“Jen, for the love of God, can we have ONE normal fucking outing?”

Jen Rogers looked at Tiffany over the top of her sunglasses.

“Define normal.”

“One where you don’t threaten somebody, swear at a stranger, or tell a man his mother should’ve swallowed.”

“Well, that last guy deserved it.”

“He asked where you bought your sweater.”

“He asked if my grandmother knitted it. I made the damn thing.”

Tiffany pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ.”

“He’s not coming, Tiff. Stop calling him.”

It was one of those crisp autumn mornings in Niagara-on-the-Lake when the air smelled of fallen leaves, fresh bread, and expensive candles. Tiffany had suggested the farmers’ market as a peaceful way to spend a few hours together. Jen had agreed because she loved handmade crafts, because she needed a break from work, and because Tiffany had been her friend long enough to know that the word peaceful was a dangerous promise.

Jen was five feet two inches of sharp opinions and very little patience for nonsense. She wore jeans, boots, and the sweater she'd made herself, and she had two Belgian Malinois at her side. Brantley walked close to her left knee, alert and handsome. Shania kept pace on the right, occasionally glancing up as if to confirm her human was still making questionable decisions.

The dogs were beautifully behaved.

Their owner was more of a developing situation.

“Can we at least look at the candles?” Tiffany asked.

“Why?”

“Because I like candles.”

“Buy a flashlight. Lasts longer. Less chance of burning your house down.”

“JEN.”

“What? I'm being financially responsible.”

Tiffany laughed, and Jen turned to deliver what she considered a devastating follow-up.

She never got the chance.

She collided with something solid.

Her coffee hit a black T-shirt. The cup tipped, the lid flew, and hot brown liquid ran down the chest of a very large man.

Jen stopped breathing for approximately half a second.

Then she looked up.

And up.

The man standing in front of her had to be six foot three, with broad shoulders, tattooed forearms, a neatly trimmed dark beard, and a black cap worn backward. His ice-blue eyes moved from his soaked shirt to her face.

He took his time.

“Well,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, “that's one way to get my attention.”

Jen raised an eyebrow. “Funny. I was just thinking that's one way to learn how to walk.”

“Pretty sure you ran into me, sweetheart.”

“Pretty sure you're built like a refrigerator. Hard to miss.”

“Yet somehow you managed.”

Behind him, another man barked out a laugh.

“Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Jen turned her head. “Something funny, sunshine?”

“Not yet,” he said cheerfully. “But I'm hopeful.”

“Keep talking.”

The tall stranger folded his arms, making his ruined shirt pull tight across his chest. “Do you always threaten people before introducing yourself?”

“Only the ones who look like they need adult supervision.”

The friend nearly choked on his coffee.

“Ryder,” he wheezed. “Holy shit.”

Ryder.

Jen looked back at the man she'd just drenched. Ryder looked as if he was trying not to smile and losing the fight.

“Are you burned?” she asked abruptly.

He blinked. “What?”

“The coffee. Was it hot enough to burn you?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“Good.” She glanced at his shirt. “Because I don't have time to explain to an emergency room that a grown man lost a fight with a latte.”

Ryder laughed. It was an unguarded sound, deep enough to make her stomach do something she found profoundly irritating.

“Ryder Blackwood,” he said, holding out his hand.

She eyed it. “Are you always this pleased with yourself?”

“Only when I'm having a good morning.”

“Your definition of good needs work.”

“What's your name?”

“Jen.”

“Just Jen?”

“Depends how annoying you get.”

His grin widened. “Well, Jen, I'm having a pretty good morning so far.”

“You have coffee on your chest.”

“Yeah, but the company improved.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” Tiffany muttered.

“I'm Tiffany,” she told the laughing friend. “Unfortunately, I'm with her.”

“Cole Bennett. Unfortunately, I'm with him.”

“Unfortunately?” Jen repeated. “Tiff, you're lucky I tolerate you.”

“See?” Tiffany told Cole. “That's affection.”

Ryder looked at Cole. “Don't encourage them.”

“I'm not encouraging anybody,” Cole said. “I'm enjoying the show.”

Jen would later remember that moment more clearly than she wanted to admit: Ryder standing in the middle of a crowded market, coffee cooling against his shirt, completely unbothered by the fact that she'd challenged him in front of strangers. Men had mistaken her directness for an invitation to put her in her place before. Ryder simply gave it back, with a smile.

She wasn't ready to decide what that meant.

Brantley was.

Brantley took two deliberate steps toward Ryder, ears forward, nostrils flared in a steady, measured read of his scent. Ryder didn't reach out or crowd the dog's space; he simply dropped into an easy crouch, resting his forearms against his knees with his palms open and quiet.

