Got it.
I slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s a perfect fit, the leather is soft, and it smells faintly of wax.
“Ready?” Stone asks.
I strike a pose. “Let’s do it.”
His grins. “Come on.”
His massive Harley gleams even in the pre-dawn darkness. Stone hands me a helmet, adjusts the strap under my chin with gentle fingers, then swings his leg over and settles into the seat.
“Climb on. Hold tight.”
The seat is higher than I expected, and I have to use Stone’s shoulder for balance as I swing my leg over. The leather is coldagainst my thighs, but his body is warm where I press against his back.
“Arms around my waist,” he instructs. “Lean when I lean. Don’t fight me.”
“I never fight you.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my palms. “Sweetheart, that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told. Calling me on shit, is one of my favorite things about you.”
Before I can respond, he kicks the engine to life.
The sound is enormous—a deep, throaty roar that shatters the silence and sends a flock of birds exploding from a nearby tree. I tighten my grip, and Stone pats my clasped hands in reassurance.
Then we’re moving.
The town is a blur in my peripheral vision—dark houses, empty streets, the occasional glow of a streetlight. But Stone doesn’t stay in town. He takes us past the last buildings, past theWelcome to Stoneheartsign, and onto a winding road that climbs into the mountains.
The air gets colder as we ascend. I press closer to Stone’s back, grateful for the warmth of his body, the solid wall of muscle between me and the wind. The engine’s rumble becomes a rhythm, almost meditative, and I find my racing thoughts starting to slow.
This is what he loves.This freedom. The speed. The feeling of the world falling away.
The road twists and turns, following the contour of the mountain. Pine trees rise on either side, dark sentinels against the slowly lightening sky. Somewhere below us, the valley spreads out like a patchwork quilt—fields and farms and the distant cluster of buildings that is Stoneheart.
And then Stone pulls off onto a scenic overlook, kills the engine, and everything goes quiet.
I can hear birds waking in the trees, the rustle of wind through branches, the tick of the cooling engine.
“Look,” Stone says softly.
I turn to follow his gaze.
The sun is rising.
It crests the far mountains in shades of gold and pink, painting the sky in colors I don’t have names for. Slowly, the light catches the valley below, turning mist into spun gold, setting the world ablaze with a warmth that seems impossible after the cold darkness of the ride.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Boone,” I breathe.
“I come here sometimes, when things get loud in my head. When the club is too much, and the weight of it all feels like it’s going to crush me.”
We sit there on his bike—my arms still loosely wrapped around him, his hand occasionally coming back to rest on my knee—and we watch the sun climb higher. The colors shift and change, gold bleeding into blue, the first real warmth of the day starting to cut through the mountain chill.
And slowly, gradually, I feel the fear and grief loosen in my chest.
Not the grief—that’s still there, will probably always be there. But the sharp edges of it soften, smoothed by the beauty of this moment, by the man who thought to share it with me.
