by Naima Simone
This Saturday morning, even at a little before eight o’clock, a good crowd of Rose Bend’s citizens gathered on the sidewalks. Chatter and children’s excited squeals filled the air that still held the coolness of a Berkshires night. In another two hours, the temperature would rise to about eighty-five degrees. Perfect for the ride around gorgeous Mount Everett.
Pride expanded inside Maddox until it threatened to burst through his chest. He might be a transplant here, but this small, quaint town in the shadows of Monument Mountain and Mount Everett was home. For a person who hadn’t been able to label any place that—a home—for twenty-three of his thirty-one years, it was a minor miracle. It’d been fate and a random road trip that had brought him here eight years ago, and a case of love at first sight that had kept him here. As a child of a musician mother who’d called a tour bus home for most of her decades-long career, Maddox had seen a ton of this country, and a good amount of countries abroad. But none of those places had resounded in his soul, crying out to the part of him that longed for stability, for a place where he could stay long enough to receive junk mail. A home.
Rose Bend was more than a place where he’d bought a house and a dive bar.
It was a haven for a boy-turned-adult who’d been afraid to make friends because he knew that he would only be leaving them behind. But now... He glanced around, soaking in Main Street with its charming brick buildings, colorful awnings, leafy trees and inviting benches. Now he not only had friends. He had friends he considered family.
Speaking of...
His gaze narrowed on Daryl and Belinda Barnes. The couple had been one of the first he’d met when he’d arrived in town, and they been good friends since. The woman with them, sitting astride a burgundy-and-black Suzuki Hayabusa 1300, though—nothing about her inspired “friendly.”
He stared at Cherrie Moore. Unabashedly and unapologetically stared.
Jesus, how was it possible the woman could get any more beautiful in the space of eight hours? Last night, in a torso-hugging leather vest and tight jeans that showed off beautiful tattooed brown skin, toned arms, a heart palpitation–inducing pair of breasts, a cock-hardening ass and incredibly long, thick legs, she’d been a walking wet dream. Today, straddling the high-powered, bulky sports bike most people considered a man’s machine, and encased in a leather jacket, equally tight jeans and motorcycle boots, she was pure, unadulterated fantasy.
Swinging his leg over his Ducati, he skirted the other riders and approached the trio, his focus concentrated solely on the statuesque beauty with the solemn brown eyes and lush mouth. Her features created a fascinating, striking face that had branded itself into his mind. In his dreams. As did her walking away from him.
Last night, he’d fucked up. Being on the road or being shuffled from one relative’s house to another most of his life hadn’t instilled in him the greatest of social skills. Which meant tact was often a foreign concept, and his aptitude for flirtation could be compared to that of a rampaging bear. Didn’t mean anything he’d said hadn’t been true. Or that he had any intention of giving up on Cherrie Moore so easily.
She’d walked. And he had no problem with following.
As if sensing his presence, she glanced up, and an emotion that veered too close to panic flared in her eyes, causing him to hesitate. But only for a moment. Curiosity and determination streamed through him. Why, he didn’t pause to analyze, just as he hadn’t the night before. For the first time in, well...ever, he acted on instinct. On impulse. And every instinct demanded he not let this woman escape him.
“Morning,” he greeted.
Belinda and Daryl turned, smiling, as they returned his greeting with a hug from her and a back slap from him.
“Hey, you,” Belinda said. “I was wondering if we were going to see you here this morning.”
“I told her you wouldn’t let anything like closing up at 3:00 a.m. keep you from going on a ride.” Daryl squeezed his shoulder. “And thanks again for last night. We really appreciate you opening your place to us.”
“Always,” Maddox replied, then shifted his attention from his friends to the silent woman with the fire-dipped dark curls. “Morning, Cherrie. Good to see you again.”
“Maddox.” She dipped her chin in recognition.
“’Scuse us. My husband is going to treat me to a cup of coffee from Mimi’s before the ride starts. If he knows what’s good for him,” Belinda drawled.
