Page 4 of Stitch & Steel

Four

LOGAN

I’d been riding too hard and sleeping too little.

Cranking. Tuning. Sanding. Grease under my nails and oil in my blood. It was therapy, the only kind I trusted.

But it didn’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to her.

Bella.

Smart mouth. Peach blossom lips. The schoolteacher with no business looking that damn good in cutoffs and faded cotton.

I’d only met her once. But somehow she stuck in my head like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.

By the time I rolled into the clubhouse that afternoon, the mood was lazy and loud—pool balls clacked in the back room, and someone had lit a joint that stunk up the whole bar.

That’s when Naomi walked in.

Leather jacket zipped halfway down her chest, jeans so tight they had to be illegal, and that look in her eye like she wanted to start something.

She draped herself all over a new prospect named Clay, some twenty-something with more tattoos than brain cells. She laughed too loud, swayed her hips too slow, and kept glancing over at me like I was supposed to blow a gasket.

But I didn’t move. Just leaned back in my chair, beer in hand, and kept peeling the label off the bottle like her whole circus act didn’t mean shit.

That, apparently, was worse.

Naomi finally snapped.

“What, no fight? No jealousy?” she hissed, sauntering over. “You really that dead inside, Diesel?”

I looked up at her—at the eyeliner smudged with too much effort, the lips pouting like she still owned a piece of me—and shook my head.

“I’m not dead,” I said evenly. “Just over it.”

“You used to throw men through tables over me.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing. “And I was dumb back then.”

Gasps and laughter rippled through the room. The prospect looked like he was about to piss himself.

I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t touch her. Just gave her a look.

“Get out.”

Her nostrils flared. “You can’t just?—”

“I can. And I did.”

She stared like she didn’t recognize me. Maybe she didn’t.

I used to be the guy who’d throw punches to claim what was mine.

Now?

I was just tired.

She stormed out, heels clacking like war drums. No one stopped her. Bullet tipped his glass toward me from the bar.

“Hell of a funeral speech.”

By the next afternoon, I was back behind the wheel of my truck with no excuse and too much time on my hands.

I told myself I was just going for a drive.

Just clearing my head.

But the minute the road curved into familiar territory and the pine trees thinned around Gran’s cabin, I knew exactly where I was headed.

I told myself I wouldn’t stop.

Until I saw her .

Bella Grace.

Half-hidden in waist-high weeds, electric chainsaw in hand, hacking like a woman possessed.

“What in the actual hell,” I muttered, slamming the truck into park and stepping out.

She didn’t hear me over the roar of the saw, her ponytail bouncing with every swing. The blade jerked and jumped. My spine locked.

I stormed down the trail.

She spun toward me just as I ripped the chainsaw out of her hands.

“Hey!” she yelled. “What is your problem?”

“You,” I growled. “And this thing. And your complete lack of self-preservation.”

“I was fine. ”

“You were ten seconds from losing a kneecap.”

She crossed her arms, glaring. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Too bad. You’ve got it.”

I turned, stomped back to my truck, and grabbed the machete I kept in the back. Walked straight back down and started swinging. Brush fell. Sap flew. I didn’t stop until the path was clear all the way to the creek.

When I looked up, Bella was still standing there. Dirt on her cheek. Arms crossed. Breathing fast.

She looked like she wanted to scream.

And maybe also like she wanted to kiss me.

“Don’t say it,” I muttered.

“I wasn’t going to thank you.”

“Didn’t expect you to.”

We stood there, silent.

She shifted her weight, eyes flicking toward the porch. “I guess… you want some iced tea or something?”

I paused.

That wasn’t a no.

I stepped forward, slow and steady like she might spook if I moved too fast. “You always offer drinks to guys who steal your chainsaws?”

She shot me a look. “Only the ones who come bearing machetes or fix my car. But I’m keeping my clothes on.”

I grunted, half-smirking as I followed her up the steps. She opened the screen door and disappeared inside, bare feet padding across the hardwood.

I shut the door behind me, wiping sweat and sap from my hands with a rag I had tucked in my back pocket. The cabin was tidy, but lived-in. Books stacked on every flat surface. A vase of wildflowers sat on the kitchen windowsill, backlit by sunlight cutting through the trees.

