Page 8 of Grumpy Biker's Bride
She stops rolling and stares at me like I just handed her the deed to the diner. “Woah… black pepper.”
“Repeat that to anyone and I'll deny it.”
“Your secret dies with me.” She crosses her heart with a floury finger and goes back to work, smiling at the dough.
When she slides the last pie onto the rack, she has a big smile on her face like she just won the damn lottery.
“See you tomorrow night,” she says, sweet as you please, and sashays out front to start the breakfast shift.
I didn't say I was going, but that little minx just decided.
I ride up to the Lodge with the smell of strawberries stuck in my head and the kind of rock hard cock I've got no business having at my age.
Being up on the mountain takes the edge off, same as always. I clear a blowdown off the trail and chase two dopey touristsaway from the falls before they can win a Darwin award. Around noon, Steve Peters from corporate flags me down outside the boathouse. He's the new regional guy, suit and hiking boots straight out of the box, the same toxic shine on him as everything else Rotmere owns.
“Hawk. Good man. You know the town.” He smiles with a lot of shiny whitened teeth. “That diner on Main,Marvin's. One of the tour buses cancelled their booking with us to eat there instead next week. Corporate likes to keep track of the local food scene. Competition for the Lodge restaurant, you understand. I thought it was sort of a down-at-heel, Mom and Pop establishment.”
“Wouldn't know. I bring my lunch.”
“Of course you do.” He laughs like I said something funny and walks off to bother somebody else.
I stand there a minute with my jaw tight. Rotmere keeps a tight eye on everything that does well in this valley, the same way a tick keeps track of a dog. It's why Prez has me up here undercover, keeping an eye on them too. The day they make a move on Marvin's, the club will know about it before the ink's wet. Until then I smile at men like Peters and pack my own lunch.
But I don't love that the diner’s a subject of conversation in the Rotmere office, especially when Taryn’s working there.
Later in the day I'm at the Outlaw Saloon, because Striker called asking for help.
The place is half transformed already. His fiancée Bethany is directing from the middle of the floor with a clipboard, Wrench is up a ladder stringing lights, and the bar’s enormous one-eyed black cat is sitting on the bar next to the raffle box, supervising. Striker hands me a beer and a staple gun in the same motion.
“That banner needs to be over the pool table,” he says. “And before you start, yes, Viv chose it, no, you can't change it.”
The banner says STRIKER AND BETHANY, THAT WAS FAST!! in gold letters three feet tall.
Bethany comes over while I'm lining it up.
“So, Keith Wells? I run one little background check, and you ride over the pass to get a stranger to answer in person. Marvin told Wrench about it.”
I shrug. “Nosy of me.”
“Kindof you.” Her voice closes the subject, and I can see why Striker never wins an argument anymore. “I was the new girl here until Taryn arrived. It matters who’s looking out for you.” She smiles and goes back to her clipboard.
Up the ladder, Wrench is whistling through his teeth, looping lights over the rafters.
“Hey, Wrench,” Savage calls from somewhere near the jukebox, where he’s fiddling with the electrics. “Hear it’s the third time this week you've had lunch at Marvin's. Their patty melt ain't that good.”
“What would you know about good eats? Y’all were raised just like a possum to eat out of the trash can.” Wrench says, and goes on hanging lights. Savage shrugs it off, but you can tell he’s riled.
Striker doesn't say anything until the banner's up and we're standing back looking at it.
“You know how I nearly lost Bethany. Three words I was scared to say, and I sat on them until it was almost too late.” He pulls on his beer and watches me sideways. “Lila says you and the new cook were baking together. And Marvin's walk-in is full of your special venison.”
I keep my eyes on the banner.
“Thought so.” He grins, the bastard. He's so happy lately it's coming off him like heat off a stove. “She's hauling pies to the party either way, brother. Only question is whether she walks inalone or on your arm. Quit acting like you don't know which you want.”
I'm working up an answer when Savage appears at my elbow carrying a crate of glasses.
“Evening, lovebirds.” He sets the crate down, blows a kiss to Bethany, and shoves a fistful of paper slips into the cat's raffle box.