A wry grin tugged at Daryl’s mouth. “And he does.”
Maddox watched the couple walk off toward the popular and no doubt crowded café, shaking his head. “There goes a very intelligent and possibly scared man. I don’t know whether to admire him or rescue him.”
Cherrie snorted. “If he wants to be rescued.”
Maddox turned back to her, arching an eyebrow. “I think we just described marriage.” Her bark of laughter surprised him, and from the slight widening of her eyes, her as well. Taking advantage of the chink in her armor, he shifted closer and brushed his fingertips across the Busa’s gleaming side panel. “Nice ride.”
“For a woman?”
His eyebrow hiked higher as he studied her for a long moment. Observed the faint firming of those sensual lips. “Is it just me who gets your back up, or are you this defensive with everyone?”
She stared at him, then her mouth twisted into a rueful half smile. “It’s just you.”
He chuckled. “Thank you for your honesty. Although I’m not sure if me annoying you is a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Not annoying,” she muttered under her breath, but since every bit of him was tuned into her like a homing signal, he caught it. “And it’s bad. Very, very bad.” Before he could question her about that cryptic admission—and hell yes, he planned to question her on it—she said, “And thank you.” She stroked a hand over one of the grips. “I’ve had her for two years now. I travel a lot for my career, but whenever I’m home, we’re out on the road together.”
“Where’s home?” he asked, hungry for any information he could gather. Yeah, he didn’t analyze that need, either.
“Chicago.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Well, it’s where I land most when I’m not on the road. Since I can’t tow a motorcycle with me everywhere, I don’t get to ride as much as I’d love to. Just one reason I look forward to this rally. Yes, I sell my jewelry here, but it’s also two straight weeks of me, my Busa and open road. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Ride with me.” The invitation burst out of him with no time for his brain to check the wisdom of it. But he didn’t rescind it. Instead, he moved closer to her and lifted his hand, giving her enough time to avoid him. When she lifted her gaze to his and didn’t move, he threaded his fingers through her dark, tight spirals, savoring the rough silk texture of them. Imagined gripping the strands tight as he used them to hold her close and take her mouth. “I want to ride this road next to you.”
He didn’t admit that the only thing he wanted more was for her to straddle and ride him with the same sexy confidence and control she rode that bike with. Yet for some reason, her next to him, sharing the experience of this ride together, seemed just as...intimate. And that’s what he hungered for with her. Intimacy. Damn, this craving for a woman he barely knew, and who, for all intents and purposes, rejected him, should’ve shot up a neon red flag of caution in his brain. And maybe it did.
Maybe he just didn’t care.
He didn’t flinch under Cherrie’s narrow-eyed perusal. No, he welcomed it. Welcomed any part of her touching him, even if it was only her gaze. And as she roamed from his face, to his leather jacket and down his body to his jeans and boots, his fingers curled into fists. A necessary prevention to keep from reaching out, circling her wrist and dragging her hand to stroke all the places her eyes had brushed over.
“Fine,” she murmured, swinging off the bike and avoiding looking at him. But it was too la
te. Before she’d turned away, he’d caught the flicker of desire in her almond eyes. Satisfaction burned inside him, and he clenched his jaw to contain the grin that would most likely appear feral. “Let me check my levels, gauge and the gas, and then I’ll come find you.”
Nodding, he slowly turned, indulging in one last lingering sweep over her curves, before he strode back to his Ducati. Excitement sped through his veins. Excitement and something sharper, brighter. And imperative.
Again, not analyzing it.
CHAPTER THREE
“THIS IS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL.”
Maddox released his chin strap and slid off his matte black helmet. He glanced from the view to Cherrie as she also removed her helmet. His fingers tingled with the need to fluff her curls, spread them out in a gorgeous dark brown and red halo. But she beat him to it, and he didn’t deny his disappointment.
