Page 5 of Stitch & Steel

Five

BELLA

I did not do mornings.

Especially not five a.m. mornings.

And especially not for a man I barely knew who smelled like leather, sin, and motor oil.

But there I was, shivering on the porch in a hoodie and jeans, boots laced, hair still damp from a rushed shower, watching mist curl like fingers around the trees as Logan’s truck rolled up with the kind of low growl that sounded more like a warning than an engine.

He stepped out in his usual leather kutte, sleeves rolled up, and a thermos in hand. He didn’t say good morning. Just handed me a steaming travel mug like we’d done this a hundred times before.

“You look half-awake,” he said.

“I am half-awake.”

“You’ll wake up once we get there.”

“Is that a threat?”

His lips twitched. “Depends on how you feel about worms.”

I almost turned around and went back inside.

Almost.

But I didn’t.

Because the thing was, he wasn’t like other guys I’d dated. He didn’t fill silence with noise. He didn’t brag or ask too many questions or make me feel like I had to earn his attention.

He just… showed up. We reached the lake in fifteen minutes. It was quiet, still, and wrapped in fog so thick it looked like the trees had secrets.

Logan led the way, carrying the gear like it weighed nothing. We waded down the narrow path, branches creaking overhead, until we reached the dock. He handed me a pole and showed me how to cast again—patient, deliberate.

I tried not to notice the way his shirt hugged his back. Or the tattoos crawling down his arms.

We fished in silence for a few minutes before he spoke.

“So,” he said, “what’s your plan?”

I glanced at him. “Plan?”

“How long you staying up here? What comes next?”

I looked out at the water. “Help Gran for the summer. She just started a new medication… supposed to help with memory. And I need to finish planning my lesson units for fall.”

“High school?”

“Middle school. World history.”

He nodded. “That tracks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You give off ‘don’t test me’ energy.”

I laughed, surprised. “Wow. Compliment or threat?”

“Compliment,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “I like smart women.”

Something flickered in my chest. I looked down at the rippling water and cleared my throat.

“She’s doing okay right now,” I said. “Gran. But I’m… watching.”

He was quiet again, until: “She’s tough. But if she ever needs more, if you decide to stay… I could pull some strings.”

I blinked. “For what?”

“Teaching job. We got a charter school in town. I know people.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I didn’t know what to say.

“Thanks,” I finally said. “But let’s see how the meds go first.”

He just nodded. No pressure. No push.

Just… steady.

“What about you?” I asked. “What do you do for fun when you’re not showing off your knife collection or casting lines at dawn in a leather kutte?”

He looked down at himself. “What, this?”

“You look ridiculous,” I said. “Like a Harley catalog lost its damn mind.”

He scoffed. “I’m practical.”

“You’re wearing boots in knee-deep water.”

“Yeah? And you’re wearing mascara to fish.”

I opened my mouth to argue—and that’s when a cold, slimy thing hit me square in the forehead.

I shrieked.

“Logan!” I batted at my face. “Was that a worm?!”

He didn’t even look sorry. Just laughed. Low. Rough. The kind of laugh that stuck to your skin.

I reached down and kicked water at him—hard.

“Oh, it’s on now,” he said.

Within seconds, we were both soaked, laughing like idiots, slapping at waves and splashing enough to scare every fish for a mile.

By the time we finally collapsed onto the dock again, breathless and dripping, the sun had climbed just high enough to burn through the mist. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop shivering.

Then I saw the way he looked at me.

Not at my face.

At my shirt.

Wet. Clinging. Tight.

His eyes darkened a shade.

I turned bright red. “Don’t say a word.”

“I didn’t,” he said, voice lower than before.

“Don’t think a word either.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

I turned away, trying not to smile.

Because the air between us?

It wasn’t so innocent anymore.

The drive back from the lake felt shorter somehow, even though I kept my gaze pointed stubbornly out the window and my arms crossed so tight they creaked. My hoodie was soaked and clung to my skin like a second, soggy layer of embarrassment.

I still couldn’t believe he’d actually flicked a worm at me.

A worm.

Who did that?

Apparently, Logan, “Diesel”—machete-wielding, gravel-voiced, tattooed biker—did that. And then laughed about it with zero remorse as he hauled our gear into the truck like some smug mountain god with a tackle box.

The cab of his truck smelled like cedar and leather. The windows fogged up from our soaked clothes, and the silence between us buzzed with leftover adrenaline and something else I didn’t want to name.

We pulled into the driveway just as Gran was stepping out onto the porch, a dishtowel tossed over her shoulder, squinting into the rising sun.

