Chapter 2
Chapter two
Keely
An electric jolt zipped up my spine when I got my first glimpse of the behemoth biker. He was huge.
And hot, in a broody way.
His wavy blonde hair was pulled back in a knot.
The edge of a tattoo peeked out from the cuff of his leather jacket.
I wondered where that ink would lead, how much of it covered his skin.
I wondered what it would be like to trace every inch of that ink and feel the flex of his muscles under my fingertips.
He regarded me with solemn eyes as I yapped at him.
Most men viewed that as an invitation to flirt with me.
I was too friendly for my own good sometimes, and I could talk all day long.
A little harmless flirtation was good for tips, but it could easily stray into creepy territory when men took it a step too far.
For once, I hoped this biker would flirt back, ask for my number. Hell, I wouldn’t mind if he accidentally brushed up against me with some vague excuse that did nothing to hide the fact he just wanted to touch me.
Instead, the biker mumbled a brief response and kept his hands to himself, much to my disappointment.
But I didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked over me, lingering a little too long in all the right places.
Working at the diner, I met a lot of lonely people. That biker was definitely one of them. I could see it written all over his face, carried in the hunch of his broad shoulders and in the gentle way he cradled his coffee in his large hands.
That’s why I gave him the pie in the hopes it might cheer him up.
And, maybe, to get his attention.
But it didn’t work.
After I deposited a load of dishes in the sink and scrubbed them clean, the biker was gone. His table was empty, with his dirty dishes stacked neatly together. To my surprise, a twenty-dollar bill was tucked under the mug, which was far too generous, but I appreciated it nonetheless.
As I stowed the cash in the pocket of my uniform, my gaze strayed to the window. I scanned the parking lot, thinking maybe I could catch one final look of the biker before he disappeared.
There was no sign of him.
For the next two weeks, my heart skipped a beat every time I heard the bell over the door jingle. Maybe the biker had returned for another cup of coffee and a slice of pie.
Then my heart would sink a little when someone else was standing at the door, waiting to be seated, instead of the biker.
That hopeless romantic streak will get you in all kinds of trouble, Keely, Dad would tell me.
I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be so madly, deeply, crazy-in-love with my soulmate one day.
I wanted a husband who never left without a good-bye kiss, then raced home to kiss me senseless again.
I wanted someone who hated to fight with me but craved the nastiest, sweatiest, kinkiest make-up sex that came afterward.
Obviously, I didn’t think this biker was The One. That would be foolish and naive since I only met him once and I didn’t even know his name. But I couldn’t deny the warmth of attraction I felt, and I didn’t mind basking in the fantasies that flooded my thoughts a little while longer.
The chances of seeing that biker again were pretty much nonexistent anyway.
With a sigh, I made a mental note to check the dating apps again after my shift tonight. It wasn’t easy being a lover girl who yearned and pined and longed for romance in a world full of people who were just trying to keep their options open.
I wasn’t afraid of commitment. The problem was finding someone willing to commit to me. It was happily ever after and until death do we part, or nothing at all.
By the time a month had passed, I had mostly forgotten about the biker.
During a busy lunch hour, my feet ached, my lower back was killing me, and I could feel a tension headache throbbing to life in my temples.
Nearly every table in the diner was taken.
I juggled a heavy tray laden with burgers, fries, and milkshakes, when the bell over the door chimed, almost completely swallowed by the din of conversation and the clatter of silverware.
“We’re almost full up,” I called absently, too preoccupied with not spilling the milkshakes. “I’ll find you a seat in a minute! Don’t run out on me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”
My breath caught in my throat at that bass timbre like melted chocolate, with an edge of gruffness. I knew that voice. I’d only heard it once, but I knew it anyway.
Glancing up, I met the biker’s dark blue eyes. He lifted his chin with acknowledgement casually, as if my heart wasn’t leaping out of my chest at the sight of him.
“Hey,” he said. “I was hoping to put in a group order for takeout.”
Takeout.
That means he’s not staying, I realized with a faint sting of dismay. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t imagine someone like him—tattooed, muscled, smoking hot—would be single anyway. Besides, what were the chances he remembered some no-name waitress like me?
Shaking myself out of my daze, I hurried to offload my tray and came over. Shoving my whirlwind of feelings aside, I plastered on a professional demeanor.
