Summer Rebound (Dating Season Book 2)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Paige Press

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Also by Kayti McGee

  About Laurelin Paige

  About Kayti McGee

  Copyright © 2021 by Laurelin Paige & Kayti McGee

  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.

  Paige Press, LLC

  Leander, Texas

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-43-2

  Content Editing: Paula Dawn at Lilypad Lit

  CopyEditing: Erica Russikoff at Erica Edits

  Proofing: Michele Ficht, Kimberly Ruiz

  Cover: Laurelin Paige

  One

  I’m ninety-nine percent certain my blind date belongs to a one-percent motorcycle gang.

  Near a row of Harleys, I text Charlotte. You failed to mention this is an actual biker bar.

  Oopsie daisy! she replies within seconds.

  Srsly?

  In my defense, isn’t the name Handle Bar obvious?

  Not really. Handlebar is also a kind of mustache.

  How many mustache bars have you ever seen?

  She has a point, but this is Boulder, so I can’t rule anything out. Still… Not to be judgmental, but is this safe?

  Until now, letting Charlotte play Cyrano de Bergerac and use my FriendsOfFriends account to select a guy seemed like a brilliant idea. Since I seem to pick duds, why not let the person getting married choose? Now, showing up to meet a stranger, armed with only a name, seems foolish.

  That’s very judgmental, but yes.

  A flurry of texts reminds me of why I agreed to do this.

  In a crazy small world, Dune knows my cousin, Ben, in Seattle, whom she vetted him with.

  It’s been two months since the Finn fiasco, and more than ample time to pursue a rebound.

  I’ve decided to be more daring this summer, and meeting someone sight unseen is for sure daring.

  You can’t back out, she finishes. Walk in like the lioness you are.

  Honkey tonk music filters from the sprawling wooden saloon, and if anything, I want to promenade, not rawr. But I’m already here, so I’ll follow through, because I can’t wait to see who Charlotte has picked for me.

  Okay. Going in. I’ll let you know how it goes.

  Just remember… You’re trying new things.

  My sanity is questionable, but I drop my phone into my handbag and forge ahead.

  “Are you lost?” a gruff voice asks as I take baby steps toward the building.

  I glance over to a strapping man with a beard to rival Santa’s.

  “No, I’m supposed to be here.” The furrow between his bushy brow says he doesn’t believe me, so I elaborate, “I’m meeting someone inside.”

  “Who?”

  Even if it’s not wise, the authoritative tone of his voice compels me to answer, “Dune.”

  “Ah. Follow me.” His tree trunk legs power forward to the wide door.

  “It’s okay,” I say to his leather-vested back. “I can find him on my own.”

  “Don’t be shy, girl,” he says. “We’re all family here.”

  When he swings open the glass door, I step into a fantastical alternative world made of leather. As we amble into the rowdy crowd, it’s painfully obvious why he thought I was lost. In my sundress and wedges, I might as well have outsider written on my forehead. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing here. A multitude of biker people gawk at me with unbridled curiosity as I follow my guide across the hardwoods. His beefy frame barrels through the patrons, until we stop a few feet away from a dark-haired man. “That’s him at the end of the bar.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t catch your name...”

  “Call me Hambone.”

  Never in my life have I called anyone Hambone, but I do now. “Thank you, Hambone.”

  With a nod, he drifts into the melee mingling nearby and I shake off the urge to bolt when mystery man stands. All the blind date advice I read said to smile a lot, but that’s impossible when your jaw is on the floor. Charlotte straight up chose the bad boy. That old three-second rule to determine attraction is a non-issue. A millisecond is all I need. Full sleeves of vibrant ink cover his arms from wrist to the edge of his white T-shirt, and anyone who thinks tattoos aren’t sexy can never be my friend.

  “Chloe, I’m Dune.” His black boots stop in front of me. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too.” I’ve only seen one episode, but Dune looks like he leapt out of Sons of Anarchy right into this bar. And I am…living for it. Full on reveling in the way his tongue peeks out to make love with the lip ring in the corner of his mouth. I’ve never gone for a bad boy before, but hey, it’s summer, and I’m learning to be brave.

  With a hand on my lower back, he guides me over to his previous spot at the end of the bar.

  “Frog, I need that stool,” Dune says to a guy popping peanuts in his mouth, like he’s catching flies. With fascination, I watch Frog all but leap from said stool.

  “Is this your old lady?” he croaks out.