“Mind if I say hello?” he asked.

Jen studied him. “Let him come to you.”

Ryder nodded. He waited. Brantley sniffed his hand and, after a long, solemn evaluation, leaned into a scratch behind his ear.

Jen stared.

“Well, that's suspicious.”

“Good dog,” Ryder murmured.

“He doesn't usually warm up to strangers that fast.”

“Good judge of character.”

“Or he's having a stroke.”

Cole made a strangled noise. Tiffany laughed outright.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“Careful,” Jen said. “She's picky about men.”

“Apparently she has better taste than her owner.”

Jen put a hand over her heart. “You arrogant bastard.”

“There's that winning personality.”

She shifted her weight, leather boots biting into the gravel, ready to pivot on her heel and walk away.

Instead, she found herself walking beside him toward the craft stalls.

That, she decided, was Tiffany's fault.

• • •

Jen forgot about Ryder for almost an entire minute.

She touched a skein of deep burgundy wool, turned over its label, and checked the texture between her fingers. She was mentally calculating whether she had enough at home to finish a blanket when Ryder appeared beside her.

“You knit?”

“Crochet and knit. Why?”

“Didn't picture you as the knitting type.”

Jen turned slowly. “What exactly is the knitting type, Blackwood?”

“Little old lady. Rocking chair. Twelve cats. Threatening the neighborhood children with a wooden spoon.”

Cole, several feet away, whispered, “He's gonna die.”

Jen stepped closer. “Listen here, Captain Midlife Crisis. I can crochet a beautiful blanket, knit a sweater, raise three daughters, work my ass off, train two Malinois, and still find time to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Ryder's smile became positively delighted. “Multitalented. I'm impressed.”

“Don't think I won't stab you with a knitting needle.”

“Thought you said you crocheted.”

“I DO BOTH.”

He laughed, and she hated how much she liked the sound.

“Goddamn,” he said. “You're cute when you're angry.”

“Are you concussed?”

“Not recently.”

“You need a medical professional.”

“Know any?”

“Yeah. A veterinarian. Since you're acting like a jackass.”

This time Ryder threw his head back.

Jen turned away before he could see her smile. She was not doing this. She had three daughters—Acadia, Nevaeh, and Sydney—whose lives mattered more than the amusement of any man she'd met at a market. She had a demanding career at Bayshore, a household to run, and a family she loved fiercely. She didn't need a complication with tattoos and a motorcycle.

She chose her yarn, paid the vendor, and tucked the bag under her arm.

“Find everything you need?” Ryder asked.

“Unless you're selling a personality transplant for yourself.”

“Out of stock.”

“Shocking.”

They fell into step again.

“Three daughters,” he said after a moment.

Jen glanced at him. “You counting?”

“No. Listening.”

That slowed her down.

“Acadia's the oldest,” she said eventually. “Nevaeh's my practical one. Syd's the youngest.”

“Sounds like a full house.”

“It is.” Her voice softened. “They're my world.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Kids come first. Anybody who doesn't understand that has no business dating a parent.”

Jen stopped walking.

There was no grin on his face now. No teasing. He said it as though it were obvious.

Then she recovered. “Well, fuck. You actually have a functioning brain.”

“Don't spread that around. I've got a reputation.”

She laughed, but the conversation stayed with her as they wandered on.

• • •

At a picnic table near the edge of the market, Tiffany and Cole discovered they shared a talent for making each other laugh. They traded stories and occasional remarks at their friends' expense, but Jen barely registered half of it.

Ryder had replaced his coffee. Jen had offered to buy it, which he had accepted only after assuring her his shirt would survive. Brantley settled beneath the table, and Shania took up a position beside Jen's chair.

Ryder told her about Blackwood Custom Cycles.

It wasn't a hobby he had dressed up as a business. He'd built the shop through years of long hours, bad supplier calls, difficult repairs, and the satisfaction of handing a finished motorcycle back to somebody who loved it. Cole worked with him and knew the business nearly as well as he did.

“You really like it,” Jen said.

“Most days.”

“And the other days?”

“I consider setting the paperwork on fire.”

“Finally, something we have in common.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm a nurse. Manager of Clinical Practice at Bayshore.”

Ryder gave a small nod. “That's a lot of responsibility.”

“It is.”

“Like it?”

“I love the work. Doesn't mean I love every minute.”

“Fair enough.”

Jen had expected some comment about nurses being angels or about how she didn't look like someone who managed other people. Instead, he asked what she enjoyed about the job, then listened while she answered.

