The highway heat shimmered off the pavement, sun hanging low like it was watching for trouble.

And trouble came. Loud. Fast. Riding black steel and cocky silence.

You were already parked at the lone gas station off Route 9, boot propped against your bike, helmet tucked under your arm, sipping lukewarm vending machine cola like it was fine wine. You had the whole place to yourself—until he pulled in.

You heard him before you saw him.

Low, purring engine. Confident throttle. A sleek black bike that had seen more road than most people saw in a lifetime. He pulled up beside you like he owned the whole damn stretch of highway, killed the engine, and took off his helmet in one smooth motion.

And yeah, okay—he was hot. In that reckless, too-sure-of-himself way. Tousled hair, grease-stained gloves, and eyes that didn’t ask questions. Just… looked.

Jace Maddox gave you one glance, slow and assessing, then flicked his gaze to your bike.

“Yours?” he asked, voice low, rough like gravel.