Wind rushes past us, and the hard vibration of the bike buzzes between my legs. I’m doing this because I want to see what happens when the brakes fail.
The Timber Trail Tavern is a wall of noise and humidity. It smells of stale beer, fried food, and sawdust. Country rock blares from a jukebox in the corner, competing with the roar of laughter and conversation. I usually avoid these places, preferring wine bars with acoustic sets and artisanal cheese boards.
Tonight, I am on the arm of Chase Gunnar.
The atmosphere shifts the second we step through the heavy wooden doors. A lull in conversation starts near the entranceand ripples outward until half the room looks at us. Chase’s hand settles on the small of my back. It brands my spine, a heavy weight claiming me in front of the room. His large palm spans my back, fingers digging in to pull me into his side. The heat of him seeps through my silk blouse, scorching my skin.
"Showtime," he whispers against my ear, his breath hot and damp.
He guides me through the crowd with an arrogance that clears a path. Men nod at him with careful respect; women look at him with hungry eyes, then shift their gaze to me with assessment and envy. I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of courtroom confidence I possess. I am Cassandra Preston, Esq. I belong wherever I damn well choose to stand.
"Corner booth," Chase says, steering me toward the back. I spot a familiar face. Riley James, the local social media darling documenting the town's drama, sits at the bar. She spots us immediately. Her phone comes up, discreetly angled.
"Your audience is present," I murmur, leaning into Chase as we slide into the booth.
"Good," he grunts. He sits close. Too close. His thigh presses against mine, a heavy, hard line of contact I can't escape. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat, fingers idly playing with the ends of my hair. "Let's give them something to post about."
A waitress appears, eyes darting nervously between Chase and me. "Evenin', Chase. The usual?"
"Whiskey. Double. Neat," he says, eyes never leaving my face. "And a glass of your best Cabernet for the lady."
"I can order for myself," I snap, but he silences me with a look—half warning, half heat.
"You like red wine, dry, with earthy notes," he recites calmly. "I saw the bottle in your hotel room trash when I dropped you off yesterday. I pay attention, Cassandra."
The waitress scurries off before I can argue. I turn in the seat to face him, my knee knocking against his. "Is stalking part of your skill set, or just a hobby?"
"I'm the Enforcer," he says, as if that explains everything. His olive green eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "It’s my job to know threats. And you, Counselor, are the biggest threat to my peace of mind I’ve encountered in a decade."
"Because of the zoning injunction?"
He leans in, face inches from mine. The noise of the bar fades into a dull roar. "We're not talking about zoning."
The drinks arrive. Chase wraps his hand around his glass, the crystal looking fragile in his grip. He takes a sip, throat working as he swallows, and I catch myself staring at the strong column of his neck.
"Relax," he commands softly. His hand moves from the back of the seat to my shoulder, thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles against my tension. "You look like you're waiting for a verdict."
"I'm waiting for you to tell me the plan," I say, taking a large gulp of the wine. It tastes rich and oaky. "We're here. We've been seen. Riley is undoubtedly already typing a caption about the lawyer sleeping with the enemy. Can we go now?"
"Not yet." His hand slides down my arm, tracing the line of my triceps, then covers my hand on the table. His skin feels rough,calloused from work and violence, creating a shocking contrast against my manicured fingers. "We have to look like we like each other. Tell me something real. No lawyer talk."
I stare at our joined hands. "What do you get out of this?"
"Why are you really here?" he asks, voice dropping. "A woman like you—city sharp, expensive clothes, brain that moves faster than a Ducati—why are you fighting over a patch of dirt in Pine Valley?"
"It's my job."
"Bullshit," he growls softly. He squeezes my hand, demanding honesty. "You take cases you care about. I looked you up, too. You go after polluters, negligent corporations. Why us?"
I hesitate. The truth is dangerous. The truth makes me vulnerable. "Because you think you own this mountain," I say finally, meeting his gaze. "Because groups like yours usually steamroll over the rules because you think strength gives you the right. I don't like bullies, Chase."
He doesn't get angry. Instead, a slow, dark smile spreads across his face. "I am a bully, Cassandra. I'm a brute. I take what I want." He lifts my hand, bringing it to his mouth. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he presses a kiss to my knuckles. His lips are hot, dry, and firm. "But I protect what's mine. And right now, this town thinks you're mine."
The sensation of his lips on my skin sends a jolt of electricity straight to my chest. My breath catches. "Chase..."
"Does that scare you?" he whispers against my skin. "Belonging to someone?"
"I don't belong to anyone," I grind out, though my voice lacks its usual steel. "I am an independent entity."
