Page 10 of Grumpy Biker's Bride
Hawk closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose like a man praying for patience.
Everyone crowds around for the naming. The cat sits on the counter next to the raffle box, big and black, supervising the room with his one good eye. Striker hushes the crowd and holds up the box.
“For over a month this animal has run my bar without a name,” he says. “Tonight it ends. One slip, a fair draw.”
“Fair?” somebody coughs, in Savage's direction. Savage puts his hand on his heart, as if he’s deeply wounded. Bethany draws the slip and reads it, then starts to laugh.
“Harley.”
The bar erupts. Ten different people claim to have written it, including Savage, who immediately tries to negotiate the prize money. The cat yawns, stretches, and knocks a beer coaster off the bar like a signature on a contract.
It's somewhere in the middle of all that noise that Striker pulls a battered black case from under the bar and sets it on the counter in front of Hawk.
“No. Fucking. Way.” Hawk growls, crossing his arms.
“Savage talked,” Striker says, with no remorse whatsoever.
“Savageis a dead man.”
Striker pushes the case an inch closer. “You’re welcome to kill him after you play. It’s my engagement party, and as your sergeant-at-arms, it’s my wish you play me a tune.”
Hawk looks at the case, and then, across all those people, at me. Then he opens the case, takes out a battered fiddle, and tucks it under his chin.
He clears his throat. “This is an Irish song calledThe Rose of Tralee.”
The first notes send a hush through the bar. The notes are low and sweet, and it’s as if everyone has frozen in place, listening. Marvin's mouth is hanging open, while Viv has her hand pressed flat to her chest. A big red-bearded man wipes his eyes with zero shame. And I stand there with my heart climbing up my throat, because I know this tune. My grandpa used to sing it to my grandma at every family gathering until he passed.
The cool shades of evening their mantle were spreading,
And Mary all smiling was listening to me;
The moon through the valley her pale rays was shedding,
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tralee.
Hawk plays it straight at me, his eyes never leaving my face.
When it ends, the bar roars, and Savage starts a rowdy chant about an encore. Hawk puts the fiddle back in its case, hands it to Striker, and walks through the whole crowd of them to me.
“Outside,” he says, gruffly.
The porch is empty, the night cool and full of crickets. Strings of light from the windows twinkle across the boards. Hawk leans on the rail and looks at the dark mountains, and I wait, because I've learned already not to rush him.
“You know I’m fourteen years older and grumpier than a kicked hive.”
“But you also play the fiddle and date your preserves. I think that cancels it out.” I step in close and lay my palm flat on his chest. His heart is going as hard as mine. “Kiss me again, Hawk.”
There's no stopping it this time, nothing held back. His arm wraps around my waist and lifts me clean off my feet. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back with everything I've got. Inside the bar somebody whoops.
He sets me down. “Come home with me, sunshine.”
“I thought you'd never ask.”
The ride up the mountain is quiet. My hand rests on his thigh the whole way, and every time I move my thumb, the muscle under it goes rigid and his knuckles whiten on the wheel. I’ve never enjoyed a drive more in my life.
His cabin is sprawling, a porch wrapped around it, and it’s warm inside. I get one look at a wall of books and a shelf of beautiful mismatched pottery; then my back is against the door, his mouth is on mine, and the tour is over.
He kisses me slow and deep, one hand cradling my jaw, the other flat against the door beside my head like he needs the support. When he pulls back, we're both breathless.
