Chrome and Roses!

She walked into the Devil's Spoke on a Tuesday, which was already her first mistake. The bar had no sign. Didn't need one. Everyone in Hollow Creek knew the Devil's Spoke belonged to the Iron Saints MC, and everyone with good sense stayed away. The parking lot alone — forty motorcycles lined up like a metal wall — was enough of a message. Ellie Marsh had never been accused of having good sense. She had a delivery. That was all. A catering order for a private event that her boss had booked without mentioning the client, and Ellie had loaded the van, driven forty minutes down Route 9, and only connected the dots when she saw the patches on the back of every jacket inside. Skull and engine parts. Iron Saints. Established 1987. She set the first tray on the bar and told herself to be professional. She had done three years of culinary school and two years building Sugar & Salt from a side hustle into a real business. She was not going to be rattled by a room full of bikers who were, when she looked past the leather and tattoos, simply men eating pulled pork sliders. Then the door opened behind her and the room went quiet in that particular way that meant someone significant had walked in. She turned around because she couldn't help it. He was tall — not unreasonably, just enough that he filled a doorframe with room to spare. Dark hair, a few days past a cut. A jaw that looked like it had been carved for the specific purpose of making people feel underdressed. He wore the Saints cut over a plain black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and he moved through the room the way water moves downhill: like the path cleared itself for him and he never noticed. His eyes found her immediately. Not a sweep of the room — directly, specifically her, like she was the only thing in it that required explanation. "You're the caterer. Not a question." "Ellie Marsh. She stuck out her hand before she could think better of it. Sugar and Salt Catering. I've got two more trays in the van." He looked at her hand. A long moment passed. Then he shook it, and his grip was careful — deliberate — like he was aware of the difference in size and was making a choice about it. "Rafe Santos. His voice was low, unhurried. You're on the wrong side of the county, Ellie Marsh." "My GPS disagrees." The corner of his mouth moved. Just barely. Like amusement had tried to surface and he'd caught it in time. "I'll have someone help you with the trays." "I don't need—" "It wasn't a question." He walked away before she could respond, which was probably for the best, because what she'd been about to say was thank you and she suspected that was not the right energy for this room.