Those brown eyes that’d held him in their thrall since the first moment he’d seen them. Eyes that sparked with intelligence and wit. Eyes that could look soft and sad one minute, fierce and fiery the next.
Eyes that held a million mysteries.
Eyes he wanted to stare into until he’d solved each and every one.
“You know.” She made a face as the morning sun peeked through the skyscrapers to the east, turning the sky overhead pink and gold. “Dumb and Dumber? The motor scooter scene? Come on, you must’ve seen it. It’s a cult classic.”
His mind latched onto a vague memory of the movie and the scene in question. He felt one corner of his mouth quirk. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me you need to pee?”
Her delicious-looking mouth formed a moue. “Pee is an understatement. What I need to do will give Niagara Falls a run for its money.”
There was the Grace Beacham he remembered. Funny. Forthright. And completely unconscious of just how damned adorable she was.
“Rafer!” He called to the giant ginger manning the guardhouse. “Open sesame, man! We got a woman who desperately needs to hit the head!”
Along with his three brothers, Rafer Connelly was BKI’s first line of defense against anyone trying to gain access to the grounds that consisted of the old factory building, various outbuildings, and the little foreman’s cottage. For years, the burly Chicago Irishmen had taken round-the-clock shifts guarding the gates. And it was only recently Hunter had learned to tell them apart.
They all stood at nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, sported orangey-red hair, were covered in freckles, and had thick Chicago accents that put Sam’s Southside drawl to shame. But he’d learned Manus had a mole beside his nose. Geralt had a scar running across his cheek. Toran was always chewing gum. And Rafer? Well, Rafer had a habit of blasting yacht rock at deafening decibels.
Christopher Cross’s “Sailing” crooned from the guardhouse when Rafer slid open the little window.
“Everything copacetic?” He hit the switch that had the iron gates clanging open. His eyes raked over Grace’s form with equal parts curiosity and concern.
The Connelly brothers took their jobs seriously. And theyhatedadmitting strangers into the Black Knights’ lair.
“It’s all gravy, man.” Hunter shot him a salute before cranking over Canteen Green’s engine.
Becky had built choppers for each new Knight during their first year of employment. And as was the case with all her custom bikes, each machine received a name.
Hunter had dubbed his ride in honor of his great-grandfather. A man he’d heard stories about but had never met. A man whose timepiece, called a “canteen watch,” he’d worn with pride every day since he’d saved it from being pawned by his DNA donors.
Walter Jackson had been a WWII veteran. A member of the Underwater Demolitions Team tasked with clearing harbors of obstructions and ordinances. And a hero.
Theonlyhero in Hunter’s long line of lackluster ancestors and—
He realized he hadn’t laid on the throttle fast enough when Grace pinched his thigh.
“Is there a switch I can flip for emergency speed?” she yelled above his bike’s engine noise.
Stifling a grin, he hit the gas.
In an instant they were through the gates, across the paved grounds, and idling in front of one of the two large garage doors that opened to the shop floor. With the push of a button on the key fob in his jacket pocket, the door curled up on its rollers.
He didn’t wait until it folded back completely. He held on long enough to make sure he didn’t lop off their heads before he gave Canteen Green another hit of fuel and they rolled inside the old factory building.
The lights blazing in the shop and the pungent smell of freshly brewed coffee told him Eliza, BKI’s secretary, hash-slinger, and all-around Girl Friday, was already up and at ’em. And the scent of bacon frying in the kitchen had his stomach growling with interest.
Grace was off the bike before he could cut the engine. Her mouth slung open as she stared up at the soaring ceiling and then around at the line of sparkling motorcycles before she blinked and shook her head.
“Whoareyou?” she asked once he’d switched off the bike and toed out the kickstand.
He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “I’m Batman.”
Her mouth flattened. “Never mind.” She yanked off her helmet and tossed it to him. “First things first. Bathroom?”
He pointed to the hallway past the metal stairs. “Second door on your right. If you hit the kitchen, you’ve gone too far.”
“If I hit the kitchen, I might have to use the kitchen sink because I don’t think I’ll have time to turn around.” With that, she took off like the hounds of hell were baying at her heels.
