Chapter 1
Sage
“Youcallthatashortbread, Dorothy? That thing could double as a doorstop.”
“Don’t listen to her, Dorothy,” I say, shaking my head at the way two eighty-year-olds can go at each other over flour and sugar.
Thomas chuckles from his station by the window, elbow-deep in dough that looks like it lost a fight. He’s in his seventies and flirts outrageously with anyone under fifty.
“You ladies give each other grief, but your casseroles could win medals,” he says. “Baking, though? Whole different battlefield.”
“Says the man who nearly set the oven on fire trying to make brownies,” Gladys fires back.
“Brisket, not brownies,” Thomas says, unbothered. “That’s my area of expertise. I’m just here to keep you all entertained and maybe learn how not to poison anyone with a pie.”
Laughter ripples through the community center kitchen, warm and familiar. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and nostalgia clings to everything.
It’s dated, drafty… andthe safest place I know.
The room was meant for church potlucks, not the bi-weekly baking class the senior center asked me to teach. I only said yes because they offered cash under the table and a place to blend in. We’ve made it work.
“Fair enough,” Gladys huffs, tapping a wooden spoon against her mixing bowl. “At least Dorothy’s won’t knock your dentures out.”
“We all have our talents,” I say, fighting a smile. “Now, who remembers what we talked about when creaming butter and sugar?”
“Patience,” they chorus, as if I’m running an elementary school.
They’ve all been alive long enough to call me out if I get bossy, yet they listen when I speak. Teaching them has become the highlight of my week, the only time my mind isn’t looping back to a hotel suite with stacks of cash and a judge’s cold stare.
While they work dough with arthritic dedication, I drift between stations, giving gentle reminders and accepting gossip in return. My hands move automatically, adjusting a mixer speed here, tucking a strand of honey-brown hair behind my ear there, while my mind catalogs everything.
Exits.
Angles of the windows.
The way the front door creaked louder than usual ten minutes ago.
Trauma rewired me that way.
I’m Sage Meyer in this town. Twenty-four, quiet, polite, and good with desserts. The kind of woman the white-haired crewtries to set up with their grandsons. But the truth is simpler and sharper:
Naomi Sage Bartlett died the night she saw cartel money change hands in a hotel suite, buying a judge’s agreement to throw out a murder case before it ever reached trial.
This Sage, anxious, cautious, always scanning, took her place.
“Well, sweetheart,” Dorothy murmurs, nudging me, “you still not seeing a man? You need someone sturdy. One of those bikers. Those men are too handsome for their own good.”
Gladys cackles. “The one riding at the front last week. Havoc. President of the Damned Saints. He all but stared a hole through you.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I know exactly who she means. I remember the rumble of engines rolling through the market last week, and the man at the front riding like the street already belonged to him. I learned his nickname within three seconds. Not on purpose. Dorothy made sure of it.
Havoc.
The one who scanned the crowd like he was assessing threats…the same way I scan every room I enter.
The way his gaze brushed me made my pulse misfire.
“I don’t think bikers are my thing,” I lie, ignoring the traitorous flutter in my stomach.
