Love by Design

by Wynne Roman

  Love by Design

  Girl Power Collection

  Wynne Roman

  Copyright © 2020 by Wynne Roman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Love by Design

  Ainsley Burton Needs a Break

  Struggling to keep my father’s business afloat, I take whatever jobs are available — even if it means working for the Hell’s Creed Motorcycle Club. The problem is, no one wants to work with a female contractor, and especially not a group of macho bikers.

  So why do I complicate the situation by sleeping with the club treasurer? Talon might be hot as sin, but he doesn’t trust me and I don’t like his attitude. That doesn’t stop me when I get the chance to prove myself and my construction skills, but what about after the project is over?

  Can a lady contractor and an alpha biker really find their Happily Ever After?

  ♨ This is an adult romance intended for mature audiences. Language and sexual situations are explicit. Not appropriate for readers under 18. ♨

  Introduction

  The “Girl Power Collection” is a celebration of feminism in an unprecedented manner and will serve as an inspiration for millions of readers across the globe.

  Over the years, men that have made landmark achievements in different facets of life have often been celebrated, with very few stories about bad ass women who have excelled in their respective positions. While there are some works that highlight the fantastic achievements of women in powerful positions, there is no particular project exclusively dedicated to celebrating “girl power.”

  This compilation contains short stories with the theme of Girl Power in whichever way the author defines it for herself and her readers. The romance stories are narrated in a diverse yet entertaining and inspiring way and will be released in regular intervals throughout 2020.

  We hope you enjoy celebrating Girl Power with us.

  In memory of Alice Bittle McSheehy Mottz.

  Writer, poet, journalist, mother,

  and my grandmother.

  The first woman I ever knew who

  kicked ass first and took names later.

  With thanks and kudos to all the

  wonderful authors who shared

  their vision and talents as part of

  the Girl Power Collection.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Wynne Roman

  About the Author

  One

  AINSLEY

  Tonight, I’m getting drunk. I already decided it. I can’t remember the last time I let loose that way.

  Well, I kind of can. It had to have been a couple of weeks before college graduation. I finished my last class, aced my last test, and I was ready to let off some steam. Gin was my friend that night.

  We are no longer on speaking terms.

  Tonight, I have a higher purpose. I hike my ass up on a bar stool and look around. The bar used to be called Nuggets, a reference to the gold mining that resulted in the settlement of Prospect Falls, California. Nuggets was my dad’s hangout. He’d come in for an occasional beer after work or a game of pool with guys who worked on his construction crews. After I turned 21, I met him here a time or two.

  Everything’s changed now.

  My mom ran off when I was maybe 10, and as of a few months ago, my dad’s gone, too. Lost to that bitch cancer. Lung cancer in a man who never smoked a day in his life.

  How screwed up is that? The contradiction hits worse today, because this would have been his 50th birthday. He should be here with me.

  But he isn’t, and so I’m alone at Nuggets with every intention of getting very, very drunk.

  Except, the bar isn’t Nuggets anymore. It’s Creed’s now, and it belongs to the Hell’s Creed Motorcycle Club.

  Hell’s Creed.

  I don’t know a lot about them, but their logo says it all. A skull of death looks out from a seductive black hood, its smile wicked and toothy. The figure holds a scythe in one hand, the blade curving around the back of its skull. The other arm thrusts forward, brandishing a cross decorated so ornately, it looks like a heavily jeweled dagger.

  It isn’t surprising that they’re big, mean, and in Prospect Falls to stay. They moved in five years ago and quickly established themselves as a force to be reckoned with. Their presence has impacted the town personally, socially, and even economically, although that came more gradually.

  That’s how Nuggets eventually became Creed’s, I guess. It makes me a little sad to lose that old connection, but life is never static. That’s one thing I’ve learned to always depend on. Change is inevitable, and so here I am, a “civilian” surrounded by a bar full of bikers.

  Glancing around, I realize how out of place I must look. I’m dressed in ragged jeans, a black-and-red plaid shirt, and, after being pulled back into a tight ponytail all day, my blonde hair hangs limply around my shoulders. The men here wear dark jeans or leather pants, T-shirts under the leather vests I know are called cuts, and heavy biker boots. Some have long hair, some short, a couple even shaved their heads. They have beards, tattoos, big silver rings, and chains around their necks or connecting to their pockets.

  A couple are hot, like Charlie Hunam, Keanu Reeves, or Tom Hardy hot. I swallow a smile. Good-looking men whose smoldering intensity takes their masculinity to another level. The women in Prospect Falls never stood a chance, so much so that I’m not surprised to recognize a few faces from high school. Lindsay Buckman and Jacey Grant fit right in. But Savannah Oliver? The transformation from homecoming queen to biker babe seems like one hell of a switch.