She poured two glasses of iced tea, ice clinking loud in the quiet.

I took mine from her fingers—cool, slender, and just a little unsteady.

“You always this jumpy?” I asked.

She lifted her chin. “Only when strange men crash into my afternoon yard work and start acting like Paul Bunyan.”

I barked a short laugh and took a sip. Sweet tea. Southern and perfect.

Bella fidgeted with her glass, gaze darting to the table and back to me. “Do you…” she paused, clearly regretting the words before they even left her mouth, “do you play cards?”

I raised a brow. “Cards?”

“Yeah. Like poker or gin or rummy or whatever.” She waved her hand in the direction of a deck sitting on a nearby bookshelf. “I figured, you know, if you’re staying a minute…”

I just stared at her.

She rushed to fill the silence. “It’s fine if not. You probably don’t even play. I just—God, forget it?—”

I cut her off, voice low and full of that dry edge she hadn’t figured out yet. “Bella, darling…”

She froze.

I stepped in a little closer, just enough to feel the shift in the air.

“Men like me don’t sip iced tea and play cards.”

Her mouth opened, cheeks flushed.

I let the tension hang, just long enough to make her squirm, then added with a smirk, “But maybe I’ll make an exception.”

Her shoulders dropped an inch, tension fading into something warmer. “Wow,” she said, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “Was that a joke?”

“I think it might’ve been.”

She grabbed the deck from the shelf, hands finally steady. “Alright, tough guy. Let’s see if your poker face is as scary as your machete swing.”

I took the seat across from her, stretching out my legs, watching the light dance on her cheekbones.

I hadn’t planned on staying.

But somehow, this felt like exactly where I was supposed to be.

Bella dealt the cards like she meant business. She sat straighter now, back against the chair, one knee pulled up beneath her in that way women do when they’re trying to look casual and not like their world’s just been knocked sideways.

I let her win the first hand.

Okay, maybe she actually beat me fair and square, but I told myself I let her win.

We were halfway through a second round—her brow furrowed, biting her lip in concentration—when the screen door creaked open behind us.

“Bella Grace? You better not be using my good shears on the poison ivy again!”

Bella dropped her cards. “Gran?”

A moment later, the unmistakable sound of grocery bags rustling and soft-soled shoes on hardwood had Gran appearing in the doorway, cheeks flushed, a paper bag tucked under each arm.

She spotted me instantly.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Logan Carter, is that you in my kitchen again?”

I stood, dipping my chin. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You didn’t let her operate power tools unsupervised, did you?”

Bella groaned. “Gran!”

“I might’ve saved her from amputating her own ankle,” I said.

“See?” Gran beamed. “That’s why I like him.”

She plopped the bags on the counter and started unpacking like this was the most normal thing in the world—just a biker in leather and boots playing gin rummy in her kitchen with her granddaughter.

“You’re stayin’ for supper, of course,” she declared, not even glancing up.

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off with a look that could stop traffic.

“Don’t even try to weasel out of it, Logan. I got cornbread, and there’s sweet potatoes roasting already. It’s fate.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “I’d love to, really. But I gotta be up early.”

Bella looked up. “Early?”

“Five a.m.,” I said, sliding my chair back. “Fishing trip.”

Her eyes went wide. “Five a.m.?!”

I grinned. “Yup.”

“That’s not a date!” she snapped automatically.

Gran gasped and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I love fishing dates!”

“It’s not —” Bella started, but I cut her a look.

I leaned over, bracing my hands on the table. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I bring the coffee.”

She narrowed her eyes.

I winked. “That’s when the fish bite.”

She opened her mouth?—

“And so do I,” I added with a slow, wicked smile.

Bella nearly dropped her glass.

Gran fanned herself with a dishtowel. “Oh my,” she said. “You boys never change.”

Bella’s whole face was flushed now. “He’s leaving,” she muttered. “Right now.”

I took my time standing, draining the last of my iced tea. “Five a.m., Grace. Be ready.”

She stalked to the door, flung it open. “Out.”

I didn’t argue. Just laughed—low and husky—and tipped my head to Gran on the way out.

“Thank you for the tea, ma’am.”

“Anytime, sugar.”

The screen slammed behind me.

Just as my boots hit the gravel, I heard the deadbolt click into place behind me.