Page 11 of Stitch & Steel

Eleven

BELLA

I was halfway through curling my hair when my phone buzzed across the counter. Again.

KASEY flashed on the screen, for maybe the third time this week. I winced. I'd ignored the last two texts. And the last call.

With a sigh, I set the curling iron down and picked up.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual, like I hadn’t fallen off the face of the earth.

“Girl,” Kasey’s voice fired back like a rocket, “I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere. What the hell, Bella? You’ve been ghosting me.”

“I haven’t been ghosting. I’ve just been… adjusting,” I mumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed, my sundress still laid out across it like a silent accusation.

“Adjusting to what? Cabin life? Mountain goats? It’s been three weeks and you’ve barely texted back more than an emoji. I was about to send a search party.”

I laughed under my breath. “I’m fine. Just been helping Gran and, you know, settling into the slower pace.”

She made a dramatic snort. “Slower pace my ass. Something’s going on. You don’t ghost unless you’re either spiraling or crushing. So which is it?”

I hesitated.

A beat passed. And then another.

“Well…” I started slowly. “There is someone.”

“HA! I knew it! I knew there was a man behind your mysterious silence. Spill.”

“It’s not like that. I mean… not exactly. It’s complicated.”

Kasey’s voice went dreamy. “Is he a rugged mountain man? A bearded lumberjack? A plaid-wearing, axe-swinging bear?”

“Try tatted-up biker,” I muttered.

Dead silence.

Then—“Wait. What?”

“His name’s Logan. He’s part of the local motorcycle club. He’s… a lot. Leather kutte. Arms like carved stone. Dark hair, darker eyes. Fixes everything he touches—Gran’s porch, my old car, the cabin security… my fuse box. And—maybe—my very frozen heart.”

I hadn’t meant to say that last part. But it slipped out. Truth has a way of doing that.

Kasey gasped. “OH. MY. GOD. You’re telling me you’re falling for a hot biker? In the mountains? Bella, are you writing a damn romance novel?”

I laughed, biting my lip.

“It’s not like I planned this,” I said softly. “It’s just… he’s kind. Protective. Doesn’t push. But the way he looks at me…”

“Like you’re the last good thing in the world?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Exactly like that.”

Kasey sighed dramatically. “Well, I don’t know whether to be jealous or worried. Are you safe? I mean, I’m happy for you, but this isn’t exactly your usual guy. He doesn’t sound like Brendan.”

“No,” I said, voice going hard. “He’s nothing like Brendan.”

She paused. “Have you heard from him?”

“No. Thank God. And even if I did, I wouldn’t answer. That chapter’s closed.”

Brendan. My clean-cut finance boyfriend. The one with a five-year plan and a second girlfriend. The one who “had business in Atlanta” on Valentine’s Day, but somehow ended up on a date at Luca’s Wine Bar with a redhead who wasn’t me.

Kasey and I had been there.

That’s how I found out.

Everything after that felt like ash in my mouth.

“I didn’t even tink about him anymore,” I told her. “I just feel normal here. Like I can finally breathe. I don’t miss Charlotte one bit. I even might try goat yoga next week.”

“So, you escaped to the mountains to find yourself this summer?” she teased gently.

“Maybe. Or to find Gran. Or to escape. I don’t know. But now…”

“Now you’ve got a smokeshow of a biker with a leather vest and emotional depth flirting with your grandmother and fixing your life with power tools?”

I smiled.

“Yeah. That.”

“Well, damn,” Kasey said. “You better shave your legs and kiss him with tongue. That’s all I’m saying.”

I laughed so hard I nearly knocked my curling iron off the counter.

“I gotta go,” I said, standing. “He’ll be here any second.”

“Wear something pretty. And Bella?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t run this time. You deserve a man who shows up.”

The screen went dark. I stared at myself in the mirror.

Hair curled. Dress on. Heart racing.

And when I heard the knock at the door moments later, it wasn’t just Logan standing on the other side.

It was possibility.

And maybe, just maybe… something that looked a whole lot like fate.

I opened the door, bracing myself for awkward first-date tension or maybe just the sight of Logan leaning on the frame like he owned the place.

What I didn’t expect was wildflowers .

Not the store-bought kind. No plastic wrap or glossy bow. These were early and true—stems slightly uneven, petals still damp from dew, colors bursting like a handful of sunshine and summer.

“Hey,” he said, holding them out in one big, calloused hand.

Leather. Pine. And something warmer clung to his skin—like bonfires and promises you weren’t sure he could keep, but desperately hoped he would.

My breath caught.

“Wildflowers?” I asked, voice softer than I meant it to be.