She told him about the importance of getting things right when people's lives were involved, about the people who relied on her team, and about how rewarding it could be when a difficult day ended with someone genuinely helped.

Ryder listened without interrupting.

“What?” she asked when she caught him looking at her.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

He smiled. “You care about what you do.”

“Of course I do.”

“Not everybody does.”

Jen glanced down at her coffee. There it was again: that inconvenient sincerity. She preferred the insults. They were easier to defend against.

“So,” she said, “you're a biker with a business, a suspicious amount of confidence, and a friend who laughs like a dying lawn mower.”

“Pretty accurate.”

“Any other warnings I should know about?”

“I'm stubborn.”

“Clearly.”

“I work too much.”

“Relatable.”

“And I don't scare easy.”

Jen smiled slowly. “That's adorable. You haven't seen me before my first coffee.”

Ryder leaned back. “Something to look forward to.”

She shook her head. She was laughing too much. That was becoming a problem.

At one point her phone lit up with a message from Acadia asking a question about the evening's plans. Jen answered immediately. Ryder carried on talking to Cole until she put the phone away.

It was such a small thing.

It shouldn't have mattered.

It did.

• • •

The afternoon began to thin out. Vendors packed away empty crates, and the breeze carried the sharper chill of late autumn. Tiffany had shopping bags. Jen had yarn. Cole had apparently developed an abdominal injury from laughing.

They reached the parking area together.

“Give me your number,” he said.

Jen stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Your number.”

“Do you normally demand things from women?”

“Only when I think they'll tell me to fuck off.”

“Well, congratulations. Fuck off.”

Cole turned away, shoulders shaking.

Ryder nodded once. “Fair enough.”

Then he pulled out his phone.

“How about I give you mine instead?”

Jen narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“So you can decide whether you want to use it.”

She didn't have an immediate answer.

He wasn’t crowding her. He wasn’t turning her refusal into a negotiation. He was giving her a clean choice, and he looked entirely prepared to live with whatever she decided.

“You're awfully confident,” she said.

“Nope. Just interested.”

“In what?”

“You.”

Jen crossed her arms. “Listen, Blackwood. I don't do games. I don't chase men. I don't tolerate lying, cheating, manipulation, or bullshit. I've got three daughters, two dogs, a job, and enough responsibilities to keep me busy until the apocalypse.”

Ryder listened to every word.

“Good,” he said when she finished. “I don't do games either. And I'm not looking for somebody to cook my dinner, wash my clothes, or mother me. I can do all that myself.”

“Well, aren't you domesticated.”

“House-trained, too.”

“Debatable,” Cole muttered.

Ryder ignored him. “I'm asking for a chance to get to know you, Jen. That's it. No pressure.”

Jen looked at Tiffany.

Tiffany was grinning like an idiot.

“Don't,” Jen warned.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is innocent.”

“Your face is a snitch.”

Ryder waited.

Jen turned back. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Give me your number before I change my mind.”

She entered his details, then called her own phone to make sure the number worked. When Ryder glanced at the contact she'd saved, he laughed.

Ryder — Annoying Biker Asshole.

“Really?”

“Would you prefer Captain Fuckface?”

“Annoying Biker Asshole is perfect.”

He showed her the name he'd entered for her.

Jen — Your Worst Fucking Nightmare.

“Accurate,” she said.

“I'm getting that impression.”

Then he looked at her more seriously. “For the record, I don't think you're a challenge to win. You're a person I'd like to know.”

Jen's breath caught, just slightly.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Stop being reasonable. It's unsettling.”

“Can't promise that.”

“Then we're already off to a terrible start.”

“Best coffee I've ever worn.”

She laughed and shook her head.

When they parted, Ryder didn't try to kiss her. He didn't ask to follow her home or make a joke about needing to meet the girls. He said goodbye to Brantley and Shania, wished Tiffany a good afternoon, and told Jen he hoped she'd text.

Jen watched him walk away.

“Don't,” she told Tiffany.

“I haven't said a word.”

“Exactly. It's creepy.”

Tiffany hooked an arm through hers. “You like him.”

“I like the yarn.”

“Jen.”

“And the dogs liked him. Their judgment is clearly deteriorating.”

“Jen.”

“He's arrogant.”

“And?”

“Annoying.”

“And?”

Jen glanced back once. Ryder was talking to Cole beside a truck. He looked up, caught her looking, and smiled.

She faced forward so quickly Tiffany burst out laughing.

“Oh, you're in trouble.”

“Shut up.”

• • •

At home that evening, Jen settled onto the couch with her burgundy blanket. Brantley lay near her feet, and Shania stretched across the other cushion like she paid the mortgage.