  Biker or not, it’s not nice of Mr. Absurdly Long Legged Man to call me an old lady. Way to make me focus on the fact I’ll be graying in five years. Of course I don’t say those things, because I value my rapidly aging life, so I wait for Dune to defend my honor.

  “Not yet,” Dune says with a thick-lashed wink.

  “I’m only twenty-six.”

  Frog chortles. “An old lady is someone you’re committed to. Girlfriend. Wife. Off-limits.”

  “Oh. Awkward,” I joke.

  Dune said “not yet,” so that must mean he’s attracted to me as well?

  “You’ll learn all the rules,” Frog says before clasping Dune on the shoulder and leaving us alone.

  Disappointed there are rules, I slip onto his vacated seat. As someone who is still googling dating rules, adding another set seems downright impossible.

  “What would you like to drink?” Dune asks.

  Wine would get me laughed out of here, I’m sure. “Beer is good.”

  In an amazing display of alpha, he looks over his shoulder at the bartender and telepathically orders by holding up two fingers.

  “So you’re a potter?” He straddles the stool, facing me, and reaches in to scoot my seat closer, leaving my knee a centimeter from his package.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t strike me as a weeder. You seem too wholesome.”

  Hm. Wholesome isn’t the vibe I was hoping to radiate, but more importantly, “Weeder?” The bartender slides two bottles toward us as I try to figure out if he means what I think he means.

  Narrator: he does, in fact, think being a potter means I grow cannabis.

  “Oh gosh, no. I make pottery.”

  “No shit? That’s cute,” he says. “My friends will be disappointed, though.”

  “Good thing family has to accept you anyway,” I say, shocked I’m not darting out of here.

  In fact, I’m more shocked at the intensity of my attraction. It’s the tattoos.

  “So”—he takes a long pull—“what made you use a dating app?”

  Directness is an admirable quality, even if it causes
me to squirm in my seat. Perhaps if I took his approach, I’d have better luck and avoid things like bowling myself into a breakup. Here goes nothing.

  He listens as I explain myself by blaming Charlotte, and then I confess, “She picked you, and we agreed to keep you a mystery until tonight.”

  He takes it in stride and explains how he ended up on the site. “My buddies forced me into it too.” Dark eyes ravage my face. “Glad they did.”

  I guzzle my beer for courage. “If you don’t mind, I have a few questions for you.”

  “Ask away,” he says.

  “Let me just get my list.” Thanks to internet expert Henry—and the Finn fiasco—this time, I’m discarding the masquerade outfit and making sure what I want is front and center.

  “You have a list?”

  “Yes. Just a few need-to-know things.” I pull out my paper and unfold it. “I know it might seem strange but—”

  He slams his bottle down on the bar with a jolt and reaches into his vest. Oh God, I’m going to lose my life over wanting to know if he naps. “I. Love. Lists,” he breathes out, emphasizing each word. “This is my list for today.” My shoulders relax when he produces, not a switchblade, but a scrap of paper between his thumb and forefinger. “Shit To Do Before Five o’clock.” He leans closer and looks at me as if he might eat me alive. “I fucking list everything. What’s your title?”

  “Top Ten Important Questions,” I make up on the fly, because there is no title. This is so not good, and I’m sure Henry is judging me. Not only is there no title, I only have five things on here. I’m not a die-hard list maker. I’m a jotter. More often than not, I arrive at the store and realize I forgot my list. The raw intensity in his eyes stops me from disclosing that information.

  “Love it,” he says. “What’s number three?”

  The lies continue, “Occupation?”

  “I have a better idea,” he says. “Let’s guess. Limit of three answers.”

  “Oh, okay. Fun.” I go for the obvious. “You own a tattoo shop?”

  “Accountant,” he reveals.

  Wow. He’s edgy-looking but can pay the bills on time. Truly, the perfect kind of bad boy. Damn, I’m a good dater. I never, ever would have guessed that he’s a dang accountant, so good thing he set a limit on three wrong answers. Even if he only gave me one. But who’s counting? Not the accountant.

  “Wait…” A foggy memory of setting up my account materializes. “You’re Hunter?”

  “That’s my legal name. Dune is my biker handle. Everyone calls me Dune.”

  “Ah. What’s a biker handle?”

  Enthralled, I sip my beer while he explains the process of unique biker nicknames that tell a story about the person.

  “So what’s your story?” I ask, chin in hand.

  “Dune is a hill, and I like to ride my bike in the hills,” isn’t the cool story I expected, but I’m too taken aback by our hill connection to care. Our meeting must be fate. Maybe I won’t die on that hill alone after all.

