Prologue
SAGE
It could be said that a person’s upbringing was what molded them into the grownup they’d eventually become, and as far as I was concerned, that was sound logic. After all, I was nothing if not the product of my environment.
My father was a big, burly, rough-around-the-edges nonconformist with a penchant for being a bit of a conspiracy nut, but he was the best father on the face of the planet.
He’d lived for two things only: his Harley and his little girl, and from the time I was big enough to wrap my little arms around his waist, I lived to be on the back of his bike.
There was nothing better than the feel of the sun on my face and the wind whipping through my hair.
To most people, men and women alike, he was scary as hell, but to me he was a gentle giant. I’d had the hard biker wrapped around my little finger from the moment I came squalling into this world, and he’d made me his little biker princess.
The worst day of my life was when I was sixteen and he got locked up, but that didn’t mean our connection broke.
We wrote letters, he called, and when I got old enough to make the trip on my own, I went to see him as often as I could—which, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly enough.
I missed him with everything I was, and during the years he’d been locked up, a gaping hole had formed inside of me, growing and growing until it became impossible to fill.
My mom was an altogether different story. She never dug the biker life. My dad might have worshipped the ground she walked on but love and family weren’t enough for her. She wanted it all, and not having it made her bitter.
Once my father went down, my mother’s true colors came bleeding out.
Men came in and out of our lives at an alarming frequency, each of them loaded and the polar opposite of my dad in every way.
She’s chosen them strictly for their money.
They served a purpose, and that purpose usually consisted of new wardrobes, expensive jewelry, and flashy cars.
All she saw when she looked at them were dollar signs.
I was nothing more than a pawn in the twisted games she played with the opposite sex, a piece she’d pull out and shuffle around the board whenever it suited her.
It was my job to make the men feel sorry for me.
If Mom felt one of her sugar daddies slipping, I came into play.
I was the poor little girl who’d lost her father and was looking for another man to take his place.
I’d gotten pretty damn good in my role. I became an accomplished con artist, tugging those poor, unsuspecting bastards’ heartstrings until Mommy Dearest could bleed them for more before moving on to the next victim.
I was a cliché. The girl with daddy and mommy issues. My adoring father had been taken from me when I was far too young, leaving me with an emotionally stunted, cold mother who treated me more as an accessory than a daughter. Because of that, I went searching for love in all the wrong places.
I picked losers, cheaters, users, abusers .
. . you name it. I was so desperate for an emotional connection, that I tied myself to men who didn’t come close to deserving me in an attempt to fill that hole.
I started going through men with the speed and frequency of my mother, searching for something to make me whole, yet never finding it.
Until I met John. I’d convinced myself he was exactly what I’d been searching for, so I dove head first into our relationship.
We moved at warp speed, getting engaged and married within months of knowing each other.
He’d put that ring on my finger, and in return, I gave him every single piece of myself, ignoring all the glaring warning signs in the process.
It took far too long to pull myself out of that yawning chasm, but once I finally did, I promised myself I’d never let another man treat me the way my ex had. I’d made far too many mistakes, and after John, I swore I was done.
But the nagging ache that something was missing refused to go away, eating at me until I could no longer take it. So, one morning, out of the blue, I made the decision to start over. I was going to wipe the slate clean and build myself a new life.
I bailed on the crappy studio apartment I’d been calling home for the past few months; turned in my notice at my dead-end, boring-as-hell job; packed my shit; and loaded my car.
I had no idea where I was going or what I’d do when I got there, but I had a full tank of gas and I’d decided wherever that got me was the place I’d call my new home. I was my father’s daughter, after all. I didn’t need a plan. I just needed the wind in my hair and the sun on my face.
I drove the badass ’67 Mustang my dad had lovingly restored and given to me before he’d gone inside.
The sleek black convertible with two white racing stripes was my most treasured possession.
I drove with the top down the whole way, and when my baby hit empty I’d hit beauty as far as the eye could see.
I’d never experienced anything like Hope Valley, Virginia in all my twenty-seven years.
Rolling hills leading to breathtaking mountains kissed the stunning blue skies.
The main drag was something you’d expect to see in a small mountain town in a Hallmark movie.
The sidewalks were made of board planks, giving the place a kickass old-timey feel.
Planter boxes lined several of the shop windows, all filled with brightly colored flowers.
Even the windows along the second story of a large, cool-as-shit historic building had boxes brimming with flora.
Most of the buildings looked to have been built in the early 1900s but were all perfectly maintained.
There was a town square, complete with a gazebo and a clocktower.
A freaking clocktower. How cool was that?
From what I saw as I made the slow trek through the main drag of town, this little slice of heaven had everything a girl could need.
There were clothing boutiques, a hair salon, grocery store, a couple cute little cafes, restaurants, and even a couple of bars.
One in particular, The Tap Room, caught my interest for its awesome name alone.
My first stop—after fueling my baby, of course—was a small coffee shop called Muffin Top.
I was a hardcore caffeine addict to the point my dad had teased that it was actually coffee I had running through my veins. Sadly, I couldn’t make a decent cup of joe to save my life, so wherever I decided to call home needed to have a place that made excellent coffee.
As gorgeous as the town was, if the coffee tasted like crap, I was going to push on and see where I landed next, so I didn’t delay putting this place to the test.
And it passed. With flying colors.
Not only did the coffee shop with the best name ever serve the best coffee I’d ever had, but the pastries were simply to die for. And when I told the woman behind the counter as much, she smiled so big I thought she’d tear her face in two.
She’s been open and friendly in a way I found somewhat surprising. I was of the mentality that a book should never be judged by its cover, but sadly, I knew from experience that there weren’t a lot of people out there of the same opinion.
I was a biker chick and I wore that like a badge of honor, mainly because, to me, it was.
Ripped jeans, Harley tees, motorcycle boots, tons of silver and leather, the former as jewelry, the latter as jewelry and clothing.
I never went anywhere without a full face of makeup, and I wore my long, mahogany locks in fat, loose curls with plenty of volume up top.
I’d walked into Muffin Top after hours on the road with wind in my hair, making it wild.
I was in a pair of short, frayed jean shorts, black motorcycle boots, and a vintage Lynyrd Skynyrd concert tee of my dad’s that I’d altered to fit me, meaning the neck had been cut out to drape over my left shoulder, showing off my lacy black bra strap, with the hem knotted at the small of my back.
My wrists were covered in bangles, and I had a tangle of long necklaces strung around my neck.
I’d gotten so many nasty looks from girls all my life that I was completely immune to them.
But Danika Parrish, the woman who owned Muffin Top, gave me a top-to-toe look and declared, “Thought you were my kinda chick when I watched you roll up in that fine-ass car. Now I know you’re my kinda chick, seeing you in that shirt. ”
After that and my compliment on her brew, we got to chatting.
Seeing as it was a small town, she knew I wasn’t a local, and when I told her—after tasting the coffee—that I was there to stay and needed to find employment tout de suite, she’d told me about a position that had been open for months at a place just down the block.
By the time I hit the one-week mark in Hope Valley I’d already scored an adorable little cottage to rent, found my morning—and afternoon and evening—coffee joint, and landed myself a job.
I left my old life behind. I’d gone in search of a new one, and to my delightful surprise, everything was working out beautifully.
So I never could have suspected that a big, bearded Sasquatch of a man would step onto the scene and rain all over my parade.