Chapter 3
THREE
SAVANNAH
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the blonde biker since last Thursday.
It’s irritating, honestly. Not because he exists.
That part is fine. More than fine. Tall, broad shoulders, worn leather, easy confidence.
The kind of man who looks like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t need anyone else to confirm it.
That alone should’ve been enough to lodge him somewhere in my brain.
But it was the wink. Casual. Almost lazy. Like he wasn’t trying to get my attention so much as acknowledging it. Like he knew I’d noticed him and wanted me to know he noticed me back. No smirk. No grin. Just that tiny lift at the corner of his mouth and the flicker of humor in his eyes.
It replays in my head at the worst possible times. When I’m brushing my teeth. When I’m answering emails at work. When I’m trying to fall asleep and my brain decides it would rather rerun a highlight reel of his stupid face instead.
I’ve had dreams. Plural. And yes, I’m aware that makes me sound unhinged.
He’s never even said a word to me. In my dreams, he doesn’t have to.
Sometimes he just looks at me like he already knows me.
Like he knows exactly how loud I get when I’m excited, how stubborn I am when I’m right, how I talk with my hands and laugh too big and refuse to apologize for either.
Sometimes he does speak, low and calm, like he’s grounding me just by existing in my space.
Sometimes I wake up annoyed at myself. Other times I wake up warm and restless and very aware of the empty side of my bed.
It’s probably nothing. A bar flirt. A throwaway moment that meant nothing to him and way too much to my subconscious. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Still. It’s Thursday again.
I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around my body, steam fogging the edges, and I’m overthinking everything like it’s a competitive sport.
My hair is still damp, curling the way it wants to instead of the way I tell it to.
I lean closer to the mirror, studying my face like I might find the answer there.
Honey-hazel eyes. Freckles across my nose and cheeks that refuse to fade no matter how old I get.
Full lips and a smile people tell me is ‘beautiful.’ I’m not unattractive.
I know that. I’ve done the work to know that.
But knowing it and believing someone like him would see it are two very different things.
I’m five foot nothing. Short. Solid. All curves and softness.
I take up space whether I mean to or not.
I’ve spent years learning how to do that without flinching.
Without shrinking myself to make other people more comfortable.
Still, I know what the world tends to expect from men like him. Tall girls. Long legs. Quiet confidence. The kind of woman who looks effortless leaning against a motorcycle, hair blowing just right, mouth closed instead of running. I’m not that. I never have been.
I’m loud. I’m opinionated. I laugh too hard and talk too much and make jokes when I’m nervous. I argue about trivia answers like my life depends on it. I don’t sit still well, and I don’t fade into the background. I don’t apologize for any of that.
But standing here, heart already picking up speed just thinking about walking back into Jake’s tonight, I feel that familiar flicker of doubt anyway. The one that whispers maybe I’m not what he’d go for. Maybe the wink was just friendliness. Maybe I imagined the heat in it because I wanted to.
I drop my towel and step into my closet, and let my fingers skim past the safe options.
The oversized sweaters. The dresses I wear when I don’t want to think too hard about how my body exists in a room.
Not tonight. I grab my favorite pair of snug jeans instead, the dark wash ones that fit my hips like they were made for me and hug my thighs without cutting off circulation.
They sit high on my waist, smoothing everything out and making my ass look phenomenal.
I know this because Lena has told me. Repeatedly.
For the top, I hesitate only a second before pulling out a soft black shirt with a low scoop neckline. The kind of cut that shows the curve of my chest without screaming for attention. The fabric skims instead of clings, dips just right.
I tug it on and check myself in the mirror, turning slightly.
The tattoos along my right arm peek out immediately.
Ink starting at the top of my shoulder and flowing all the way down to my wrist, layered over years instead of planned all at once.
Flowers tangled with script. Lines that curve with my arm instead of fighting it.
Every piece marks a version of me that survived something, learned something, or claimed space where I used to shrink.
I reach for my jewelry tray. Silver hoops first, medium-sized, heavy enough to feel when they move, catching the light when I laugh or turn my head.
Then bracelets. A thin silver chain. A worn cuff that settles against the ink on my wrist like it belongs there.
The metal cool against my skin, the soft clink familiar and grounding.
I adjust the hem one last time, then meet my own eyes in the mirror.