  None of the women noticed my arrival. The men are their priority. They wear too much makeup, skintight skirts, and tops that look about two sizes too small. They laugh too loud, rub their tits and asses all over the men, and act like they would love a good fucking. Right here and right now.

  As a modern woman, it embarrasses me. Makes me feel kind of sick. Where’s their pride? Self-respect? Lady balls?

  “What’ll it be?”

  I dismiss the women to order when the bartender makes his way to my side of the bar. “Beer. Whatever you have on tap. And a shot of Patrón.”

  He lifts an eyebrow but nods. “You got it.”

  A couple of guys across the bar give me the eye, but I ignore them. They’re just checking out the new chick who doesn’t fit in, and I’m not interested.

  My drinks arrive, the mug tall and frosty. The shot glass boasts a lime wedge, and the bartender offers me a salt shaker.

  I grin, lick the back of my hand, and shake out the salt. With a quick swipe of my tongue, I toss back the tequila and suck the lime fiercely into my mouth.

  God, that’s good. And bad.

  The alcohol burns my throat and heat spreads through my chest. Exactly what I expected. Wanted. Needed.

  Lifting my beer high, I send up a silent toast.
Happy birthday, Dad. I love you, and I miss you. So goddamn much.

  A glass clinks against my mug. “What are we toasting?”

  I turn. A man stands next to me, and as stupid as it feels, I can only blink and stare.

  No way can I describe him as just a man. He’s like a damned god or something. A biker who puts every other guy to shame. He’s tall, at least 6’3”, with long, tangled brown hair and chocolate-colored eyes. He has a couple of earrings in one ear, at least one in the other, and a silver hoop loops tight through one nostril. He’s heavily tattooed, dressed like the other bikers, and everything about him screams masculinity.

  Well, hell. I swallow. What is the best-looking dude in a hundred-mile radius doing here, talking to me?

  “Excuse me?”

  “You looked like you were toasting.” He nods toward my mug, still elevated in my solitary salute.

  I lower the beer and try not to stare. I end up looking at his hands — big hands — with silver rings that decorate a couple of fingers. One is a skull, and another an eagle.

  Oh, my God. My imagination goes wild speculating about what the man can do with those hands.

  “Er, yeah.” I finally answer. “I was.”

  God, I sound intelligent. Not.

  He drops one elbow onto the bar and leans down. “Any special reason?”

  Geeze, he smells good. Like sandalwood, gasoline or motor oil, and man. All man. I want to lean into him, press my nose against his throat, and just sniff.

  “My dad’s birthday.” I answer to distract myself. “He would have been fifty today.”

  “Would have been?”

  “He died a few months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.” I take a long drink, searching for composure. The beer goes down so smooth and easy, I drink again.

  “What’s your name?”

  I take another drink, swallow, and take in the force of his good looks. I’m better prepared for it this time.

  “Ainsley.”

  “Talon.”

  I take the hand he holds out, and seconds later, I’m almost regretting it. On the other hand, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

  His skin is callused enough to reveal that he isn’t afraid of hard work. It’s also hot and rough and attracts me like a damned magnet. I can’t seem to let go.

  It’s Talon who withdraws. A whine of disappointment settles at the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow it down.

  What is wrong with me?

  I’m no shy virgin. I grew up around Dad’s all-male construction crews. I had a boyfriend in high school, another in college. I’ve even had a couple of hookups and one-night stands — sex for the sake of having sex — but no one has ever affected me this way.

  What the hell am I supposed to do about it?

  “This seat taken?” He points to the barstool next to me.

  “It’s all yours.” I angle my head in invitation.

  He slides into place, tosses back the last of his drink, and signals the bartender for another.

  “Why’d you pick Creed’s to celebrate your dad’s birthday?”

  I offer a small, wistful smile. “He used to come here, back when it was Nuggets. I didn’t know the place had changed hands until I got here.”

  “You don’t live here, then?”

  “I do now. I was away at college for a few years. Dad was already sick when I got back, so I haven’t had a lot of time for bar hopping since then.”

  Talon nods like what I said makes sense. I hope so, because I can’t think of much beyond pure sensation. How can his mere presence do that to me?

  “Think your dad would like it here?”

  I look around. Men crowd around the pool tables, shouting and laughing and arguing. Bikers and scantily clad women cram into booths and around tables. Their laughter is mixed with openly sexual behavior. Kissing, groping, and touching that pushes past the boundaries of public displays of affection.

  It’s practically like fucking with their clothes on.

  “Hard to say.” I take a drink of beer and allow myself another glance in Talon’s direction. “The daughter in me says he’d be damned uncomfortable here, but . . .”

  “Men are men?”

