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ZOEY

The Wild Rabbit is on the other side of Pine Falls. At least a three-mile walk.

I frown at the map on my phone, its little lines telling me that there’s no way I’ll make it to this week’s Sip ’N’ Stitch.

The bar door creaks open, spilling light out into the quickly darkening parking lot.

“Mystery Girl! Wait up!”

The amber-eyed biker with a handsome smile jogs toward me.

“You walked away before I could ask your name.”

The gravel grinds together under his heavy black boots. Staring up into his face, I decide he’s just a little bit too pretty to be an intimidating biker. His chocolate-brown hair curls softly around his ears and brushes cheekbones that must have been sculpted from pearly marble.

He needs something to grunge him up. Maybe a coat of scruff to hide the charming dimple in his chin. Shaving the shampoo commercial–worthy curls would do it, but anyone who’d suggest such a thing would be doing the world a disservice.

“So, can I have it?” He’s grinning down at me, and I realize I’ve forgotten what he was asking.

“Have what?”

His lips stretch wider. And there, on the side of one canine tooth, sits a slight chip. The little imperfection is strangely endearing.

“Your name,” he says.

“Oh. Sure. I’m Zoey Gunner.” I offer my hand, and he wraps his fingers around mine.

His palm is warm in the cool night air, and I’m not sure I’ve ever had a more comforting handshake.

“Warner Jameson.” He hangs on to me slightly longer than is socially acceptable, but I don’t mind. My fingers get cold easily, and he’s a friendly furnace.

Eventually though, he lets me go.

“You heading over to The Wild Rabbit?”

I shake my head, trying not to frown too hard. Sip ’N’ Stitch was the perfect excuse to get me out of the house. And I screwed it up.

“I won’t make it in time.”

Warner waves that off. “They’re maybe ten minutes down the road. That flyer said it went till nine.”

“Ten minutes if I was driving,” I mutter, doing the math in my head.

It’s already seven thirty. If I hustle, I can probably walk three miles in an hour. Still enough time to introduce myself around and crochet a few rows.

Might be worth it.

“Did you walk here, Zoey?”

“Yes.”

I don’t pay Warner much attention as I stare down the dark road toward town. Time isn’t the biggest problem. I’m not contemplating walking miles through a bustling metropolis. Pine Falls is a small town with nature pushing in on all sides.

“Do you all have issues with wild animals?” I turn back to Warner, glad to have a local on hand.

He stares at me, his expression seeming to war between confusion and fascination. “We’re in the Rocky Mountains. So, yeah, there are wild animals.”

Well, that makes things trickier.

My hand dives into my bag, pushing through the assorted items that have congregated in the bottom, eventually grasping hold of what I’m searching for. The flashlight I brandish is small but powerful as I flick it on.

“Do you think this would scare them off?” Personally, I find the beam of light impressive.

His headshake is slow, his smile amused. “Maybe a skunk, but a mountain lion wouldn’t give two shits. And there are larger predators than that in these woods.”

Shoot . I sigh and point the beam in the opposite direction, toward my grandma’s cabin. A shorter, safer distance away.

“Are you going home?”

His question has me turning, and that’s when I realize I was about to march off without another word to Warner, the biker guy.

“Yeah. I’m staying just over a mile down the road. Had to walk here since my truck wouldn’t start.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have shared that. Too late now.

“You know”—he steps forward, situating himself in my path—“I could drive you.”

“You could what?”

“I could drive you,” Warner repeats. “To The Wild Rabbit.”

He’s close. The warmth of his body presses against my exposed skin, warding away the growing chill in the night air. It’s intoxicating. But just because something starts out feeling good doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way.

My father is part of a motorcycle club in Denver. The sight of Harleys and leathers is normal for me. I’ve been to plenty of their barbecues and even ridden on the back of my dad’s bike a few times when I was a kid. Seeing so much chrome was a taste of home.

I’m not wary of Warner because he rides. What I’m trying to remind myself of, even as my body is tempted to lean into his radius of warmth, is that he’s a stranger.

Stranger danger .

Maybe if I were a badass black belt, I’d climb onto the back of his bike, no problem. But if he tries something, I’m more of a flight than a fight. And flight doesn’t work as well if he’s driven me to an unfamiliar part of town.

“What if I say no?”

He looks confused. “Um … then I don’t drive you?”

“And you’d go inside and leave me alone?”

Warner tips back on his heels, and even with the dim lighting, I think I make out a blush on his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m crowding you, aren’t I?”

I shrug. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you stop when I say stop.”

“Do you want me to go?” He tilts his head toward the bar, and I realize that he would. He’d walk away.

And he doesn’t seem annoyed with me or like he’s planning on calling me a bitch for not accepting his offer of help.

Seems I might have stumbled onto a decent guy.

“Not sure yet. Can I see your license?”

With his eyebrows sitting high on his head, he fishes around in a back pocket before coming out with a wallet. When he passes over his license, the card is warm in my hand. I shine my flashlight so I can read the small print.

Warner Jameson. Just like he said.

His picture doesn’t do him justice. This man was meant to be seen in 3D. I find the annotation proclaiming him qualified to drive a motorcycle.

“Everything check out?”

“Looks like it. Here, hold this.” I offer the flashlight to him. Even with a bewildered expression, he accepts it. “A bit higher. There, that’s good.” As Warner keeps the light turned on his ID, I take out my phone, snap a picture, and text it to my dad.

“And you did that because …”

I return his license and accept my flashlight. “Preemptive murder protection.”

Warner stares at me, the neon lights from the bar’s beer signs giving his skin a colorful cast. “That’s … really smart.” He hands me back the flashlight. “Damn, Zoey Gunner. You’re kinda intimidating.”

“Only kinda?” I smile, then approach the line of bikes, admiring the variety of beautifully crafted machines. “Which one is yours?”

“You’ll let me drive you?” Warner’s eagerness bleeds into his voice and his grin. Happy Biker Guy is almost too handsome for me to deal with.

“I don’t know why you want to, but sure.” I follow my new acquaintance to a pitch-black Harley, whose seat he pats with affection.

Just then my phone buzzes with a text from Dad.

Got it. Have fun. Don’t get murdered. Text me by tomorrow morning if you don’t want me to call the cops. Or your brothers.

There’s no better threat he could’ve issued.