Page 9 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Biker

James had always preferred me in neutral colors. Tasteful, he'd called it. Understated.

I pulled a navy dress from my suitcase, then shoved it back inside. Screw James.

I picked up a bright coral wrap dress instead. It hugged my curves, showed off my legs, and made me feel like the version of myself I'd been before James convinced me I was too much… too loud, too colorful, and too emotional.

And maybe I wanted to look pretty for Grim. I’d always had a huge crush on him. I'd followed him around during family gatherings, invented reasons to visit Everett when I knew Grim would be there, and tried way too hard to make him laugh.

He'd responded with silence, grunts, and a flat expression that suggested he found me more annoying than adorable. Eventually, I'd accepted the harsh truth that he thought I was irritating and moved on.

That crush had been over for years. Mostly over.

I heard his motorcycle before I saw him. The low rumble made me glance out the window, and sent my heart into somersaults inside my chest.

Grim climbed off the bike wearing a gorgeous black suit. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. He'd combed his dark hair back and trimmed his beard down to something almost formal.

The tattoos on his hands and wrists crawled up under the white cuffs of his shirt. He stood next to the Harley with one hand on the tank, backlit by the August sun.

I forgot what I'd been about to think.

He shouldn't have looked this good.

I met him outside before I backed out.

"You didn't have to do this," I said. "Everett shouldn't have dragged you into my mess."

"He didn't."

I frowned. "But he called you and⁠—"

"You needed help.”

Something in my chest did a slow half-turn. He was watching me the way I'd seen him watch machines when he was diagnosing them — quiet, patient, waiting to see what I'd do with the information.

I did what I always did with things I didn't want to look at directly. I moved past it.

"Right," I said. “Please tell me he didn’t forward all of my messages."

Grim's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes that I couldn't quite read.

"You asked me to prevent public crying, murder, and humiliation." His voice was dry. "That's a lot of responsibility for one weekend."

Heat flooded my face. "Oh my god. He showed you everything?"

"You also demanded a dance."

"I was drunk."

"Doesn't make it less binding."

I stared at him. Was Grim Benson making a joke?

He handed me a bottle of water and a small packet of pain relievers.

"You look like you need these."

"I'm fine."

"You're hungover."