by Naima Simone
“No, thank you.” She shook her head and reached for a smile. But came up short. “I’m good.”
“One glass of wine?” Belinda tilted her head, studying her. “This is a celebration. You know Daryl and I will make sure you get back to the campground safely.”
“No, really, I’m good. I plan on leaving on the early ride tomorrow, so I’m limiting myself tonight,” she lied. Even though it was a small fib, she still hated deceiving Belinda, who was like the aunt she’d never had. But Cherrie hated bringing up how her whole life had changed by one random visit to the doctor. Especially not here, at Rachel’s engagement party. And definitely not with Maddox within hearing distance. “I’m not going to risk not hitting the road for anything.”
“One more glass...” Belinda trailed off, squinting across the room. “Excuse me for a minute. My husband is demanding my presence.”
From the smile flirting with the other woman’s mouth, Cherrie didn’t think she minded being summoned. Snickering, Cherrie shook her head. And ignored the pang of loneliness, and perhaps envy, that vibrated in her chest.
“Here.” A refilled glass appeared at her elbow. Cherrie glanced up with a frown and met Maddox’s steady gaze. “It’s nonalcoholic wine.” Seriously? Her eyebrow winged high. Why would a dive bar serve nonalcoholic anything? A corner of his full mouth quirked up, but didn’t form a smile. And she should not be sitting here wondering what an uninhibited, full smile would look like on him. “Sometimes it’s easier to serve a different...option than convince somebody they need to be cut off. It’s the reason we have nonalcoholic beer, too,” he explained, answering her unspoken question.
“Well, thanks,” she said, picking up the drink and sipping. She hummed in pleasure at the sweet, fruity flavor. “Wow, this is good. You can’t even tell the difference.”
“That’s the point.” He tipped his head, and before she caught herself, she leaned backward on the stool, attempting to avoid the piercing intensity of that scrutiny. “Now you don’t have to make up any more excuses about why you’re not drinking. Because it is an excuse, isn’t it? A lie.”
Cherrie choked on the wine she’d been in the process of swallowing. “What?” she coughed.
He passed her a napkin, which she took and used to pat her mouth. “You lied to Belinda about why you didn’t want another drink.”
Irritation flashed inside her, and she glared at him. “I get you’re a bartender, and you probably take the whole customer’s therapist thing seriously, but you don’t know me.”
His mouth twitched again. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“You know what?” Cherrie fumed, propping her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. He might be beautiful, but he was also intrusive and annoying as hell. And she had zero problems telling him so. “I don’t give a—”
Maddox reached out and traced a long, blunt-tipped finger over the edges of the silver lotus atop her black leather cuff. “This is beautiful,” he murmured, interrupting her imminent tirade. And not just because he’d complimented the piece that she’d designed and created herself. But also because as crazy as it seemed, that light caress stroked over the bared skin of her arms and shoulders, between her breasts. A pulsing ache took up residence low in her stomach, and she battled the urge to squirm on the stool.
“Handmade?” he asked.
“Yes,” she rasped. Then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. It’s one of mine.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “You’re the jewelry artist that Daryl mentioned. He said you come for the motorcycle rally every year and sell your jewelry from their shop.”
She nodded. “Guilty.”
For the last thirteen years she’d been coming to this quaint and gorgeous Massachusetts town famous for its annual ride and rally. The first eight years had been with her parents, and when they’d retired to Arizona to escape Chicago winters, Cherrie had continued coming to this oasis in the southern Berkshires on her own. She loved it here.
Not just because of the towering trees, whose lush, green leaves provided beauty and shade. Not just because of the glorious mountains that rose above the town, beckoning her to jump on her Busa and ride those trails. Not just because she was surrounded by good people and better friends.
All of those were certainly true, but they weren’t the main reasons joy filled her at the beginning of every July.
Home.
She traveled extensively for a living, attending conferences, shows and industry competitions, and yet she never felt as at home as she did when in Rose Bend.
Especially now.
Not gonna go there.
“I’ve seen your work in their shop.” He smoothed a fingertip over the silver petals again, and she swallowed a whimper. His gaze lifted from the cuff to her eyes. All that intensity crashed into her, leaving her slightly weaving on the chair. “You’re gifted.”
Professors at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, where she’d attended the jewelry design program, had praised her technique and creativity. Artisans with some of the leading jewelry companies in the industry had complimented her craftsmanship and design. Countless clients had gushed over the beauty of her pieces.
And yet none of that acclaim had caused her throat to tighten around a dense ball of emotion. None had rendered her speechless. Or set her heart racing like an engine souped-up on nitrous oxide. In other words...fast.
“A lotus. A gorgeous flower that will only grow in mud.” He cocked his head. “Have you bloomed in the dirt, Cherrie?”
Shock and pain thrust a hard gust of breath from her lungs.
“Does this Yoda shit usually work?” she sneered, hiding her trembling hands under the lip of the bar. “I hate to break it to you, but the zen bartender schtick is an epic fail for me.”
“And yet you can’t decide whether you want to junk-punch me or put your mouth on me.”
What the fuck?