The house had its familiar rhythm. Her daughters were occupied with their evening routines, and the sounds of ordinary family life moved around her. Jen checked that everyone had what they needed, answered a question from upstairs, and returned to her crochet.

She made four stitches before her phone buzzed.

Ryder — Annoying Biker Asshole:
You owe me a coffee.

Jen:
You owe me an apology for being in my way.

Ryder:
Sorry my incredibly handsome body obstructed your path.

Jen:
Did you hit your head on the way home?

Ryder:
Nope. Been thinking about you, though.

Jen stared at the screen.

She smiled anyway.

Jen:
Sounds like a serious medical condition.

Ryder:
Probably terminal. Dinner Friday?

Jen:
You always this persistent?

Ryder:
Only when something's worth my time.

Her hook stopped moving.

She could say no. That was the important part. She could put down the phone, spend Friday with her girls, and forget about the man she'd spilled coffee on. Her life would remain perfectly full.

But she didn't want to forget him.

Another message appeared.

Ryder:
I know you have three girls. We can work around your schedule. No rush.

Jen read it twice.

Then she typed.

Jen:
Friday. Seven. Don't be late, asshole.

Ryder:
Yes, ma'am.

Jen:
And don't call me princess.

Ryder:
Whatever you say, princess.

Jen:
FUCK YOU, BLACKWOOD.

Ryder:
Buy me dinner first.

Jen laughed so loudly Shania lifted her head.

“Don't look at me like that,” Jen told the dog. “He's an idiot.”

Shania wagged her tail.

“Traitor.”

Jen set the phone down, picked up her hook, and immediately lost count again.

But Ryder hadn't asked to stroll in.

He'd asked for dinner.

And for reasons Jen was not yet ready to examine, she'd said yes.

• • •

At Blackwood Custom Cycles, Ryder sat on a stool in the workshop, staring at his phone with a smile he couldn't quite control.

Cole noticed.

Of course Cole noticed.

“You're smiling at your phone.”

“Very observant.”

“Because of the woman who called you a refrigerator.”

“Her name's Jen.”

Cole gave him a long look. “Oh, you're fucked.”

“Shut up.”

“Twenty years I've known you. I've watched you deal with angry customers, impossible repairs, and men twice your size who thought they could intimidate you. That woman threatened your teeth and you asked her to dinner.”

Ryder laughed. “She's funny.”

“She's terrifying.”

“She's honest.”

“She's armed with knitting needles.”

“Crochet hooks too.”

“Christ. You're already learning the difference.”

Ryder checked his phone again. A new message had arrived.

Jen:
Wear something decent Friday. I'm not going to dinner with a man who looks like he sleeps behind a gas station.

Ryder typed back.

Ryder:
I'll even shower.

Jen:
MAKE SURE YOU USE SOAP.

He laughed hard enough to put the phone down.

Cole shook his head. “You actually like her.”

Ryder looked toward the shop floor. He thought about the way Jen had asked whether the coffee burned him, even while insulting him. The way she'd watched her dogs around him. The way her whole face had changed when she spoke about her daughters. The way she had looked genuinely surprised when he said their needs should come first.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Cole's teasing softened. “Then don't be an idiot.”

Ryder gave him a look. “That's rich coming from you.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

He picked up the phone again, but didn't send another message. He knew enough about Jen already to understand that she didn't want a man who mistook persistence for pressure.

She'd agreed to Friday.

He could wait until Friday.

Outside, the light was fading over the shop. Ryder shut down the workbench, checked the doors, and tucked his phone into his pocket.

Somewhere across Niagara, Jen was probably making fun of him.

He hoped she was smiling while she did it.

Their first date was still six days away.

And for the first time in a long while, Ryder Blackwood was looking forward to being nervous.

CHAPTER TWO

Six days.

That was how long Ryder James Blackwood had been texting Jen Rogers.

Six days of insults disguised as conversation, conversations disguised as insults, and one photograph of Brantley looking so profoundly unimpressed with the world that Ryder had made it his phone background for twenty minutes.

Jen had threatened legal action.

Ryder had told her he'd see her in court.

Then he'd sent a photograph of the coffee-stained black shirt he'd washed twice and still refused to throw away.

Jen: You keeping evidence?

Ryder: Sentimental value.

Jen: It's a shirt, Blackwood.

Ryder: It's where a tiny angry woman assaulted me with caffeine.

Jen: You were in my way.

Ryder: You were walking backward.

Jen: Details.

The messages were easy. That was the problem.

Easy made Jen suspicious.

