The Biker Who Broke Her Rules

I woke up in a stranger’s bed, naked and with absolutely no regrets. That alone should have concerned me. Regret was usually reliable. It arrived immediately after bad decisions, carrying consequences, criticism, and a detailed explanation of everything I should have done differently. But as morning light slipped through unfamiliar curtains, all I could think was ‘That was incredible.’ I stared at the ceiling. Then I turned my head. The stranger was still asleep. Dark hair had fallen across his forehead. One arm rested over the empty side of the bed, the blanket pulled back enough to reveal part of a tattoo winding along his forearm. I remembered that tattooed arm, it had explored my every curve, slowly and intentionally. The same arm that showed me heaven between my legs and occasionally helped me muffle my moans. I remembered his smile too. As he emerged from in between my legs, throughly pleased with himself for making my legs shiver. His smirks too, along my lips, every time I pulled him in for a kiss. I remembered his voice, as he whispered deadly promises that he indeed kept. Very thorough with each one as I moaned into his neck. I remembered every touch, bite, scratch and sighs shared between us last night. The way he had looked at me as though I were the most interesting person in the room. And, perhaps most dangerously, the way he had made me forget about work. For one night, I hadn’t been Olivia Brooks. I hadn’t been the PR strategist people called when a reputation was collapsing, a scandal was spreading, or a powerful client needed the truth buried beneath a better story. I had simply been Olivia. No title. No expectations. No one asking me to fix anything. Just a crowded bar, a stranger with an irritatingly confident smile, and one decision I had no intention of explaining to anyone. I sat up quietly and reached for my dress. It was draped over a chair near the window. One heel was beside it. The other was underneath the bed. Of course. I retrieved it, gathered my bag, and checked my phone. Six missed calls. Four emails. The responsible version of me was waiting. The version with deadlines, clients, and a calendar organized down to the hour. I looked back at the stranger. He shifted beneath the sheets but didn’t wake. For one reckless moment, I considered staying. Not because I wanted anything. I didn’t. I didn’t know his name. He didn’t know mine. That had been intentional. No names meant no expectations. No expectations meant no complications. One night was simple. One night was safe. Besides if it weren’t for the fact that I was drunk, this wouldn’t even happen. One night stands were a pain in the ass for PR. But for some reason last night my drunk self didn’t think about NDAs or probable PR nightmares. I only saw him. As always every reckless decisions must come to an end, even if I enjoyed this one a little too much. I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. “Leaving already?” I stopped. His voice was rough with sleep. I turned slowly. He was awake. One dark eyebrow lifted as he looked at me. “You’re very quiet,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you.” “That’s considerate.” “I try.” His mouth curved. The smile was familiar. Dangerously familiar, and from the heat that creeped up on me, it was sure that my body was familiar with it too. “You have somewhere to be?” “Yes.” “Work?” “Yes.” “On a Saturday?” “Some of us have responsibilities.” He laughed softly. “You don’t even know my name.” “You don’t know mine.” “I could ask.” “You could.” He watched me for a moment. Then he leaned back against the pillows. “Maybe I like the mystery.” “Then we’re in agreement.” I reached for the door. “Wait.” I looked over my shoulder. “Are we doing this again?” The answer should have been easy. No. One night had been enough. One night was exactly what I wanted. But I remembered his hands. His smile. The way I had forgotten what time it was. “Probably not,” I said. His grin widened. “Probably?” “Goodbye.” “See you around, Mystery.” I closed the door before he could see me smile. ⸻ The next morning, my office was quiet. Organized. Predictable. Exactly the way I liked it. Sunlight spilled across my desk as I reviewed a client proposal, coffee in one hand and my phone in the other. The name on the glass behind me read: OLIVIA BROOKS PUBLIC RELATIONS CONSULTANT I had been freelancing for several months now. My contract with Cross Global had ended, and I had chosen not to renew it. Instead, I built something of my own. It was smaller. More selective. And entirely mine. I chose my clients. I set my rates. I decided which disasters were worth fixing. My phone rang. I glanced at the number. Unknown. “Olivia Brooks.” “Ms. Brooks, my name is Marcus Bell. I was given your number by someone at Cross Global.” I leaned back in my chair. “What can I do for you?” “We have a crisis.” “Most people who call me do.” “This one is urgent.” “They usually are.” A pause. Then he said, “We need someone on-site immediately.” “Where?” “A motorcycle garage on the east side.” I glanced at the clock. “I don’t work without knowing the situation.” “A video was leaked last night.” “Of what?” “One of our riders.” “What did he do?” “I’d rather explain in person.” “That isn’t how this works.” “We’re prepared to pay whatever your emergency rate is.” I opened my laptop. “My emergency rate is expensive.” “We know.” “Very expensive.” “Name the amount.” I gave him a number high enough to make most clients hesitate. Marcus didn’t. “Done.” I stopped typing. “You agreed rather quickly.” “We need you there within the hour.” “What company is this?” “Hayes Motorworks.” I wrote the name down. “I’ll be there.” ⸻ The garage was louder than I expected. Motorcycles lined the concrete floor. Tools covered workbenches. The air smelled like oil, metal, and gasoline. Several people looked up when I walked inside. I was wearing a black blazer, fitted trousers, and heels. I looked entirely out of place. That was their problem. “Olivia Brooks,” I said. “I’m here about the crisis.” A man near the entrance pointed toward the back. “He’s over there.” I followed his gesture. Someone was standing beside a black motorcycle. His back was turned. Dark hair. Black leather jacket. My steps slowed. No. That was impossible. The man turned. And smiled. The same lazy, infuriating smile I had left behind yesterday morning. For one second, neither of us moved. Then his eyes widened. Not much. Just enough. “Mystery?” he said. My stomach dropped. I stared at him. At the stranger whose name I had never asked. At the man I had promised myself I would never see again. He looked from my heels to my black blazer. Then his gaze returned to my face. “Ms. Brooks, I see that you’ve met Logan.” someone else said but i didn’t look at them I had handled celebrity scandals, corporate disasters, and public controversies that should have destroyed entire careers. But standing in the middle of that garage, I had no idea what to say. Because the stranger from my one-night stand was apparently the reason I had been called. And judging by the smile on his face, he was enjoying this far too much.