If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have gone down to the hardware store myself, purchased a hammer, and bashed his brains in.
The whole place needed an overhaul, and I had no idea where I was going to get the money. But for now, priority one was the oven.
“Well, it’s not like we’re busy enough to need the oven right away, right?” she pointed out.
“It’s almost time for the dinner rush,” I countered.
“Which consists of Earl and his wife, Sheriff Sanders since it’s Thursday, and maybe a family passing through for vacation, if we’re lucky.” She smiled. “Let’s not borrow trouble.”
She had a point.
I sighed. “You’re right. We’ll have plenty of time to find someone to fix it tomorrow.”
“Come on, I just made a fresh batch of cookies before the oven crapped out. They’re still warm.”
I pushed up from my chair. “Those fresh cookies, along with everything else you bake is going straight to my butt, Dusty.”
“You could use a little more junk in that skinny little trunk of yours, sweetness,” she retorted, walking out of my office.
I laughed. God if only that were true. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d worked out. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d walked around the block on purpose. Lately, I’d been living on a steady diet of caffeine and whatever thousand calorie treat was left over from Dusty’s daily dessert menu.
I followed Dusty out of my office, and she headed out to the dining room while I made my way to the kitchen sink, washing my hands, then making sure we had enough produce for our dinner special.
“Rowan?” Dusty called from the swinging doors.
“Yeah?”
“Customers.”
“Awesome,” I said, distractedly.
“A lot of customers,” she squeaked. “Um, honey. We might need to get that oven fixed faster than we anticipated.”
“Huh?” I wiped my hands and pushed through the swinging doors, freezing in place.
I found myself face-to-face with no less than a dozen bikers, all of them large, all of them staring at me. If I had good sense, I’d have prayed to god they weren’t here to rob us, but in truth, I only prayed, they weren’t hungry.
Rowan
“You Rowan Samuels?”
This question came from the tall biker standing in front of all the others. He wasn’t just tall either. He was pretty. If a biker could be called pretty, that is. Dark hair with a slight reddish tint, deep blue eyes, and a beard that looked like it literally belonged on his face. Like, if anyone tried to shave it off, the beard would more than likely fight back. The only thing that belied his beauty was a nasty cut over his eye. More unsettling was that it looked like he’d stitched himself up while riding in the back of a covered wagon on the Oregon trail.
“Who’s askin’?” Dusty demanded, stepping forward. She was one of the few people who knew the extent of my social anxiety and was fiercely protective of me. Mama bear in springtime kind of protective.
“I am,” the man said, his eyes never leaving mine. “You Rowan?”
“Whosheis is none ofyourbusiness. Now, if you’re not gonna order anything I’m gonna ask you to leave.”
The gorgeous biker didn’t so much as blink.
“Are you Rowan Samuels?” he asked again.
“Listen here, you disrespectful fu—”
“Yes, I’m Rowan,” I said, cutting Dusty off. Dusty could swear enough to make a truck driver blush, and she had a razor-sharp wit, so she could cut you up and you wouldn’t see it coming. The last thing I needed was a gaggle of pissed off bikers driving customers away.
“You got a place we can talk?” he asked. “Privately?”