Page 5

“I’m not a—” She loses the words as I take off down the road.

Her body hugs mine. Small arms fit perfectly around my stomach. She feels too good back there, trusting me when she probably shouldn’t.

I’ve done things that make the ranchers giving us trouble seem like saints. Still, when Harloe’s fingers grip me tighter, I can’t help feeling like she’s exactly where she belongs.

The road out of Lanceleaf is long and empty, nothing like the bustle of Vegas that I’m used to. Back home, casinos are stacked on top of each other and getting from one end of town to the other means maneuvering through bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Out here, there’s nothing but tires meeting pavement. An open road and room to breathe. I could ride for hours. Until I reach the turnoff to Ironside Ridge and I think better of riding out of town with a runaway bride on the back of my bike.

I follow the road up to the main house, then take a left, winding around the western side of the ranch, far from where the cattle graze. A few dilapidated buildings scatter this section of acreage, with a burnt orange bunkhouse at the center. The Ironside Ridge ranch hands used to live in it until they built a newer one closer to the main road and moved there.

So, for the time being, this is where the four of us running this operation are staying while we build the official clubhouse. The walls are thin, and the air conditioner barely cuts through the heat, but it’s a roof over our heads.

Pulling to a stop, I hold out my hand for Harloe to climb off the bike first. She quickly finds her footing as she peels off the helmet. Strands of brown hair stick out in all directions from static. Wild and unpredictable.

“Why’d you bring me here?” Harloe glances up at the bunkhouse.

The paint is chipping.

The trim is falling apart.

It’s nothing like the pristine buildings on her brother’s ranch, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, there’s interest in her eyes as she takes it all in.

“You wanted to go somewhere no one would look for you. I figured this would do the trick.”

“You figured right.” She smiles, and it feels like a win.

A warm glow settles on the horizon as the sun begins to set, drawing out the unusual shade of her eyes. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are rosy.

I have no idea what made Harloe walk out on her wedding, but given she’s still wearing her wedding dress and there’s a sunburn reddening the tops of her shoulders, I’d guess it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

“Come on. Let’s get inside. You can borrow a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.”

Harloe glances down at what’s left of her dress like she forgot she walked out on her wedding today. I wait for her to realize what she’s done and ask for me to take her back, but there isn’t a flicker of regret on her beautiful face.

She follows me into the bunkhouse, where Aiden and East are sitting at the kitchen table, talking.

Their gazes drag her shredded wedding dress, but I shake my head once, silently warning them not to bring it up.

“Harloe, this is Aiden and East.” I motion from one to the other. “Guys, this is Harloe.”

“Will’s sister, right?” Aiden asks, and she nods.

Aiden’s eyes skim her head to toe as if he’s picking her apart, and she must notice because she shifts on her feet. Aiden is a big guy, covered in demonic tattoos that make people in town squirm, even though he’s actually more laid back than people realize.

East, on the other hand, smiles, unbothered. He’s the youngest of the four of us living here, not even thirty. A loose cannon who causes more problems than he solves. He reminds me of me in my early days with the club. Fucking around, having fun, not quite burned out from the responsibilities that come with these roles.

East isn’t nearly as suspicious of the runaway bride in our kitchen as Aiden, but that might be because he’s comfortable around all women. He’s popular as fuck with them as well. Something about his black hair and piercings seems to pull them in. He’s got metal through his lip, eyebrows, ears. Fucking everywhere. And he’s covered in a mess of tattoos that don’t make any sense. From his neck to the back of his hands.

“Question for you,” East says, clicking his tongue piercing against the back of his teeth as he looks Harloe over. “If you could be any food, what would you be?”

“You don’t have to answer⁠—”

“Mango salsa,” Harloe says without a pause, and my gaze snaps to her. “Medium.”

“That’s very specific.” My eyebrow hitches.

She shrugs. “A little sweet. A little spicy. Adds flavor to things. It feels fitting.”