He shrugged like it was nothing, but his eyes told me it wasn’t.

“They reminded me of you,” he said.

A stupid flutter woke up in my chest.

I reached out to take them, our fingers brushing for a second too long. Sparks. Goosebumps. The kind of reaction you couldn’t fake. The kind you didn’t get from buttoned-up finance bros with shiny teeth and no soul.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing hard.

He didn’t answer.

He just leaned in and kissed my cheek—slow, deliberate, just behind the bone. A breath of a touch. Just long enough for me to feel the heat of his lips and the scrape of his stubble.

Just long enough to short-circuit my entire nervous system.

Goosebumps erupted down my arms. My knees went soft. My breath hitched.

He pulled back only a hair, and his voice was a low rumble in my ear. “You look beautiful, Bella.”

I stood there like an idiot, clutching flowers like they were oxygen, cheeks on fire and heart pounding like I’d run a mile barefoot.

“You ready?” he asked, his lips curving slightly. Like he knew exactly what he’d done to me.

I nodded—too fast, too flustered—and stepped outside, letting the door click shut behind me.

And as we walked toward his truck, his hand resting on the small of my back, I knew one thing for sure.

Whatever happened tonight… I wasn’t going to forget it.

The road curved through the trees until it opened to a clearing—no, a meadow . Like something from a dream. Maybe a movie. Definitely not real life.

I gasped.

Twinkle lights had been strung between the trees, glowing like captured fireflies.

A small table stood in the center, draped with a checkered cloth.

Two mismatched chairs. An old oil lamp flickered in the center, casting golden light over porcelain plates and silver cutlery.

A camping rug was laid beneath the table, soft underfoot, and nearby a canoe floated on the glassy lake, lit by flickering lanterns.

The water shimmered, reflections dancing like stars had come down to wade.

A few floating candles bobbed at the shore, scenting the air with something sweet and floral. Somewhere in the trees, a fiddle played from a speaker—something old and slow, full of longing.

I turned to Logan, stunned.

He looked almost sheepish. Almost .

“I didn’t forget anything,” he said. “Except the cold. That one’s on me.”

Before I could respond, he walked to his truck, grabbing his kutte from the seat. The worn leather smelled of him.

Mountain air.

Pine.

Diesel and woodsmoke.

Without a word, he draped it over my shoulders.

The scent was all him—pine, engine oil, smoke, and something that made my toes curl.

He looked down at me with that crooked grin. “Better?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. But you’re gonna have to keep me warm now.”

His eyes sparked. Low. Dangerous. Male .

“Well,” he murmured, stepping in close, “if that’s what the lady wants.”

He took my hand then—rough, warm, and steady—and everything in me lit up.

He didn’t check his phone. There was no rushed “club business” or one-foot-out-the-door tension. He was here . Present. Looking at me like I was the only woman who’d ever mattered.

And God, was it a turn-on.

We sat down, but dinner was slow going. I barely noticed the food—though I caught the scent of roasted garlic and buttery pasta. He’d brought real Italian. Probably from that little trattoria downtown. That meant he planned .

He poured wine from a chilled thermos into proper glasses. “Don’t laugh,” he warned. “Had to steal these from the clubhouse bar.”

I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t.

No one had ever done anything like this for me.

Not the Valentine’s Day boyfriends. Not the candlelit dinner promises from men who always forgot my favorite color or birthday. This was something else.

Something that left me aching.

After we picked at our meal, he reached across the table, brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. “You cold?”

“No,” I said, breath catching. “But I wouldn’t mind if you sat a little closer.”

His chair scraped as he moved beside me on the rug, his arm sliding around my back. The warmth of him seeped into me, his leather and skin making me shiver in the best way.

“You did all this,” I whispered. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he looked at me, eyes dark and honest. “Because I want you to know I’m not just patched and muscle. I can be the guy who builds things too. Good things. Real things.”

I looked at his lips.

He looked at mine.

And then the distance disappeared.

His lips brushed mine softly at first, like a question. When I didn’t pull away, he deepened it—slow, hot, coaxing. His hand slid to the side of my face, angling me just right.

The kiss tasted like wine, sugar, and something darker. Like heat waiting to unfold.

My fingers gripped the leather of his kutte, drawing him closer, until the space between us was gone.

We kissed like we had nowhere else to be. Like time didn’t matter. Like this spark, this pull, this thing between us had been waiting for years to ignite.

By the time we pulled apart, my head was spinning and my lips tingled.

He leaned his forehead against mine and whispered, “That wasn’t just a first date kiss. That was a declaration.”

My heart thudded. Hard.

And all I could think was?—

God help me, I’m falling.