Chapter Four
CLAY
“Let me get this straight.” My twin brother Colt leans back in his chair, boots propped on the table in the clubhouse's meeting room. “Chet Morgan is back in town, running a fake charity, and you volunteered us to help with his Valentine's Day scam?”
“I volunteered us to help with the event.” I pour two fingers of whiskey and slide one glass across the table to my twin. “So I can keep eyes on the situation and protect the woman he's using as his front.”
“The cute one in the pink dress?”
I don't answer. Colt grins. He's got the same build as me, the same jaw, but his hair is longer and his whole demeanor is looser. People always say I got the storm and he got the sunshine. It's annoying as hell, mostly because it's true.
“Viper told me about the hug,” he says.
“Viper needs to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.”
“You held this woman for a full minute in front of the whole club.” Colt takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes gleaming. “That ain’t reconnaissance, Clay… that's you getting soft.”
“It's protection.” I drain my glass. “She has no idea what Chet Morgan is. When his house of cards falls, she's the one who'll take the hit. I'm not going to let that happen.”
Colt studies me for a long moment. The teasing fades from his expression.
“You want me to stay? Help you handle this?”
“No. Knox needs you in Snowflake Falls.”
“Our little bro can wait a few days.”
“Knox is tracking a drug pipeline that's killing people. That takes priority." I set my glass down. “I can handle one lousy con artist and a charity event.”
“And the girl?”
“What about her?”
Colt's mouth quirks. “You going to handle her, too?”
I give him a flat stare. He raises his hands in surrender, but the shiteating grin doesn't fade.
“Just saying. It's been a long time since I've seen you look at anyone the way Viper described you looking at her.”
“Viper needs to get some new hobbies.”
“Probably.” Colt stands and drains his whiskey. “Be careful, brother. Protecting someone is one thing… catching feelings is another.”
He claps me on the shoulder and heads out. I sit alone in the empty room, staring at nothing.
Catching feelings. Ridiculous.
But I can still feel the press of her body against mine. The way she fit so perfectly. The vanilla scent of her hair and the hitch of her breath when I pulled her closer.
And that goddamn pink dress.
I've hated the color pink for years. Mom loved that color, painted our kitchen and bathroom in candy shades.
I was eighteen when she overdosed. She'd been clean for two months. Long enough for me to let my guard down. Knox was twelve, at a friend's house, and we had to go pick him up and tell him Mom was gone.
I've avoided pink ever since. It reminds me of the people I couldn't save. But on Karina, it looked like armor, as if she was daring the world to underestimate her.
I scrub a hand over my face. This is a job. Protect the girl, burn down Chet Morgan's operation, then walk away.
Simple. So why can't I stop thinking about her?
At seven o'clock the next evening, I pull up outside her apartment building in my truck. It's a modest, well-kept complex, with flower boxes on the balconies. Of course, hers has pink flowers.
I ring the bell. A dog barks inside, then the door opens. My brain goes blank.
She's wearing pink again. Fitted jeans that hug every curve, paired with a sweater that's slipping off one shoulder, showing a strip of soft bare skin. Her hair falls in loose waves around her face. Her lips are shiny and pink, and I stare at her mouth like a starving man.
“Pink,” I say, because I've lost the ability to form complete sentences.
“Is that a problem?”
I shake my head, but I want to peel that dress off her and see if her skin is as soft as it looks.
“Not a problem,” I manage. “Ready?”
She nods and steps outside. A three-legged dog appears in the gap, glaring at me with undisguised hostility.
“That's Dolly,” Karina says. “She doesn't like men.”
“Smart girl.”
Dolly growls. I respect that. I lead Karina to my truck, a black F-150 that's seen better days but runs like a dream.
“No motorcycle?” she asks.
“Figured you might not want to climb on a bike.” I open the passenger door for her. “Didn't want to make assumptions.”
Her cheeks flush. “That's... really thoughtful.”
Is that disappointment I can sense? Maybe she wanted a ride. I’ll get a prospect to drop my bike at Casputo's so I can take her home on it, assuming she's willing.
I take her to Casputo's, a quiet Italian place tucked into a side street a couple of towns over in Bellford. Red checkered tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, and the smell of garlic and fresh bread. Not my usual scene, but I figured she'd like it.
From the way her face lights up when we walk in, I figured it right.
“This place is adorable,” she says as I pull out her chair. “How did you find it?”
“I know people.”
She laughs, her face brightening. We order and I start asking questions; just a guy getting to know the charity he's volunteered to help.
“How long have you worked for Hearts United?”
“About three months.” She takes a sip of her wine. “Ty hired me right after I moved back to the area. I was temping, feeling pretty lost, and he took a chance on me.”
“That was generous of him.”
“Right?” Her eyes go soft. “No one else would give me a real opportunity. My family thinks I'm flaky, and my resume is... eclectic. But Ty saw something in me.”
I'll bet he did. A trusting, hardworking woman desperate to prove herself: the perfect mark.
“How does the charity work?” I keep my voice casual. “Donations go through you?”
“No, Ty handles all the financial stuff. I'm just the event coordinator.” She waves a hand. “I don't have a head for numbers. Ty says it's better to keep things streamlined.”
Red flag number one.
“And the donors? You work with them directly?”
“Ty handles the big donors. I do community outreach, local businesses, that kind of thing.” She smiles. “He's really protective of the donor relationships. Says it takes years to build trust.”
Red flag number two.
“Have you met any of the major donors?”
She pauses, bread halfway to her mouth. “Now that you mention it... no. Ty always meets with them privately. He says they prefer discretion.” A tiny crease forms between her brows. “Why all the questions?”
Because your boss is a con artist who's setting you up to take the fall, and soon you're going to be the face of a fraud investigation while he disappears with the money.
“Trying to understand the organization,” I say. “If my club's involved, I like to know how things work.”
The crease smooths out. “That makes sense. You seem like a details guy.”
“Something like that.”
Our food arrives. She moans at the first bite of carbonara, a soft, appreciative sound that goes straight to my cock. I focus very hard on cutting my steak.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you really volunteer to help? I mean, a hugging charity isn't exactly...” She gestures at me. "On brand for a motorcycle club.”
I set down my fork and hold her gaze.
“You walked into a room full of bikers and pitched a hugging event. That took guts.”
“Um… it meant I thought I was pitching to a different crowd. My mistake.”
“You could have left. You didn't.” I lean back. “I respect that.” Her cheeks flush.
“Well. Thank you. For all of this. The partnership, the dinner, the...” She trails off, suddenly shy. “It means a lot. More than you know.”
She reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine.
Her fingers are small and warm. The touch is light, almost tentative, but it burns through me. I should pull away and keep this all professional. Instead, I turn my hand over and let my fingers curl around hers.
“You're welcome,” I say.
Her breath catches, and those flame-bright blue eyes go wide.
I am in so much fucking trouble.