The Biker's Forbidden Curvy Widow

1. Pope

POPE

Two years of staying away from her, and it takes a rumor about money trouble to finally break me.

The clubhouse smells like cigarettes, cheap beer, and the leather conditioning Diesel uses on his cut like it's some kind of religion.

Normal night. Brothers scattered around the common room, shooting pool, talking shit.

I'm in the corner booth going over supply invoices for the garage when Hammer's voice cuts through the noise.

"—looked like she hadn't slept in a month. Place was half-empty on a Saturday night."

My pen stops moving.

"Marco's Trattoria?" Diesel asks, cracking open a fresh bottle. "Damn. Used to be you couldn't get a table without a reservation."

"Not anymore." Hammer drops into the chair across from him, his scarred knuckles wrapping around a whiskey glass. "Word around town is she's barely keeping the lights on. Supplier issues, staff quitting. The whole thing's circling the drain."

She.

Mara.

I don't look up from the invoices. Can't let them see what that name does to me—the way it lands like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing the air from my lungs.

Two years of keeping my distance, of making sure she's safe without ever having to see her face, and three sentences from Hammer tears through all of it like tissue paper.

"Shame," Diesel says. "Marco would've hated seeing the place struggle like that."

Marco.

The pen cracks in my grip. I set it down carefully, flexing my fingers, watching the brothers like I'm not falling apart inside. Like hearing his name doesn't drag me right back to that night—his blood on my hands, his voice going thready and weak, his eyes finding mine in the dark.

Take care of her. She's gonna need someone. Promise me, brother.

I promised. Of course I promised. What else could I do with my best friend dying in my arms?

But I've been keeping that promise from a distance. Having Diesel swing by the restaurant once a month, casual-like. Getting Hammer to check that her apartment's secure. Watching her from the shadows like some kind of fucked-up guardian angel who doesn't deserve the title.

Because I can't be near her. Can't look at her without the guilt crushing me flat. Can't see her smile without remembering that I wanted that smile aimed at me long before Marco ever worked up the nerve to ask her out.

"President."

I blink. Hammer's watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You good?"

"Fine." The word comes out rough. I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. "She got anyone helping her out? Family?"

"Mara?" He shrugs. "Not that I know of. Parents passed before Marco did. No siblings. Think she's pretty much on her own."

On her own.

Because I left her that way. Because I told myself staying away was the noble thing, the right thing, when really it was just cowardice dressed up in good intentions.

"I'm heading out," I say, pushing to my feet.

"It's barely ten."

"Got something to handle."

Hammer and Diesel exchange a look, but they know better than to push. That's the benefit of being president—nobody questions when you need to disappear. Even when they probably should.

The night air hits me like a slap when I step outside. Cold enough to bite, carrying the copper-and-rust smell that Saint's Hollow never quite shakes. I stand there for a minute, keys in my hand, telling myself to go home. Take a shower. Sleep off whatever this feeling is.

But my feet carry me to my bike instead, and my hands start the engine without permission, and before I can talk myself out of it, I'm riding toward the one place I've been avoiding for twenty-four months.

Marco's Trattoria sits on the corner of Main and Fifth, a converted brownstone with red-checked curtains and a hand-painted sign that Marco made himself. I remember the day he hung it—prouder than I'd ever seen him, grinning like a kid who'd just discovered Christmas.

"Gonna build something real, brother. Something that lasts."

The memory hurts. They all do.

I park across the street, killing the engine but not getting off the bike.

The restaurant's still open—warm light spilling through the windows, the faint sound of music drifting out when someone exits.

But Hammer wasn't wrong. The place looks tired.

The paint's peeling near the roofline. One of the window boxes is empty, dead plants cleared out and never replaced.

Through the glass, I can see maybe four tables occupied. On a Thursday night, that's not terrible. But I remember when this place was packed seven days a week, when Mara had to turn people away at the door.

That was before.

Before the run that went wrong. Before the ambush. Before I held her husband while he bled out and made promises I've spent two years breaking.

Go home, the smart part of my brain says. You've seen enough. Send Diesel tomorrow with cash—

The front door opens.

And there she is.

Mara.

Two years since I've been this close, and the sight of her still hits me like a freight train.

Dark hair pinned up in that messy twist she wears for kitchen work.

Curves that could make a man forget his own name, even hidden under a stained apron.

She's thinner than I remember—stress carving shadows under her eyes, hollowing out her cheeks—but she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She doesn't notice me. Too busy talking to the customer she's walking out, her smile warm even though exhaustion bleeds through every line of her body.

I should leave. Right now, before she—

Her head turns. Her eyes find me.

Everything stops.

For a second, neither of us moves. The customer says something, but Mara doesn't hear it—she's staring at me like she's seen a ghost. And maybe she has. The ghost of a man who swore to take care of her and then vanished.