Determined to resist temptation, he tore his gaze away from her and fixed it on the vista spread out before them, removing his leather jacket. Peace settled in his chest like a guest walking in and making himself at home. He’d debated whether or not to bring her here. But at their last stop, to gas up, he’d asked her to follow him here instead of returning to town with everyone else. And witnessing her reaction, he didn’t regret his spontaneous decision.
Dragging his fingers through his hair, he shoved the strands away from his face and walked over to stand next to her. Together they silently drank in the view of Rose Bend from the top of a grassy knoll beneath huge trees that provided a canopy of cool shade.
“It’s like a postcard,” she whispered, wonder coloring her voice. “A vintage, perfect postcard.” Tipping her head back, she squinted up at him. “How did you find this place?” She stripped out of her jacket and laid it over the seat of her bike, leaving her clothed in a thin white tank top that bared her toned arms and clung to her full breasts and rounded stomach.
Fuck.
Grinding his teeth, he forced his scrutiny back to the scenery. But he no longer saw the picturesque town. No, he could only see smooth, soft-looking flesh rising above a scoop neckline and the peek of black silk through white cotton.
“Purely by accident,” he said, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His hands he could control. The lust roughening his voice? Not so much. “Eight years ago, I was on one of my random road trips, traveling from Vermont down to Massachusetts. I ended up on this stretch and the sight of that—” he hitched his chin toward the view “—stole my breath. I pulled over right here, sat down and stayed for hours. And it’s here I promised myself that if the town turned out to be anything like the view, I was making my home there. It was. Not just the place, but the people. After a week, I returned to my place, packed my stuff and came back. I’ve never left.”
She frowned. “All this time I thought you were born here. Where’s home, originally?”
He softly snorted, shaking his head. “Mostly, a tour bus.” Shock parted her lips and widened her eyes, and he chuckled. “I kid you not. My mom is an Irish woman with a voice like Aretha Franklin and was—still is—a backup singer for major music acts. My first memory is playing in a dressing room while she was on stage. I traveled with her when I was younger. As I grew older, she’d leave me with different relatives during the school year, but my summers were with her, back on the road. At times it could be exciting, visiting different cities and countries, but always leaving family, friends... That grew tiresome. Painful even. I’ve always just wanted a home to settle down in, to call my own. And Rose Bend is that for me. I found my real home.”
He glanced down at her, rueful. An apology for his long ramble was on his tongue when he caught a flash of hurt in her expression. It was there and gone in a flicker, but he’d seen it. Recognized it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, turning fully toward her. Before he could question the wisdom of touching her, he shifted closer and cupped the back of her neck. She didn’t stiffen or step away, and a contentment that should’ve been another red flare of warning swelled within him. “Don’t try to tell me ‘nothing.’ For an entire school year, I lived with four teenage girl cousins. I know ‘nothing’ means everything.”
She didn’t laugh as he’d intended, and his concern deepened.
“Tell me, Cherrie.”
She hesitated, glancing away from him. But then, voice halting, she said, “You must resent your mother. Either always dragging you along with her or leaving you behind. No stability. She must’ve seemed selfish to you.”
He couldn’t help it—he laughed. And her eyes jerked back to his face, surprise darkening them. “Sorry,” he said, but still smiling. “My mother is one of the most selfless, loving and kind women I know. She raised me by herself, my father long gone before I could talk. Instead of pawning me off on others, she chose to keep me with her even if it meant living on tour buses. Only when the tutors weren’t cutting it and she believed I should be around kids my age did I stay with relatives. And even then, we talked every day. Everything she did was for me. Out of her love for me. Every penny she didn’t spend on my upkeep, she saved for my college education or for whatever I decided to do in life. She gifted me with the down payment on my bar and my house. So no, I can’t resent her. I love her. And I’ve never doubted that love. Not for a second. Especially when she visits and takes over my kitchen, just having to try a new recipe from whatever country she visited last. Which, believe me, is not as awesome as it sounds.”