A man could be handsome and still be a complete waste of her time.

Ryder was handsome. That much was undeniable.

On Friday morning, Jen stood in her kitchen with a travel mug in one hand and her work bag in the other, listening to Acadia explain why she had no intention of letting anyone tell her what to wear.

“Interesting,” Jen said. “Because I distinctly remember someone trying to tell me my jacket was embarrassing.”

Acadia lifted her chin. “It was embarrassing.”

“It was warm.”

“It looked like you were about to investigate a suspicious noise in a cornfield.”

Nevaeh didn't look up from her breakfast. “She's got a point.”

“Thank you,” Acadia said.

“That doesn't mean you're right about everything.”

“Traitor.”

Syd came in carrying her shoes instead of wearing them. “Mum, where's my other sock?”

“On your foot, hopefully.”

“This one's different.”

Jen looked down. One sock had a blue stripe. The other was covered in tiny stars.

“Fashion,” she declared. “You're ahead of your time.”

Syd grinned and sat down to put on her shoes. Brantley planted himself beside her like an enormous, watchful bodyguard. Shania took the opportunity to steal the warm spot Syd had abandoned on the couch.

Jen's phone lit up.

Ryder: Morning, trouble. Surviving?

Jen: Barely. The children have formed a union.

Ryder: Do they have demands?

Jen: Better snacks. Fewer rules. My resignation.

Ryder: Don't resign. I'd miss the management.

Jen glanced at the screen longer than necessary.

“Who's making you smile like that?” Acadia asked.

“No one.”

Nevaeh looked up. “That's a very specific smile for no one.”

“It's gas,” Jen said.

Syd laughed so hard she nearly dropped a shoe.

Acadia folded her arms, her expression becoming a miniature version of Jen's. “Is it the coffee guy?”

Jen narrowed her eyes. “Who told you about the coffee guy?”

“Tiffany.”

“Of course she did.”

“She said you practically threw yourself at him,” Acadia added.

“I threw coffee at him. Completely different activity.”

Nevaeh calmly took another bite. “Technically, you spilled coffee on him.”

“Thank you, counsel.”

“Just trying to keep the record accurate.”

Jen pointed at all three of them. “I am surrounded by traitors.”

Syd beamed. “Are you going on a date?”

The question was so direct that Jen almost answered with a joke. Instead she set her mug down.

“Dinner,” she said. “Tonight. With Ryder.”

Acadia's eyebrows rose. Nevaeh watched her with quiet interest. Syd looked delighted.

“Do you like him?” Syd asked.

“I like that he hasn't run screaming yet.”

“That isn't an answer,” Nevaeh observed.

“No, it's a very good answer.”

Syd came closer. “Is he nice?”

Jen thought about the farmers' market. The way Ryder had stepped back to give her room, let her introduce the dogs at their pace, and listened when she mentioned her daughters. Six days of messages weren't enough to know a person. But they were enough to notice a pattern.

“So far,” she said. “And that's all I'm promising anybody.”

Syd nodded, accepting it. Nevaeh did too. Acadia looked as if she had approximately forty more questions, but Jen's phone rang with a work call and the morning carried them all forward.

By the time Jen reached Bayshore, she'd already forgotten her travel mug in the car and remembered it again halfway through the parking lot.

A promising start.

✦

At Blackwood Custom Cycles, Ryder stood over a partially disassembled motorcycle while Cole Bennett watched him check the same fitting for the third time.

“You planning to wear a hole through that thing?” Cole asked.

“Planning to make sure it's right.”

“You made sure twenty minutes ago.”

“Good. Then it'll still be right now.”

Cole leaned against the workbench. “Friday.”

Ryder didn't look up. “Congratulations. You know the days of the week.”

“Big date tonight.”

“It's dinner.”

“With the woman who baptized you in coffee.”

“Accidentally.”

“According to her.”

Ryder straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “You got work to do?”

“Plenty. This is more entertaining.”

Cole had known Ryder long enough to recognize when something had got under his skin. The man who could negotiate a difficult custom build without blinking had spent the week checking his phone between jobs like a teenager.

It wasn't the sort of thing Cole intended to let pass without comment.

“So,” Cole said, “you nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Piss off.”

“There he is.”

Ryder tossed the rag onto the bench. “She's got a full life. I know that. I'm not walking in expecting everything to rearrange itself around me.”

Cole's teasing faded a little. “Good.”

“I like her.”

“I noticed.”

“And I don't want to screw it up by acting like an idiot.”

“Then don't.”

Ryder stared at him. “That's your advice?”

“Best I've got. You want poetry, ask somebody else.”

