A motorcycle.
A Harley-Davidson to be exact. One thing about my dad, he loved a Harley. He always said slow down, Holley, listen to the tick and you will recognize a Harley over any other brand. H
And not just passing by—coming up the gravel drive. Every crunch of stone under tires vibrates through the floorboards.
“No no no no—” I rush for the door, heart pounding. I’ve got seconds at best.
I yank the door open and step out onto the porch just as the headlight cuts through the trees?—
And the rider pulls into my driveway.
My guest has arrived.
Early.
Not terribly early, but given they requested a late check in I truly didn’t think he would be here now. Figures this would be my luck. While I don’t think this is some horrible thing to be here when they arrive, I have never wanted to cross paths with one of my guests before. This isn’t a bed and breakfast where I’m serving them some kind of service package. I supply my home and only my home. Not person to person hospitality.
A man climbs off the bike., the engine rumbling to a stop beneath him.
Black leather jacket covering broad shoulders. His presence rolls across the yard in a wave—solid, confident, deeply masculine.
He removes his helmet slowly, revealing a strong, weathered face and piercing blue eyes that lock onto me instantly. He doesn’t look surprised to see someone standing outside. I take him in. The silver hair short on his head and almost white with a goatee that only adds more edge to his chiseled jaw line. While clearly not some twenty-something man child, this man is far from senior citizen, but a man who has lived a full life. He stretches, his black t-shirt sliding up revealing the edges of his jeans with those clear cut hip bones that create a masterpiece to a fit man’s stomach and groin that can dampen any woman’s panties.
The air between feels thick. A heat washes through me simply drinking in the masterpiece of man in front of me.
He is unfazed by me and my gaze.
But I sure as hell am surprised to see him.
Because I know that face. Not him personally—not up close like this—but I know his type. And something about him sends a bolt of warning down my spine.
Not from fear.
From the sense that this man takes up space just by breathing. There is power with a man like him. This stealth stature that screams protector. A vibe that says he commands the world around him and everyone simply falls into submission willingly to the sheer masculine energy that exhales out with every breath he takes.
Needing to say or do something to cover up the way I’m gawking at the man, I force myself to swallow and call out, voice too high-pitched: “H-hi! You must be Mr. Brocato!” God, I’m an idiot.
He nods once, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to make sense of the sight in front of him: me clutching a massive sleeping bag like a toddler dragging a stuffed animal. “Tony,” he clarifies. “Mr. Brocato is a great name for a man in a suit or a mob boss. I’m just Tony.”
“Hope you enjoy your stay.” I manage a stiff, awkward half-wave, then spin and all but sprint for my car. I fling the sleeping bag into the passenger seat so fast it ricochets off the dashboard.
He’s still watching me—of course he is—as I circle around to shut the door.
I turn back toward the cabin just to be polite, to give him some kind of host-like farewell—And that’s when I see headlights crossing my driveway.
My heartbeat stops dead.
I know that car.
That dent in the bumper. That cheap aftermarket grill he installed because he thought it made him look “edgy.” The same license plate I hated from the moment he put it on the damn car.
My ex-husband’s car.
“What the—” I whisper to the universe.
Rage slams through me so strong I nearly sway.
No. No. No.
