Chapter Three

To nothing but her own astonishment, she loved the large, bristling beards that so many guys were sporting lately – such a refreshing change from Brian’s pasty, clean-shaven face – and she had a serious weakness for men who lived with passion and zero apologies. Lately, Jo was finding herself attracted to rough, to wild, to untamed… and her research into the MC lifestyle and culture had unlocked a whole realm of desires and wants that she’d had no idea that she held and had hidden deep inside.

She squinted again, trying to see if she could place the colors on the men’s cuts, which might give her an idea which MC members were standing over there, but she wasn’t very clued up on Nebraska motorcycle clubs. She’d become familiar with clubs in Colorado specifically, because she was a woman who played it safe and smart – and she was determined to walk into that interview in Denver in three days’ time armed to the teeth with information. She still wasn’t sure that her decision to apply for this particular job was her smartest one ever… but what the hell. She had very little to lose now, so risks were acceptable.

Well. Calculated risks.

And as a potential one-night-stand, an MC guy had too many unknown factors attached, too many questionable activities, too much history. That made a guy like that an incalculable risk and therefore, unacceptable. Wild beard and inked body be damned.

There were too many people milling around the room, cutting off her view to the guys in the corner, so Jo gave up trying to pinpoint which MC those guys belonged to. She resumed her perusal of the bar’s male patrons, the ones not wearing cuts. She took another sip of her drink and mentally crossed a few men off the list: the ones openly drooling over the pert butts of the much-younger women, the ones smoking outside (her biggest pet-peeve), the ones who gave off a vibe that made her think of danger or hidden anger and reminded her of Brian.

She might well be wrong about those guys, of course, and maybe they weren’t actually simmering with unleashed violence and hidden sociopathic tendencies, but she wasn’t taking that chance. Besides, if she sensed and saw that dark energy, even a bit, even if she was way off-base, she’d never be able to relax around a guy. Forget about being alone with him, or letting him get her naked, or taking him into her body.

She sighed a bit, saw that the pickings were on the slim side and glanced at her watch. It was still pretty early on a Friday evening and she decided to wait one hour. If by nine o’clock, nobody attractive, safe, sane and single had shown up and looked receptive to an older woman with a few gray hairs along her temples, and a few extra pounds on her thighs, then she’d call it a night and head back to her rented cabin across the highway alone. Try again another time.

No rush. Right? No sense just going back to your bed with any shmuck who doesn’t happen to look like a serial killer… if you’re going to do this, you make it count. You do it right, or you don’t do it at all.

Jo nodded to herself, pushed her tumbled black curls over a golden shoulder and felt immediately better. More focused and at peace and relaxed.

If it was meant to be, it’d happen. If she was going to share a bed with a man for just the third time in her entire life, it had to be someone pretty damn special. Not a boyfriend, clearly, and not even a relationship-type, but someone decent. Nice. Funny. Someone who made her smile and relax; feeling sexy and desirable would be a bonus, even if it was for just one night, even if he only meant it for one night.

If Man Number Three wasn’t on the cards, though, then she’d be cool with a couple of drinks, listening to the music and enjoying all the eye candy strolling around the room in jeans and in t-shirts and (some of them) in cuts, all broad shoulders and large hands. After all… she hadn’t had the freedom to do even this casual stuff for years. Before, if she’d so much as glanced at the guy bagging her groceries, she’d got a backhand the second she and Brian had set foot back home. Usually more than one. Usually more than just a backhand.

So just sitting here – alone and safe and free to look around at the men – was good. It was better than good. It was amazing.

Jo realized that in this moment, here and now, in this dive-bar heaving with chattering strangers and questionable biker-types, she was happy. Truly happy.

That was enough. It was everything.

You made it, girl. You really did.

Jo had just sucked in a breath, taken it deep into her lungs, when the bar door opened and he walked in. Blond and silver, broad and muscular and bearded, bringing a strange, rough grace and power to even the simplest of his movements: shutting the door, crossing the room, greeting the other customers, removing his jean jacket to show dark tattoos the length of both arms.

At the sight of him, her whole body reacted. The air whooshed out of her lungs, hard and fast. Her stomach jumped, smashed up against her heart which began to beat double-time, triple-time. Her eyes widened until they hurt, her jaw dropped to the floor, and she was suddenly openly and unabashedly staring at the only man on the planet that she’d ever had a primal, visceral, physical reaction to.

And just like that, Jo made a decision. A ‘capital D’ one. A goddamn Decision.

Him. I want it to be him.