."
"LA will do that to you," I say with a small laugh. "Everything's always moving so fast there."
Aunt Brittany loops her arm through mine, leading me toward the back of the salon. "Well, you're home now. We move at our own pace here."
As we walk through the salon, I take in the familiar details: the vintage barber chairs, the black-and-white checkered floor, the wall of photos featuring clients showing off their new styles.
It's smaller than the sleek, minimalist salon I worked at in Beverly Hills, but there's a warmth here that no amount of expensive décor could replicate.
"This is you." She stops in front of a station near the window. A small chalkboard hangs above it with "Olivia Bennett" written in Aunt Brittany's flowing script.