“Sure. Depending on the size of your order, the wait time might be a while though. Will that be a problem?”
He shook his head as he retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and smoothed it out, handing it over.
“There’s no rush.” He paused and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he added, “It’s worth the wait when the cherry pie was that good.”
I brightened. He did remember me. Butterflies bloomed in my stomach and a pleased blush crept up my neck. I ducked my head to hide a small smile and forced myself to focus on the list he had provided. Then my eyes widened.
“Whoa. Holy shit, are you feeding a small army?”
He huffed with amusement.
“Something like that. A herd of bikers can turn into a hungry pack of wolves in no time.”
“Oh, that sounds like an emergency,” I replied. “I’ll see what I can do about putting a rush on it.” I paused and wetted my lower lip with my tongue, preparing myself for what I was about to say next. “Can I get a name for your order?”
A normal, routine question to ask, I reasoned. I did it all the time at the diner. But I caught myself holding my breath anyway, waiting.
“You can just put down Tarzan,” he said.
That was kinda…sexy. In a primal way.
“Tarzan,” I repeated, looking him up and down. “Is that a frat boy nickname you earned in college for running around in a loincloth?”
He chuckled.
Oh my God. That sound. Deep, low, and so delicious. The butterflies in my stomach turned into a perfect storm.
“Fuck, no,” Tarzan replied. “It’s just bikers talking shit. I’m known for my brawn, not my brains. That’s not exactly flattering, I guess, but it’s better than other road names that guys get stuck with, trust me.”
A thousand questions swelled to the tip of my tongue, aching to know more. If my dad could see me now though, he would not be happy that I was chatting up a biker. Ever since I started dating as a teenager, he warned me to stay away from boys with motorcycles.
They’re nothing but trouble, he said. I won’t let my little girl become some biker’s toy.
Clearly, I didn’t heed his warnings. It took every ounce of willpower to concentrate on what Tarzan was saying, when I was so distracted by his…everything.
That scruffy jawline.
The V-neck of his shirt, providing a tempting glimpse of more tattoo ink and golden brown chest hair.
And his size, of course. Bulky with muscle, yet soft around the middle, indicating he didn’t keep a strict diet. I liked a man who enjoyed a good meal, loaded with carbs, topped off with something sweet for dessert.
“Well then, Tarzan,” I said. “Let me ring up your total, and get your order to the kitchen before those hungry biker friends of yours start howling.”
After I keyed his order into the register and swiped his credit card, Tarzan said he would wait outside until the food was ready, so he didn’t get in my way since the diner was so busy.
I couldn’t come up with a protest to keep him inside before he headed out the door.
I spotted him through the window, making his way across the parking lot to a beautiful glossy black Harley.
He leaned against it and fiddled with his phone to pass the time.
I practically flew into the staff bathroom in the back. There wasn’t enough time to refresh my makeup, so I pinched my cheeks until they turned pink instead, and did the best I could to tame the halo of frizz around my curls from the humid kitchen.
Fuck, I hadn’t felt this jittery around a guy in ages.
“Keely!” the cook barked. He was a cranky badger with a surly attitude on the best of days. A lunch rush like this only made him even more grumpy. “Where the hell did you disappear to? I’m swamped out here! Food is getting cold!”
“Coming!” I called back, hurrying into the diner again.
When Tarzan’s order was finished and packed into three large brown paper bags, I loaded them into my arms and carried them outside.
“Your feast is ready to go!” I declared.
Tarzan pushed away from his bike, taking the bags from me.
“It smells great, thank you,” he said.
I clasped my hands behind my back, bouncing on my toes.
“I noticed you didn’t have any cherry pie on your list,” I said. “So, I took the liberty of putting in a slice, just for you.”
With my phone number.
Maybe it was too forward. Or desperate. But this man had slipped through my fingers before. If he never called me and I ended up scaring him off, well…at least I tried.
“If you keep this up,” Tarzan said. “I’ll expect free pie every time I come here.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a grin and spread my hands.
“I guess the only way to prove your theory is to pay me another visit, Tarzan. But I should warn you, I’ll know if you get free pie from other waitresses when I’m not around. And I can get very, very jealous.”
Without waiting for a reply, I dashed back into the diner and closed the door. Leaning against it, I released a shaky breath while giddiness bubbled in my chest.
I gave a hot biker my phone number.
And I couldn’t wait to see him again.