Who the hell was this guy? And who said that to a woman he’d met five minutes ago? Jesus, she’d gone from lust, to curiosity, to gratefulness to seething mad in the space of as many minutes.
Yes, he was hot sex on a platter. A ginger platter. But he was still infuriating.
“I. Don’t. Like. You,” she ground out.
His lips didn’t quirk. No, they curled upward. And didn’t stop until a blinding, breath-stealing smile curved his mouth. Now she knew what it looked like.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Cherrie Moore. We’re not finished with each other.”
Don’t go anywhere? Was that an order? Who was he to dictate her movements? And why did every word that escaped him sound so damn provocative?
She glared after his big, retreating body as he strode to the end of the bar toward a trio of women who grinned so wide, Cherrie could count all their teeth. Oh, great. She sighed. So starts the bitchy portion of the evening, and it was not a good look on her.
Picking up her glass, she sipped wine and spun around to scan the crowded bar. She should stroll away to investigate the outcome of the fast and furious pool game. Or go on over and tease Daryl. Or maybe even flirt with a couple of the guys who’d hit on her when she’d first arrived at the party.
If she had sense, she’d get up and do any one of those options. Instead, she remained planted on the barstool where she could catch the low rumble of Maddox’s voice behind her. The low rumble that had yearning and a bright, throbbing lust pulsing through her veins like a molten heartbeat.
He might be the most irritating male she’d come in contact with in a long time, but no other man had incited an...excitement that reminded her she was more than a medication regimen or a diet or a flawed mirage of who someone wanted her to be.
For the first time in so long she felt...seen. Whole.
Normal.
And that feeling
was as intoxicating as the top-shelf alcohol behind the bar.
The next hour flew by with toasts to the engaged couple, more laughter and even more music from the really great rock band playing cover songs from an elevated platform. She chuckled as Daryl dipped Belinda, bending over her and smacking a kiss to her grinning mouth.
Just then, a large hand appeared in front of Cherrie.
She didn’t even need to study the sprawl of tattoos that climbed the wrist to identify who that palm and those long, nicked but elegant fingers belonged to.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” she muttered. But ruined the disgruntled display by sliding her hand over his. Damn rebellious limbs. Just seemed to have minds of their own.
His fingers closed over hers, and with a gentle tug, he drew her to her feet. She should resist. Tell him she wasn’t much of a dancer—which was true. Inform him that this whole mysterious, gorgeous stranger act wasn’t doing it for her—which was untrue.
But as he guided her among the other people swaying to an ’80s rock ballad that assured her all roses have thorns, she quietly entered his embrace, her arms loosely looping around his neck. His hands cupped her hips, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trapping the moan before it could escape. Her hips had never been small, even after the twenty pounds she’d recently dropped. Her ex had lamented—loudly—that she didn’t try hard enough to be slimmer, and it hadn’t been until she’d started taking better care of herself that she’d begun to appreciate and even love her size sixteen body. But it’d been years—three to be exact—since a man had cradled those abundant curves as if he appreciated them, too.
And from the way those blunt fingertips pressed into her flesh, exerting delicious pressure that sent a bolt of liquid heat straight for her core, she could pretend he might even enjoy touching her.
“Even the owner can take a fifteen-minute break,” he said in her ear, belatedly answering her question.
“To dance with a customer?” she shot back. “Are you usually this inappropriate with all your customers? Or did I just win the Get in My Business Lottery?”
“I’m making an exception.”
“Really?” Skepticism dripped from her tone. “And what makes me so special?”
He studied her, blue eyes so bright, so intense, so seeing, that she dipped her gaze to the strong column of his throat.
“If someone hasn’t told you on a daily basis—several times a day—why you’re special, then you need new friends, Cherrie.”
She closed her eyes, tried to block out his voice...tried to block out the yawning, empty hole that had opened up in her chest and threatened to swallow her whole. She felt, rather than saw, his head lower. Cool, silken strands of hair grazed the corner of her mouth, her cheek.
“Should I tell you?” he asked, his breath stirring her curls, whispering over her skin. Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I’ve just met you tonight, and already I can tell you’re creative as hell, gifted. You’re kind, even loving. Because Daryl and Belinda wouldn’t put up with you if you weren’t, much less invite you to an event as important as their daughter’s engagement party. They wanted you here with them as the person they love most starts a new phase in her life. I know you take no shit, which is a wonderful thing, because someone would have to be willing to take their lives—or their balls—in their hands if they dared disrespect you.”
She snickered, and his low rumble of a laugh vibrated through her.
“You’re stunning,” he said softly, after their laughter ebbed. “Not beautiful or lovely. Those words are too anemic to describe the fire that damn near burns off you. They can’t capture the soulfulness of your eyes, the haughtiness of those cheekbones or the sin of that mouth. Those gorgeous tattoos tell me you’re bold, not afraid to push a limit. And these curves...” He huffed out a gust of air, his hold on her momentarily tightening, and she sucked in a breath. A beat passed between them filled by the wail of the guitar and croon of the lead singer’s voice and the abraded rhythm of his breath.
Her? She’d stopped breathing when he’d commented on her soulful eyes.