  “Maybe,” I allow with an embarrassed laugh. “How do they get by with that?” I nod toward a woman who squirms seductively on a man’s lap. “They’re in public, for God’s sake.”

  Talon laughs. “It won’t go any farther. They’ll go back to the clubhouse for that.”

  “Uh — what?”

  The bartender shows up with more drinks before Talon can answer. He places a tall glass in front of Talon, another frosty mug before me, and a tequila shot follows.

  “Thanks,” Talon says absently, but he’s looking at me.

  “I didn’t order anything.” I glare at the array of glasses.

  “Brought you a round,” the bartender announces as he walks away.

  “Drink up.” Talon sounds amused.

  Is he laughing at me? I eye the shot glass, slant Talon a sharp, accusing gaze, but finally shrug. In the overall scheme of things tonight, what difference does it make?

  I perform my little salt-and-lime routine, toss back the tequila, and then welcome the same alcohol burn. It feels better this time.

  Slamming the shot glass onto the bar, I take a long, deep pull of my beer and grin at Talon. “Happy now?”

  “Depends. How’re you feeling?”

  I blink and purse my lips. How do I feel?

  Pleased. Satisfied. Unsettled. Not as lonely as when I came in.

  I don’t give him any of that, though.

  “I was going to get drunk tonight,” I admit instead, “but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  Two shots of tequila aren’t enough for me to be drunk. They are, however, enough to loosen my lips. “Because you’re way more interesting than alcohol.”

  He grins. “So are you, sweet thing.”

  I realize at the last second that his hand is coming toward me. I should probably flinch or something, but I don’t. That seems wrong in a couple of ways, and so I merely smile and wait patiently.

  He tucks a bit of hair behind my right ear and leans in closer. “So are you,” he repeats, his breath warm and rich with the faint scent of mint.

  I want to turn my body into his and do . . . what? We’ve known each other for less than five minutes; none of this should mean anything. Not yet.

  Hell, I shouldn’t even be aware of this man like I am.

  I want to laugh at myself, but I take another drink of beer instead. Be aware of this man? What a wasted thought.

  He fills my senses, grabs every bit of my attention, and there is nothing I can do about it.

  “Who’re you takin’ in the game on Sunday, Tal?” A voice shouts from across the bar, and my breathing stumbles in surprise.

  Talon pulls back slowly, languidly, and then drops a hand to my knee. It almost feels like he’s claiming me. I should be pissed off — I’m my own woman, dammit — but I can’t find the anger.

  “Not going there, Bear,” Talon calls out to the men who sit on the other side of the bar. The ones who checked me out first. “I know you’re behind the Cowboys,” Talon adds, “and I can’t do it.”

  The other man — Bear? — laughs. A good-natured disagreement breaks out then, with a debate over the merits of the San Francisco 49ers versus the Oakland Raiders. It’s a familiar argument I’ve heard all my life; Prospect Falls isn’t located all that far from the Bay area. Over the last couple of years, the discussion has ramped up to include the Raiders’ move to Vegas, and I still don’t care.

  Talon turns to me after a few minutes. “Whose side you wanna take?”

  “Oh, no.” I laugh, shake my head, and drain the last of my beer. “You’re not dragging me into that discussion. I’m a Seahawks fan.”

  “A Seahawks fan!” Bear shouts, which leads to a running argument where we toss
insults back and forth. Surprisingly, it’s a lot like arguing with the guys on Dad’s construction crews. I grew up defending my opinions against their misogyny, and I’ve learned to hold my ground.

  Another round later, the conversation has moved on to baseball: the San Francisco Giants versus the Oakland Athletics. No one can agree on that, either, and I shake my head in amusement.

  “What’s that smile for, sweet thing?” Talon’s hand moves from my leg to splay over the middle of my back.

  I give it a second’s thought. “I’m enjoying myself.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am.”

  “Hmm.” It’s a seductive little sound that sends my nerve endings racing. “How about it, then?”

  “What?”

  He leans down to rest his lips against the curve of my ear and whispers suggestively, “You ready to get out of this place? I got something else in mind for the rest of the night.”

  “Another surprise?” Where is that flirty voice coming from?

  He grins. “Maybe. You’ll just have to take a chance and see.”

  Two

  AINSLEY

  I want to go with him. See what other kind of surprise this man might have in store for me. Oh, I know it’s sex, but that can mean anything. I’ve had some pretty lousy sex over the years, with orgasms being hit or miss most of the time.

  Something tells me that being with Talon will turn out very differently.

  Just like this night is proving to be unlike my expectations. Nothing like the lonely, maudlin way I thought I’d spend my dad’s birthday.

  Close your eyes, Dad. Go to wherever it is that people who cross to the other side go. You don’t want to watch your little girl getting her freak on with a complete stranger.