Ryder laughed and went back to work.

The truth was, he wasn't worried about whether he could make Jen laugh. They'd been doing that since the farmers' market. He was worried about whether the laughter would survive a conversation that mattered.

Jen had three daughters. She managed people and responsibilities all day. She had a fierce streak that seemed designed to keep foolish men at a safe distance.

Ryder respected all of it.

He wanted her to know that.

He also knew saying so over dinner would sound like the sort of line she'd mock for the rest of his natural life.

He would have to show her instead.

✦

By late afternoon, Jen had dealt with staffing questions, clinical concerns, a scheduling problem, and a meeting that should have been an email.

As Manager of Clinical Practice, she was used to being the person everyone turned to when something needed a decision. She was good at it. She cared about doing it well. But by five o'clock, she was tired of hearing her own name.

Tiffany was already in Jen's bedroom when Jen got home.

Jen stopped in the doorway. “How did you get in?”

“Your door.”

“Groundbreaking.”

“You told me I could come over.”

“I said you could stop by. I didn't authorize an occupation.”

Tiffany held up two tops. “Black or the other black?”

Jen looked at them. “They're both black.”

“Exactly. Your wardrobe has range.”

Jen took the fitted black top and tossed it on the bed. “I'm going to dinner, not a coronation.”

“You're going on a date.”

“Thank you. I'd forgotten.”

“With Ryder.”

“Is there a point coming?”

Tiffany sat on the edge of the bed. She had been Jen's friend long enough to hear what was hiding underneath the sarcasm.

“You're allowed to enjoy yourself,” she said.

Jen looked toward the mirror. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Don't start being wise. It's unsettling.”

Tiffany smiled, but didn't back off. “You don't have to decide tonight whether he's the love of your life. You can eat a meal and see if he's still funny when you're not throwing coffee at him.”

Jen considered that. “What if he isn't?”

“Then come home and tell me every horrible detail.”

“Now you're speaking my language.”

Tiffany grinned. “And for the record, Cole seems decent.”

Jen turned. “I didn't ask.”

“I know. I'm telling you anyway.”

“Don't make my date into a double date.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

“Good.”

Tiffany lifted both hands. “You and Ryder. Your evening. I'll survive not being the center of attention.”

Jen gave her a look.

“What?” Tiffany said. “I can be supportive.”

“You can be nosy.”

“Multitalented.”

Jen laughed and reached for her makeup bag.

When Tiffany left, the room became quiet. Jen checked the time and studied herself in the mirror. Black jeans, fitted top, ankle boots. Hair down. Enough makeup to feel polished without feeling like someone else.

She looked like herself.

That mattered.

She wasn't going to become softer-spoken or easier to impress just because a man with blue eyes had asked her to dinner.

Her phone vibrated.

Ryder: No pressure, but I'm leaving the shop in twenty. Still on?

Jen: Unfortunately.

Ryder: Excellent. I booked us a table.

Jen: Brave. You don't know if I'll behave.

Ryder: I'm counting on you not behaving.

She smiled.

Then she picked up her bag and went downstairs to say goodnight to the girls.

✦

Ryder arrived exactly when he'd said he would.

Exactly on time.

Jen opened the door before he knocked a second time.

He wore dark jeans, clean boots, and a charcoal shirt that fit his broad shoulders without looking as though he'd spent the afternoon consulting a mirror. His dark beard was neatly trimmed. His cap was missing, leaving his hair a little untidy.

Jen took one look at him.

“Well, shit.”

Ryder's mouth curved. “Good evening to you too.”

“You cleaned up.”

“Was that in doubt?”

“I assumed you slept in a toolbox.”

“Only on weekends.”

He looked at her for a beat longer than she expected. The teasing in his expression softened.

“You look beautiful, Jen.”

She blinked.

“Don't do that,” she said.

“What?”

“Say nice things without warning. It's rude.”

“Noted.”

He stepped back, giving her space to come outside. Jen locked the door and checked it twice out of habit.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Girls all set?”

“Yep.”

He nodded and waited while she tucked her keys away. He didn't ask who was watching them or whether she was sure they were fine. She'd told him she had the evening covered. He believed her.

It was such a small thing.

Jen noticed anyway.

At his truck, Ryder opened the passenger door.

She paused. “I can open a door.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure.”

“Noted again.”

She climbed in. “You're going to have a long list by the end of tonight.”

“I brought a pen.”

She laughed before she could stop herself.

✦

The restaurant Ryder had chosen was warm and unpretentious, with low lighting, comfortable booths, and a menu that didn't require either of them to pretend they understood twelve kinds of foam.

