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Excerpt: Snow's Woman: A Mountain MC Romance

SNOW

Her group tries to inconspicuously study me as I take a drink.


A bunch of curious good girls here for a little excitement—I noticed them right away. In a room full of predators, sweet prey is always easy to spot. And, damn, did they look sweet.


Especially her—the curvy little package with wild curls and innocent blue eyes behind square-framed glasses.


But when I saw what she was wearing, fury ran through me. What man lets his woman into the lion's den without protection? Let her blatantly flaunt his MC in rival territory?


When she explained how they were here because of a book, relief washed through me. Then, frustration.


Innocent women like her don't belong here.


"I think you've wet all of their panties, Prez. They won't stop spying." Fox, my vice president, laughs and relaxes on the bar stool next to mine.


“Let’s hope they look their fill and get the hell out of here. Where are we with Breaker?”


The only reason we’re in this dive bar is to negotiate a deal with the local chapter of the Ghost Rider MC. They run the territory from Everton to the county line. Since my club’s arrival in Suitor’s Crossing two years ago, we’ve staved off our fair share of challenges from groups concerned about our intentions. This is just another one to add to the list.


The Reaper’s Wolves MC is home to ex-military men searching for brotherhood. We’re above board and try to keep to ourselves, but that doesn’t mean we don’t respond to threats.

Tonight, we’re trying to broker peace with the Ghost Rider MC and defuse the tension between our clubs.


They want to do illegal shit? Fine, but we don’t want any part of it. And we’re sure as hell not planning on stealing their business.


“He and his boys are late, of course. An immature power play.” Fox rolls his eyes.


“I’m tired of dealing with these pissants. We don’t start shit yet still have to parlay with insecure men.” I shake my head in disgust. “Is it too much to ask to leave us the fuck alone? We just want some peace after the hell we’ve all been through.”


“I hear ya, brother.”


My dad founded the Reaper’s Wolves after serving during the Gulf War. My earliest memories are of the rumble of Harleys and men’s laughter as they gathered at their home away from home—my family’s ranch house.


I always knew I wanted to follow in Dad’s footsteps, but damn, I don’t remember him being forced to handle rival clubs’ feelings.


Not that I truly consider any of these MCs rivals.


We’re not in the same business, after all, but there’s a fine line between showing your strength to ward off problems and laying low and leaving yourself open to being run over.


Stretching my neck from side to side, I force the muscles to loosen from pent-up tension. I hate being kept waiting. And I hate that we’re in No Man’s Land, a neutral space for clubs to meet in safety.


My best friend Austin’s bar is home. So is the small mountain town of Suitor’s Crossing.

Those winding mountain roads are calling my name, but there’s another beacon drawing my attention, too—the curvy good girl I can’t keep my eyes off of.


Despite No Man’s Land’s neutrality, anything can happen to a woman like her and her friends. This area may not officially be owned by any one club, but I’d hoped a warning about encroaching clubs and rival turf might send her little group running for the hills.


Because they don’t belong here.


Yet their sense of self-preservation is clearly lacking because they still remain front and center in the bar. On display for every hardened biker with a criminal record or strung-out tweaker to harass.


“Make sure we’ve got men watching them.” I nod toward her group.


Fox smirks but agrees. Who knows what will go down when the Ghost Rider MC arrives? But we don’t want civilians accidentally getting caught in the crossfire.


Just as the words leave my mouth, the Little Owl heads my way.


Her glasses accentuate the air of innocence about her when she adjusts them, and the serene blue draws me in like she’s a fucking mermaid of the sea. She pushes a stray curl behind her ear—one that refuses to be tamed because it pops forward again—before ordering another round of shots.


"On me, Lou." I motion to the bartender as he pours the alcohol. I shouldn’t prolong her stay in No Man’s Land, but it’s a bad habit—buying pretty girls drinks.


"No, thank you." She dips her chin in acknowledgment and puts cash on the countertop. Short fingernails tap against the bar top as she shifts from one foot to the other.


"Accept it as an apology for earlier."


Lou pushes the tray of shots toward her, the golden liquor gleaming under the bar lights, but again, she quietly refuses and walks away. Fox snickers at her rejection as I swallow the last of my beer.


I'm the fucking president of Reaper’s Wolves.


I don't get turned down. Women flock to my side for a chance at the MC president, and a shared drink hardly counts as a commitment. Logic wars with pride.


It’s smart to decline my offer. She doesn’t know me except as the man who cornered and interrogated her—a stranger in a potentially dangerous place.


Doesn’t lessen the sting of her rebuff, though.


Not one fucking bit.


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