“These curves threaten to make a grown man weep in gratefulness that you’re not one of those women who commit the unforgivable act of covering them up. And that tells me you’re confident, that you own who you are. And that, Cherrie Moore, is sexy as hell.”
Damn.
At some point during his listing of her attributes, she’d lifted her head, stared at him. Her thunderous heartbeat filled her ears, echoing like waves crashing against a shore. Desire lit his eyes, and the sight of it threw kindling on already snapping flames. How long had it been since she’d experienced true, uncomplicated need?
Too long.
There’s nothing uncomplicated or simple about this man.
Cherrie hushed the pushy, know-it-all voice that dared to interfere. As bold as he’d called her, that might be true in one area of her life—her art, whether it was the silver she designed, or the pieces inked on her body. But when it came to her relationships... She’d always been safe.
No.
Scared.
She loved her parents—God, she loved them. But Terrel and Gladys Moore shared a special connection that had always made Cherrie feel like a third wheel on a date. Her father was one of those lucky people who’d found love twice in this lifetime. He’d worshipped Cherrie’s mother, and when she died just before Cherrie turned ten, he’d been a ghost, a shade of the laughing, robust man he’d been. Until Gladys came along. She’d breathed life into him again.
Growing up and witnessing that kind of love had ignited a hunger for something that essential. But it’d also instilled in her a bone-deep fear of it. The thought of loving someone to that degree terrified her, because what happened when they left?
And in Cherrie’s experience, they always left.
Her gaze roamed Maddox’s face, dropping to the sensual lure of his mouth. But this time, she was doing the leaving. In two weeks. That’s how long she had here in Rose Bend before she returned to Chicago. Why shouldn’t she take, indulge? This vacation was about freedom for her. Freedom to ride. Freedom to be herself without condemnation.
Freedom to lose herself in the temporary pleasure of this man’s eyes, mouth and body.
“Cherrie?”
She watched his lips form her name. Absorbed the impact of it as it trembled through her.
Lifting her gaze to his, she whispered, “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?”
“No.”
Shock and humiliation jolted through her, and she stiffened, heat pouring into her face. This was what she got when she took a chance. And this was exactly why she didn’t.
“Sorry, I misread the signs,” she said, stepping back and away from him.
Or she tried to. His hands slid to her waist, tightening, holding her in place. And that only sparked the anger kindling inside her.
“Cherrie, look at me.” He didn’t wait for her to comply, but pinched her chin and tilted her head back. She should’ve been irritated at that, too, but then his thumb brushed her bottom lip, pressing into her flesh. As if testing its buoyancy. The words charging onto her tongue skidded to a halt, and she stared at him. Just as he’d requested. Or ordered. “You didn’t misread anything. And you’re too beautiful a woman to not be able to tell when a man wants you. Yes, we’re going to have sex. From the moment you walked through the door of my bar, all I’ve been able to think about is touching you, discovering what secrets this lovely body hides. But...” He nudged her chin higher, and the pressure on her lip eased into a light caress. If she didn’t know they were talking about a vacation fling, she might’ve even called the touch...reverent. “But I want to know you, Cherrie. Not just what makes you shake in pleasure, but you. So yes, we’re going to have sex, but not tonight.”
Need, panic and confusion swirled in her head. No-strings
sex for a two-week Berkshires fling. That’s what she wanted; that’s what she could handle. Getting to know him meant strings as deceptively delicate and titanium-strong as a spider’s web. She’d just untangled herself from an unhealthy relationship that she’d let linger too long. And Maddox Holt, he was temptation wrapped in golden, inked skin, honeyed words and secret desires.
No, she didn’t want to get to know him.
Because she suspected that would make leaving him all the more difficult.
“Let me go,” she softly ordered him. Immediately, his hands dropped away from her. “I don’t want that. I’m sorry.”
Regret pulsed hot and bright in her veins, but she took one step back. Then another. And another until she’d crossed the room, made her excuses to Daryl and Belinda, then exited the bar.
She’d come to Rose Bend to sell jewelry and enjoy the motorcycle rally as she did every year. Not for an ill-conceived fling. It was a good thing that any thought of being with Maddox Holt had come to a screaming halt. Nothing but trouble would’ve probably come of that.
Yes, she’d dodged a giant, redheaded bullet.
And if a kernel of emptiness lodged just under her rib cage at the thought, well, so be it. Rather an empty heart now than a broken one later.
CHAPTER TWO
HARLEYS. DUCATIS. BUSAS. YAMAHAS.
Maddox rolled to a stop behind the fifty or so motorcycles of all makes and models filling Main Street, creating quite a spectacle for the first ride of the rally. The number of riders would swell to double this size by tomorrow, and even more in the coming week. The whole town of Rose Bend opened its proverbial doors for bikers from all over the country for the rally. The beautification committee decked out the buildings in banners, motorcycle-themed bows and white lights. On the Glen, a huge field at the end of Main, several volunteers hosted barbecues and picnics, while more volunteers set up sponsored events and games for the annual visitors and their families. All the proceeds from the rally benefited the This Is Home Foundation, an organization that ran the youth home for foster children in town.