Confident, comfortable, and sexy in a way that feels intentional.
I pull on my black boots and swipe on a little lip gloss.
I shake my hair out, fingers combing through the length until it falls the way it wants to.
Long and thick, blonde at the roots with teal and purple lowlights woven through it like secrets.
If he sees me tonight, this is how he’ll see me. Exactly as I am.
Jake’s is loud tonight. Not rowdy, not out of control, just vibrating with energy like the whole place is holding its breath.
Neck and neck.
That’s what the board says. Quiztopher Nolan and The Reaper-cussions tied going into the final round again, and I am fully feral about it.
I’m on my feet more than I’m sitting, pacing the tiny space between the booth and the aisle, beer in hand, pointing at the screen like the trivia host can hear me through sheer force of will.
“No, no, no,” I say, slapping the table when Noah writes something down. “You’re overthinking it. The obvious answer is the right answer.”
“That’s never true,” he argues.
“It is tonight,” I insist. “I can feel it.”
Lena snorts. “You’ve had four beers.”
“Five,” I correct proudly. “And that’s how I know I’m right.”
From the back of the bar, the bikers are just as worked up. I can hear them over the noise now, low voices, sharp laughs, the scrape of chairs as a couple of them stand and lean over the table. The blonde one is there, close enough that I can clock him without even looking directly.
I feel him before I see him. Like gravity shifting.
My skin is warm. My head is buzzy. My confidence is doing that dangerous thing where it gets louder the more I drink.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce suddenly.
“And then?” Lena asks.
“And then,” I say, already grabbing my purse, “I’m doing something irresponsible.”
She grins. “Godspeed.”
The bathroom line is mercifully short. I pee, wash my hands, check my lipstick, and stare at myself in the mirror longer than necessary. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are bright. My smile looks a little wicked.
Yeah. Definitely had one too many beers.
When I step back out, instead of heading to the booth, I make a beeline for the bar. “Tequila,” I tell Ryan, planting my hands on the counter. “The good one.”
He lifts a brow. “You sure?”
“Very.”
He pours it, slides the shot toward me, salt and lime following. I’m just reaching for it when someone steps up beside me.
Close.
Not crowding. Intentional. Like he knows exactly how much space to take and chooses this much on purpose. Heat rolls off him, steady and solid, and my body reacts before my brain catches up. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
“Careful,” he says, voice low and close, meant just for me. “Tequila makes confident women forget how dangerous they are.”
I turn slowly.
He’s closer than I expect. Blond hair pulled back, loose strands brushing his temple. Leather vest open over a worn T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His eyes are darker up close, sharp and assessing, like he’s been paying attention longer than I realized.
I lift my chin. “Bold of you to assume I forget.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Slow. Appreciative. “Fair.”
I take the shot without breaking eye contact. Salt. Burn. Lime. When I set the glass down, he’s still watching me, gaze unapologetic now, dragging over my mouth, my throat, the line of my chest like he’s mapping something he plans to revisit.
“Tied game,” he says.
“Again,” I reply. “Which means you’re about to lose.”
A quiet laugh rumbles out of him. “You always this sure of yourself?”
“Only when I’m right.”
I angle my body toward him, resting one hip against the bar, feeling bold enough not to pretend this isn’t happening. “Your team’s rattled.”
His eyes flick to my right arm, slow and deliberate, tracing the ink from shoulder to wrist. He doesn’t hide it. “You’ve got good taste in tattoos.”
Something in his tone tightens low in my stomach. “You should see the stories behind them.”
“Wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Eventually.”
Eventually.
He steps closer. This time, he does touch me. Just barely. His fingers brush my wrist, catching against my bracelets, lingering where my pulse jumps like it’s betraying me.
“You gonna keep staring,” I ask, “or are you going to tell me your name?”
That earns me a grin. Real this time. Dangerous. “Lucky.”
I blink. “That’s a nickname.”
“Yeah.” His thumb shifts slightly, still resting against my wrist. “Lucas Kane. But everyone calls me Lucky.”
I meet his gaze. “Savannah.”
He repeats it like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth. “Savannah.”
Heat blooms, slow and unmistakable.
“So,” Lucky says, eyes never leaving mine, “you betting your team’s got this?”
“Absolutely.”