Slow Dance at Rose Bend by Naima Simone (books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

a spider’s web. She’d just untangled herself from an unhealthy relationship that she’d let linger too long. And Maddox Holt, he was temptation wrapped in golden, inked skin, honeyed words and secret desires.

No, she didn’t want to get to know him.

Because she suspected that would make leaving him all the more difficult.

“Let me go,” she softly ordered him. Immediately, his hands dropped away from her. “I don’t want that. I’m sorry.”

Regret pulsed hot and bright in her veins, but she took one step back. Then another. And another until she’d crossed the room, made her excuses to Daryl and Belinda, then exited the bar.

She’d come to Rose Bend to sell jewelry and enjoy the motorcycle rally as she did every year. Not for an ill-conceived fling. It was a good thing that any thought of being with Maddox Holt had come to a screaming halt. Nothing but trouble would’ve probably come of that.

Yes, she’d dodged a giant, redheaded bullet.

And if a kernel of emptiness lodged just under her rib cage at the thought, well, so be it. Rather an empty heart now than a broken one later.

CHAPTER TWO

HARLEYS. DUCATIS. BUSAS. YAMAHAS.

Maddox rolled to a stop behind the fifty or so motorcycles of all makes and models filling Main Street, creating quite a spectacle for the first ride of the rally. The number of riders would swell to double this size by tomorrow, and even more in the coming week. The whole town of Rose Bend opened its proverbial doors for bikers from all over the country for the rally. The beautification committee decked out the buildings in banners, motorcycle-themed bows and white lights. On the Glen, a huge field at the end of Main, several volunteers hosted barbecues and picnics, while more volunteers set up sponsored events and games for the annual visitors and their families. All the proceeds from the rally benefited the This Is Home Foundation, an organization that ran the youth home for foster children in town.

This Saturday morning, even at a little before eight o’clock, a good crowd of Rose Bend’s citizens gathered on the sidewalks. Chatter and children’s excited squeals filled the air that still held the coolness of a Berkshires night. In another two hours, the temperature would rise to about eighty-five degrees. Perfect for the ride around gorgeous Mount Everett.

Pride expanded inside Maddox until it threatened to burst through his chest. He might be a transplant here, but this small, quaint town in the shadows of Monument Mountain and Mount Everett was home. For a person who hadn’t been able to label any place that—a home—for twenty-three of his thirty-one years, it was a minor miracle. It’d been fate and a random road trip that had brought him here eight years ago, and a case of love at first sight that had kept him here. As a child of a musician mother who’d called a tour bus home for most of her decades-long career, Maddox had seen a ton of this country, and a good amount of countries abroad. But none of those places had resounded in his soul, crying out to the part of him that longed for stability, for a place where he could stay long enough to receive junk mail. A home.

Rose Bend was more than a place where he’d bought a house and a dive bar.

It was a haven for a boy-turned-adult who’d been afraid to make friends because he knew that he would only be leaving them behind. But now... He glanced around, soaking in Main Street with its charming brick buildings, colorful awnings, leafy trees and inviting benches. Now he not only had friends. He had friends he considered family.

Speaking of...

His gaze narrowed on Daryl and Belinda Barnes. The couple had been one of the first he’d met when he’d arrived in town, and they been good friends since. The woman with them, sitting astride a burgundy-and-black Suzuki Hayabusa 1300, though—nothing about her inspired “friendly.”

He stared at Cherrie Moore. Unabashedly and unapologetically stared.

Jesus, how was it possible the woman could get any more beautiful in the space of eight hours? Last night, in a torso-hugging leather vest and tight jeans that showed off beautiful tattooed brown skin, toned arms, a heart palpitation–inducing pair of breasts, a cock-hardening ass and incredibly long, thick legs, she’d been a walking wet dream. Today, straddling the high-powered, bulky sports bike most people considered a man’s machine, and encased in a leather jacket, equally tight jeans and motorcycle boots, she was pure, unadulterated fantasy.

Swinging his leg over his Ducati, he skirted the other riders and approached the trio, his focus concentrated solely on the statuesque beauty with the solemn brown eyes and lush mouth. Her features created a fascinating, striking face that had branded itself into his mind. In his dreams. As did her walking away from him.

Last night, he’d fucked up. Being on the road or being shuffled from one relative’s house to another most of his life hadn’t instilled in him the greatest of social skills. Which meant tact was often a foreign concept, and his aptitude for flirtation could be compared to that of a rampaging bear. Didn’t mean anything he’d said hadn’t been true. Or that he had any intention of giving up on Cherrie Moore so easily.

She’d walked. And he had no problem with following.

As if sensing his presence, she glanced up, and an emotion that veered too close to panic flared in her eyes, causing him to hesitate. But only for a moment. Curiosity and determination streamed through him. Why, he didn’t pause to analyze, just as he hadn’t the night before. For the first time in, well...ever, he acted on instinct. On impulse. And every instinct demanded he not let this woman escape him.

“Morning,” he greeted.

Belinda and Daryl turned, smiling, as they returned his greeting with a hug from her and a back slap from him.

“Hey, you,” Belinda said. “I was wondering if we were going to see you here this morning.”

“I told her