“Well, would you look at you two,” she said, hands on her hips, clearly amused. “What happened, did the fish fight back?”

“Fishing turned into swimming,” Logan said, climbing out of the truck.

I followed, shivering. My jeans were glued to my thighs. “More like water combat,” I muttered.

Gran shook her head with a grin. “You two get yourselves out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia. Bella, make sure he has a towel.”

“I’m not his—” I stopped myself, biting down on a sigh. “Sure, Gran.”

Logan opened the back door, grabbed a dry rag from the toolbox, and handed it to me. “Appreciate it.”

“You can shower if you want,” I mumbled, not looking at him. “You’re… soaked.”

“And muddy.”

“And grassy.”

“And slimy.”

His smirk was pure sin. “Damn, Grace. You been cataloging all my sins already?”

I shoved the towel into his chest. “Shower’s down the hall. Door on the right. Try not to break the soap dish.”

I stomped up the steps and left him laughing behind me.

By the time I changed into dry leggings and a soft, oversized tee, Gran was already whistling in the kitchen, the smell of bacon and black coffee thick in the air.

“You makin’ enough for an army?” I asked, tying my damp hair up into a bun.

“Just enough for a man with muscles that size,” she said. “And for you, of course.”

I took the mug she handed me, eyes bleary. “Thanks.”

That’s when I heard the creak of the screen door.

And then I saw him.

Logan. In boxer briefs . Just boxer briefs.

No shirt. No socks. No shame.

My brain blue-screened.

His skin was tan like he lived in the sun.

His chest was carved—broad, dusted with just enough dark hair to be infuriating—and his arms were covered in intricate tattoos that looked more like stories than designs.

His legs were thick and powerful, and his jaw had the audacity to look cleaner after a rinse.

He hung his leather kutte over the porch railing like it was a sacred offering, then walked into the kitchen like he owned the damn place.

Gran fanned herself with her dish towel. “Lord have mercy,” she muttered. “I might need heart medication instead of these head pills.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Logan didn’t even blink.

Just sat down at the table like it was perfectly normal to be nearly naked at breakfast.

“Smells good,” he said, grabbing a fork.

“Y-you’re not… you could’ve worn… something,” I stammered.

“I am wearing something,” he said, gesturing to his boxer briefs like they were a tuxedo.

I turned away, cheeks blazing.

He casually popped a strip of bacon in his mouth. “You always get this flustered when I show a little skin, Grace?”

Gran cackled.

I glared at him over my mug. “I didn’t know breakfast was clothing optional.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to get your couch wet. Figured this was better.”

“It’s not.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

I took another gulp of coffee and immediately burned my tongue. “Ow—damn it.”

“You okay?” Gran asked.

“She’s fine,” Logan said, smirking. “Just got a little hot under the collar.”

“I don’t have a collar.”

He raised a brow. “That’s what makes it worse.”

I wanted to throw my toast at his stupid face.

But that would’ve meant looking at him again.

So I kept my gaze firmly on my eggs and tried not to think about the way the ink on his chest curved around his collarbone.

Or the way the veins in his forearms flexed when he reached for the butter.

Or the godforsaken dip in his lower back when he leaned over to pick up a dropped napkin.

Logan, of course, ate like nothing was out of the ordinary—calm, smooth, slow. Every bite was followed by a casual lean back in his chair, legs spread, like he knew what he was doing to me.

Which was infuriating.

“Don’t you have to… be somewhere?” I asked through clenched teeth.

He wiped his mouth with a paper towel. “Nope.”

I turned to Gran for help, but she was no use—still smiling like she was watching the best morning soap opera of her life.

“I got the day off,” Logan added. “Thought I’d help with that footpath. Figured since I ruined your weed-whacking attempt, I should finish what I started.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I snapped.

“You were holding the chainsaw backwards.”

“I wasn’t—” I paused. “Wait, really?”

He winked. “No but it was a hack job.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

He just chuckled, pushing back from the table and rising to his full, shirtless, half-naked height. “I’ll grab my jeans. I think the dryer just buzzed. Didn’t mean to give your coffee a heart attack.”

I lifted my mug. “It was already dead.”

He winked. “Revive it. We got work to do.”

And then he walked out—broad back, low-slung waistband, towel over his shoulder—leaving nothing but steam, sass, and a mess of scrambled feelings in his wake.

Gran leaned over and whispered, “You sure you aren’t up for a little summer fling?”

I buried my face in my plate.

Because hell if I knew anymore.