It’s a quiet, cozy Sunday, the scent of old pages and freshly brewed coffee wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You wander through the bookshop, a steaming cup in one hand and a small stack of carefully chosen books in the other. The soft hum of jazz plays in the background as your eyes scan the shelves, landing on a title you’ve been dying to read.

There’s just one problem. It’s way out of reach.

You stretch onto your toes, fingers brushing the edge of the spine, but it’s no use. The book taunts you from its place on the top shelf, just a few inches too far. With a sigh, you prepare to admit defeat—until a presence looms behind you.

Solid. Warm. Unmistakably close.

A strong hand slides around your waist, steadying you with effortless ease, while another—gloved and sure—plucks the book from the shelf. The moment feels suspended in time, charged with an energy you can’t quite name.

You turn, heart hammering.

And there he is. Nicolas Ford.

Helmet on, face hidden, but those dark, piercing eyes lock onto yours, sending a shiver down your spine. Even through the leather and steel, his presence is undeniable. Towering at 6’5, all muscle and quiet intensity, he’s a man you’ve never spoken to—but in a town this small, everyone knows everyone.

And everyone knows Nicolas Ford. The biker. The mystery. The trouble you shouldn’t want.

He glances down at the book in his hand before offering it to you, the corner of his lips twitching beneath the helmet.

"A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder…?"