Jen looked around as they were seated.

“Not bad, Blackwood.”

“High praise.”

“Don't get cocky.”

“Too late.”

The server arrived with water. Ryder asked what Jen wanted to drink, then let her order for herself.

When they were alone again, Jen folded her hands on the table.

“Right. Let's get the interrogation over with.”

Ryder leaned back. “Should I have brought a lawyer?”

“Depends. Do you have anything to hide?”

“Probably a few terrible haircut photographs.”

“Those are going to be required.”

“Hard pass.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Coward.”

“Absolutely.”

Ryder told her about Blackwood Custom Cycles: the work, the customers, the long hours, the satisfaction of bringing a motorcycle back to life or building something that felt like it belonged to the person riding it. Cole was his closest friend and the one person at the shop who could tell him he was being unreasonable without starting a war.

“So Cole's the adult?” Jen asked.

“On alternate Tuesdays.”

“That's concerning.”

“What about Bayshore?” Ryder asked. “Do you like managing everyone?”

Jen groaned. “I don't manage everyone.”

“Just most people?”

“Only the ones who insist on making terrible decisions.”

“Busy job.”

“You have no idea.”

She talked about clinical practice, about supporting staff and making sure patients received the care they needed. She didn't give him confidential details, but she told him what mattered: people were depending on her to get things right, and sometimes the pressure followed her home.

Ryder listened. He didn't interrupt to tell a story about himself. He didn't make a joke when she spoke about something serious.

When she finished, he said, “Sounds like you carry a lot.”

Jen shrugged. “It's the job.”

“Doesn't mean it isn't a lot.”

Then she lifted her glass. “Careful. You're starting to sound emotionally competent.”

“Don't spread it around.”

“Your secret's safe. For now.”

They ordered dinner. Jen stole one of his fries before her own food arrived.

Ryder looked down at his plate. “That was mine.”

“Prove it.”

“It's on my plate.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

He pushed the plate slightly closer.

Jen stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“Making it easier.”

“That's a dangerous precedent.”

“I live recklessly.”

She took another fry.

✦

It was Jen who brought up her daughters.

Not because Ryder asked for details. Because she wanted him to understand that there wasn't a version of her life in which they were an optional extra.

“Acadia's got my mouth,” she said.

“I gathered.”

“Nevaeh's the reasonable one, which is deeply unfair because I didn't raise her to make me look bad. And Syd…” Jen smiled into her glass. “Syd feels everything. She's got a huge heart and a stubborn streak.”

“Wonder where she got that.”

“Don't.”

Ryder raised both hands.

Jen's smile faded a little. “Their lives come first. I don't apologize for that.”

“Didn't ask you to.”

“I know. I'm telling you now.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She watched him. “That's it?”

“What else should I say?”

“Most men have a speech ready.”

“About how I understand children I've never met?”

“Usually.”

“Wouldn't be much of a speech.”

Jen laughed once, surprised.

Ryder rested his forearms on the table. “I like you, Jen. I'd like to keep seeing you. I know your daughters are part of your life. I'm not asking you to prove you can fit me in ahead of them.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

She looked down at the table. “That's a very sensible answer.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed.”

“I was hoping you'd say something stupid so I could mock you.”

“Give me time.”

She looked up and smiled.

He didn't ask about Syd's father. He didn't ask whether the girls would like him. He let Jen decide what to share.

For the first time that evening, she stopped waiting for a catch.

✦

After dinner they walked along a quiet stretch near the waterfront. The air had turned cold enough that Jen wished she'd brought a heavier jacket, but she refused to say so.

Ryder noticed her rubbing her arms.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“I'm Canadian. This is a mild inconvenience.”

He took off his jacket and held it out.

She looked at it. “I'm not helpless.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can survive cold weather.”

“I'm sure you can.”

“I'm borrowing this,” she said.

“Understood.”

“If it smells like engine oil, I'm suing.”

“Fair.”

It was warm, and it smelled faintly of clean laundry and Ryder. She pulled it around herself and tried not to look pleased.

They walked a little farther before he spoke.

“You mentioned your dad the other day.”

Jen's steps slowed.

She'd mentioned him in passing, in a conversation about family. She hadn't expected Ryder to remember.

“He died,” she said quietly.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“January eighth, twenty twenty-five.”

Jen looked toward the dark water. “Some days I can talk about him and laugh. Other days I hear something he'd have said and it knocks the wind out of me.”

“Sounds like you were close.”

“We were.” Her mouth trembled into a small smile. “He could drive me absolutely mental.”

“Family talent?”

She elbowed him lightly. “Watch it.”