I force myself off the bike.

The restaurant's even quieter inside. Two couples at separate tables, an old man nursing wine near the window. The hostess—young, unfamiliar—starts to greet me before Mara cuts her off.

"I've got this one, Gina."

Her voice is steady. Professional. But I catch the tremor underneath, the crack she's trying to hide.

"Pope." She says my name like it costs her something. "Been a while."

Understatement of the fucking century. "Mara."

"You want a table?" She grabs a menu without waiting for an answer, that fake smile firmly in place. "We've got plenty available tonight."

I follow her to a booth in the back corner, watching the way she moves—still graceful, still hypnotic, but with a new weight dragging at her shoulders. She sets down the menu, pulls out her order pad like this is just business.

It's not.

"I'll get your water. Our special tonight is—"

"Mara."

She stops. Swallows hard. Doesn't meet my eyes.

"Why are you here?" The professional mask slips, and underneath it, I see anger.

Pain. The same things I've been carrying for two years, reflected back at me.

"You've been avoiding me since the funeral.

Couldn't even look at me when they put him in the ground.

And now you just show up like nothing happened? "

The words land like blows, each one deserved. "I heard the place was struggling."

"So?"

"So I wanted to see for myself."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You couldn't pick up a phone? Couldn't walk in here any of the thousand days before tonight?" She shakes her head, something cracking behind her eyes. "I needed you, Pope. After Marco—I needed someone. And you disappeared."

"I know."

"That's it? You know?"

"What do you want me to say?" My voice comes out harsher than I intend. "That I couldn't stand to be near you? That every time I looked at you, all I saw was him dying? That I—"

I stop myself. Can't finish that sentence. Not here. Not ever.

Mara stares at me, something shifting in her expression. The anger's still there, but underneath it, I see the same exhaustion that's been grinding her down. The same loneliness.

"Marco made me promise," I say quietly. "To take care of you."

"You've done a fantastic job of that."

"I've had brothers checking in. Making sure you're safe—"

"Safe isn't the same as there, Pope. Safe is bare minimum. Safe is—" She breaks off, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Why not?"

The words come out before I can stop them, and something flickers across her face. Something resigned.

"Because I'm selling the restaurant." She meets my eyes finally, and the hollow acceptance in them guts me. "I'm leaving Saint's Hollow. Next week, maybe sooner. I just... I can't do this anymore."

The world tilts.

"What?"

"There's nothing keeping me here." She says it simply, like it's not tearing me apart. "Marco's gone. This place is drowning me. I need to start over somewhere that doesn't remind me of everything I lost."

I can't breathe. Can't think. She's leaving. After everything—after two years of protecting her from the shadows, of lying awake thinking about her, of carrying the guilt of loving her like a knife in my chest—she's walking away.

And I never even let myself be there for her.

"The memorial dinner," I manage. "Marco's two-year—"

"Is in two days. I know." Her chin lifts, something fierce pushing through the exhaustion. "That's actually why I was going to call you. Before I go... I need someone to give the eulogy. Someone who knew him."

"Get one of the other brothers. Diesel, or—"

"He would have wanted you." Her voice softens, and for a second, she's not the angry, exhausted woman in front of me. She's just Mara. The one Marco loved. The one I loved first. "You were his best friend. His president. His brother. It should be you."

The guilt twists deeper. She doesn't know the half of it. Doesn't know about the words Marco said with his dying breath—words that haunt me every time I close my eyes.

Let yourself have something good for once. You deserve it.

I don't deserve shit. And I definitely don't deserve her.

But I can't say no. Can't refuse her this one thing after everything I've failed to give her.

"Okay," I say. "I'll do it."

Something flickers in her eyes—relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or something else entirely that I don't have the right to name.

"Thank you." She turns to go, then pauses. "Pope?"

"Yeah?"

“I don't blame you for staying away, even if I’m conflicted about it. I know this is hard for you too. Losing him." Her voice catches. "I just wish... I wish it hadn't been so hard alone."

She walks back toward the kitchen before I can respond. Before I can tell her that she was never supposed to be alone. That I'm the biggest coward who ever lived for letting her drown while I stood on the shore and watched.

I leave without ordering. Without saying goodbye. The night air hits me like ice, and I stand on the sidewalk, staring at the restaurant that Marco built, the restaurant that's killing his widow, the restaurant I should have been helping hold together for two goddamn years.

Two years of staying away to protect us both. And now she's leaving anyway.

I kept my distance thinking it was the right thing—and all I did was let her drown alone.

I don't go home. Can't face the silence, the emptiness, the ghosts that live in every corner of my house. Instead, I get on my bike and ride until the sun comes up, until my hands are numb and my throat is raw from the cold.

But I can't outrun the truth.

She's leaving. And I never even let myself have her.