3) Sea-Glass Eyes

The bathroom door cracked open, steam escaping as though it were fleeing for its life. Mr. MC emerged wearing my shorts and T-shirt, which looked oddly regular-sized on him. I hadn't expected them to fit, considering the size of the man, but somehow they did. The shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and the sleeves barely contained his tattooed arms. His dark hair was still damp, sticking up in places as though he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. Without the leather vest and road grime, he looked considerably less intimidating. Unfortunately, he was still built like a brick wall.

He had rolled up one sleeve to reveal a bit of road rash, but overall, he looked much less worse for wear than I had expected. He was carrying his mangled clothes and MC leather vest.

Even battered and dirty, the vest caught my attention. The three-piece patch on the back was hard to miss. RIDERS OF THE BADLANDS stretched across the top rocker, with a winged skull dominating the centre and MONTANA stitched along the bottom. It was a traditional-looking club patch, the kind that made it pretty clear this wasn't some weekend riding group. I didn't know much about motorcycle clubs, but I knew enough to recognize that the vest meant something to the man carrying it.

I was seated at the small table in my kitchen, with the first-aid box at my feet. I'd fixed him a bowl of stew I'd prepared earlier and set one out for myself. Not meeting his eyes, I picked at my food with my spoon.

Buck began nudging him with his nose again, gentler this time.

"What's all this?" he asked, coming over after weaving his way around Buck's beeline toward him.

"Stew," I muttered, continuing to pick at my bowl. "Eat, and then I'll look at your arm."

He sat down, much to Buck's dismay. Buck came and settled beside me with a huff of defeat. I patted him on the head reassuringly. I was pretty sure Mr. MC meant us no harm.

He began eating in silence, occasionally looking up at me before glancing over at Buck. Even sitting down, he seemed to take up more than his fair share of space. His shoulders nearly filled the width of the chair, and his long legs stretched comfortably beneath the table.

"Get a good look, did you?" he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting.

His sea-glass eyes met mine, amusement dancing in them. There was something particularly irritating about a man who knew he was handsome and wasn't afraid to use it.

I felt my cheeks grow hot. Buck must have sensed the shift in my mood. His ears flattened, and he let out a low growl, baring his teeth in warning.

"Okay, okay. Noted." Ryan held up his hands in surrender, although that crooked little smile hadn't gone anywhere.

I stood abruptly, startling them both. I dumped what remained of my stew into Buck's food bowl, carried my own to the sink, and returned to my trusty medicine box.

Gathering my supplies, I walked over and finally met Ryan's eyes. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he watched me approach.

"This might sting," I muttered as I sprayed antiseptic onto the road rash.

I worked quickly, touching him as little as possible. His muscular, tattooed arm tensed beneath my fingers. Up close, I could see the intricate ink winding down his forearm, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeve. His breath hitched as I cleaned and wrapped the injury, but he continued eating without complaint.

I caught a faint scent of my soap on him, mixed with something distinctly masculine. I concentrated on the road rash, determined not to notice anything else.

When I finished, I found a cloth grocery bag and tucked his ruined clothes inside before placing the bag at his feet. I could feel his eyes following me as I moved around the room.

By this point, Buck had apparently resigned himself to sitting beside Ryan and staring at him. He had conveniently positioned his considerable bulk between the large biker and me, making it impossible to move around the kitchen without going through him.

"My name is Ryan," he said, directing his attention toward the wall of muscle and fur beside him.

"His name is Buck," I replied.

Buck dutifully showed his teeth at Ryan's introduction. I couldn't tell if it was a threat or just gas.

When Ryan had finished eating, I collected his bowl and took it to the sink. Turning around, I leaned against the counter and studied him.

"Where's your bike now?" I asked, wiping my hands with a dishcloth.

He sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket. His large hands made the thing look almost ridiculously small.

"At the bottom of your driveway. I managed to get it that far, but that was about it. It took the brunt of my fall. I didn't have any reception, so your driveway was my best bet."

I nodded. Reception up this way was spotty at best, even with landlines. Most ranchers around here carried satellite phones alongside their cell phones. I wondered whether his club had some sort of arrangement for situations like this. Judging by the vest he'd been wearing, I suspected he wasn't exactly the type to travel alone.

"We can take you back. It's no issue."

I glanced at the clock. It was almost six. Knowing I'd need to be up early to feed the livestock, I headed toward the door, hoping he'd take the hint.

He stood, unfolding his considerable frame from the chair. Buck followed close behind him.

"Hey. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't think a little girl like you can help with this. I might just need to call one of the guys at our yard to come tow it."

I stopped halfway through pulling on my boots and stared at him.

He looked down at me, his considerable height making the gesture feel even more condescending. One eyebrow lifted, and that irritating half-smile tugged at his mouth.

He hadn't meant it offensively, but he'd sure barked up the wrong tree with that comment.

I huffed and headed outside.

Buck bounded after me, leaving a bewildered mountain of a man standing helplessly in my doorway.

By the time I'd closed the hood of my truck and started the old thing, Ryan had made his way over to the passenger door. His hands rested on his hips as he looked over the truck, his expression somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.

Buck bounded happily into the back seat of my dual-cab truck, settling in as though this were all part of his evening routine.

I sighed heavily as I looked at Ryan.

"This is your ride off this mountain. Take it or leave it, Sparky."

He ran a hand through his ruffled dark hair, which was clearly meant to look that way, and shook his head. A quiet mutter escaped him, something about getting himself into messes. Still, he climbed into the passenger seat.

"I told you my name is Ryan."

"Good," I said approvingly, planting my hands on my hips as I shut the door.

He sighed heavily in exasperation.