Ryder smiled, but he didn't push for more.

Jen took a breath. “I miss him.”

“I can hear that.”

She glanced up at him. “You don't have to say something to make it better.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“Good.”

After a while, Ryder said, “Want to tell me something funny about him?”

She did.

The story wasn't especially important. It was about a family moment that had gone sideways and her father's perfect timing with a smart remark. By the end of it, Jen was laughing.

Ryder laughed with her.

✦

On the drive back, Ryder asked whether she wanted music. Jen chose the station and immediately complained about the song.

“You picked it,” he said.

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain opinions.”

“Those too.”

At a red light he glanced at her. She was curled comfortably in the passenger seat, his jacket still around her shoulders, her face turned toward the window.

He wanted to reach for her hand.

He didn't.

When they pulled into her driveway, he turned off the engine.

Jen looked at the house, its familiar windows glowing softly.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said.

“Even though I let you steal my fries?”

“Especially because of that.”

He smiled. “I had a good time.”

“Me too.”

She seemed mildly irritated by the admission.

Ryder walked her to the door. From inside came one sharp bark from Brantley, followed by Shania's answering opinion.

“Security's awake,” Ryder observed.

“They're unionized too.”

Jen unlocked the door but didn't open it.

For a moment they stood facing each other. Ryder was close enough that she could see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. He made no move to close the distance.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

Jen's eyes narrowed. “Are you always this polite?”

“Only when it matters.”

She looked at him for another second.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “You can.”

The kiss started warm, but the moment his palm slid firm against the side of her neck, the weight of his attention shifted. His thumb brushed along the line of her jaw, applying just enough steady pressure to tilt her chin up, commanding her focus without a flicker of haste.

Jen sucked in a sharp, quiet breath through her nose. For a woman used to steering every room, every crisis, and every decision, having a man calmly take charge made the breath catch thick in her throat. Ryder’s other hand found the small of her back, broad fingers pressing into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her flush against his chest so she felt every inch of his solid heat.

“Look at me,” he murmured against her mouth, a quiet rumble that was less a request and more an absolute directive.

Her eyes snapped up to his, defiant by reflex, but her lips parted. Ryder took advantage of the slip immediately. He parted her lips with his tongue, tasting her deep, slow, and possessive, coaxing her to yield without rushing a single stroke. A shiver tore straight down her spine into the junction of her thighs, slick heat pooling low in her belly as his calloused fingers buried into her hair, gripping just firmly enough to anchor her in place while he deepened the kiss until her knees turned soft.

When he finally drew back, his thumb traced her swollen lower lip, lingering with deliberate control. Jen’s fingers were still bunched tightly into the fabric of his shirt, her chest heaving, the friction between her legs throbbing with unspent ache.

“Well,” she said.

“Well,” Ryder echoed.

“That was inconvenient.”

His grin widened. “How so?”

“Now I'm going to have to admit I like you.”

“Tragic.”

“Don't enjoy this too much.”

“Too late, trouble.”

She released his shirt and reached for the door.

“Text me when you get home,” she said.

Ryder raised an eyebrow. “Worried about me?”

“Worried about the other drivers.”

“Of course.”

She slipped inside, then leaned back out.

“And Blackwood?”

“Yeah?”

“You can ask me out again.”

He smiled in a way that made her stomach turn over.

“I was planning to.”

“Cocky bastard.”

“Good night, Jen.”

“Good night.”

She closed the door gently.

Brantley inspected her boots. Shania sniffed the borrowed jacket. From upstairs came Syd's voice asking whether the date had been good.

Jen looked down at Ryder's jacket and smiled.

“Not terrible,” she called back.

Acadia shouted, “That means yes!”

Nevaeh added, “Definitely yes.”

Jen shook her head. “I should've raised quieter children.”

Her phone buzzed before she'd even reached the stairs.

Ryder: For the record, I'm still missing two fries.

Jen: Three.

Ryder: Criminal.

Jen: You kissed the suspect.

Ryder: I'd do it again.

Jen stared at the message for a long moment.

Then she typed:

Jen: Saturday. Coffee. Try not to stand in my way.

Across town, Ryder read it at a stoplight and laughed.

He had spent the evening learning that Jen's sharp edges weren't there to hurt everyone who came close. Some were there because she had worked hard to build a life worth protecting.

He wasn't going to ask her to put that life aside.

He wanted to find out whether she'd let him be part of it.

And Jen, who had gone into dinner determined to keep her expectations low, was already wondering what she'd wear on Saturday.

Not because she needed to impress him.

Because she wanted to see him again.

Which, frankly, was becoming a serious problem.