There was the smile he’d missed last time.
“I’m glad for you. For both of you.”
“Hold on a second.” He walked over to his bike, removed the blanket he always kept in his saddlebag, and strode over to a patch of grass. Snapping it open, he spread it out. Extending his hand to her, he patiently waited until she won whatever internal battle she waged and finally approached him. Sliding her palm across his, she allowed him to guide her down, and then he sank beside her. “Now tell me what that was about.” He held up a hand, palm out. “And yeah, you just met me last night, but I spilled about my childhood to you. From how I see it, you owe me.”
The corner of her mouth lifted, but her bottom lip trembled. Just as he couldn’t stop breathing, he couldn’t stop himself from touching his thumb to it, soothing it.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she whispered. “Touching me?”
He shrugged a shoulder, giving her mouth one last tender brush, then dropping his arm. “I don’t know. I just need to,” he confessed. “Should I stop?”
Her lashes lowered. “No,” she said, her admission as soft as the breeze rustling the leaves above.
“Good. Now don’t change the subject. Tell me.”
Inhaling a breath, she drew her knees up and propped her crossed arms on them. “I guess I’m like your mother. I travel a lot for my job. Which means there’s not a lot of time spent at home, which my boyfriend objected to. And I suppose he had a right to object, even though this was my life before we got together.”
“Boyfriend?” Anger speared him, dagger sharp. And fear. Fear that he’d just found her, and she belonged to someone else.
So what?
And in the blink of an eye, he was that man he despised. The man who would encroach on someone else’s woman. He hated what that said about him, what that made him. But then he stared at the delicate yet proud profile of the woman before him, and he didn’t give a damn.
She was his. He’d known her less than twenty-four hours, and everything in him roared this truth. She was his and he was hers.
“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected, and calmed the possessive beast he hadn’t known resided within him. “Anyway, being on the road a lot, I didn’t make time for regular doctor visits. But at the beginning of the year, I did. And I was there for almost five hours because my doctor was about to admit me to the hospital. My blood pressure was so high, if I hadn’t come in, he believed I would’ve had a stro
ke within the next few days.”
“Jesus,” Maddox rasped.
“Yes.” She nodded, tipping her head back and chuckling, although it carried a hard edge to it. “I’m young, live a good life, turned my passion into a career and am damn successful at it. High blood pressure, stroke, possible kidney disease and liver failure—that happens to my grandmother, not me.” She shook her head. “For a long while, I was angry at my body for betraying me. But then I had to admit that the tiredness, headaches, dizziness and occasional shortness of breath hadn’t been due to stress and constant traveling. That it’d been me eating quick and easy foods at shows and exhibitions with little to no exercise. I had to stop beating myself up and instead forgive myself for neglecting me. With that came a determination to take control in all areas of my life.”
She bent her head and rubbed a finger over the ring finger of her left hand. The finger where an engagement ring would’ve sat. An unprecedented spurt of jealousy blasted through him because she’d worn another man’s ring first.
Shit. He was turning into a caveman.
“Kenneth and I were together for two years. It’s been four months since I removed his ring, and one month since I stopped feeling guilty about it. They call high blood pressure the silent killer, and it definitely made me intimately aware of my mortality. So I had to change my diet, exercise regimen, lifestyle...and my partner.”
“Was he—” he trapped the growl in his chest “—abusive?”
“No, well... God.” She huffed out a breath and thrust a hand through her curls, bunching them in a fist. “A part of me hates saying yes. Because it makes me feel weak. Stupid for staying with him so long. When I’m neither.” She blew out another gust of air and turned her head to look at him, her gaze unwavering but...sad. “Yes. Never physically, but emotionally? Mentally? Yes. I was never good enough. I was selfish for traveling so much and not placing our relationship first. I was too big, and because I wouldn’t lose just fifteen pounds apparently his concerns, his needs didn’t matter to me.”