  Before I can proceed with my list, the bartender announces, “Five minutes to Jell-O wrestling. Get your drinks now.”

  The crowd cheers, and I spy a group of various-sized women in one-piece black swimsuits, assembling near what looks to be a blow-up pool in the corner. If you’ve never witnessed Jell-O wrestling, I recommend you do so ASAFP. It’s utterly fascinating watching the slip and slide until they declare a winner.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I say.

  Dune chuckles. “Every Friday night is a different event.”

  “You should try it,” the bartender suggests. “Round two is coming up.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Could I?

  “We have about three minutes to list why you can,” Dune says. “Let me borrow your pen, Bill.”

  On a napkin he writes…

  Reasons To Fucking Do It:

  Why the fuck not?

  Free drinks for a year

  See number one.

  “Wow. A year?”

  Dune nods. “Let’s say you come here once a week and drink three drinks. That’s one hundred and fifty-six drinks multiplied by four dollars on average. That’s over six hundred dollars you’d save.”

  Even if he mistakenly thinks I’m going to become a regular of the well specials, the mathematical statistics floating by his lip ring are the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. Hot enough to have me say something absurd. “Where do I sign up?”

  “You sure?” he asks. “You don’t have to do it.”

  “I’m trying new things,” I tell him.

  Ten minutes later, I’m suited up and standing in line to Jell-O wrestle. So what if I didn’t follow Henry’s dating advice? What if this is who I am? A Jell-O wrestling liar.

  A slew of bikers crowd the area, and I’ve never been more thankful for working out with Finn as Dune’s dark eyes wander over my body. The ref sticks his hand in a bowl and fishes out my name to go first.

  “I’m going to kick your little ass,” my opponent, a silver-haired woman, threatens as I dip my toes into the squishy neon blue Jell-O.

  “That’s not very family-like,” I whisper and proceed to set a world record for trying to back out.

  And also for losing.

  All I do is turn to the referee, swiftly losing my balance, and the wild woman takes that as a signal to lurch and drown me in Jell-O.

  “You lasted three seconds,” Dune says, helping me from the pool. “Three is my favorite number. It’s fate.”

  Maybe it is. You lose some. You win some.

  Two

  Approved Qualities Of A Bad Boy:

  Tattoos

  Gives cheater who defeated you a withering death stare

  Tattoos

  One thing I didn’t consider when signing up for this humiliation—Jell-O hair.

  After changing back into my clothes in the bar’s spacious and pristine bathroom, I towel off as much goo as I can.

  “So you and Dune are dating?” a woman in leather chaps and a rhinestone flag bra asks.

  “We just met tonight,” I explain. “I’m Chloe.”

  “Hope,” she says.

  “Is that your actual name or biker name?”

  She laughs. “Both. This is your first time here?”

  “Did my faux leather bag give it away?”

  “I was once in your place. Let me give you a few tips.” She perches on the counter. “Don’t touch his vest. Stay classy and get along with the other ol’ ladies, and you’ll do just fine.”

  I’m not sure how classy and Jell-O wrestling can ever go hand in hand, but I smile anyway and try to absorb as many of her helpful hints as possible.

  Sounds like if I reach girlfriend status, I’m golden within their tribe. It also sounds like I will never reach that status because there are a billionty rules.

  “I really appreciate your knowledge,” I say, dropping the towel into the designated hamper.

  “Any time.” She hops down and walks out with me. “Looking forward to seeing you again. If not, love your shoes.”

  “Love your sparkle,” I say before she’s whisked away by a bald buff guy.

  Dune approaches with a frown. “I have an emergency,” he says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Coco is sick.”

  There’s no time to inquire who Coco is, because he tells me he has to cut our date short and drive me home.

  “Oh, okay. I understand. I’ll call an Uber.”

  “No. I’ll take you.”

  He ushers me at a rapid clip out of the bar to a black and chrome Harley. It’s a beautiful yet masculine machine, but something I’d prefer to admire from afar.

  “Go to Coco. I’ll just—”

  He swipes a black helmet dangling from a nearby handlebar. “Wear this. We need to get going.”

  It seems imperative I not waste time and balk at the stolen helmet, so I slip it on. “Good girl,” he says, climbing onto the leather seat and patting behind him.

  God,
he looks hot sitting on a motorcycle. Bet that half-helmet doesn’t even dream of giving him helmet hair. I can’t believe this is my date.

  He pats again. “Climb on.”

  There’s no discreet way to do this in a dress, so I put my modesty aside and settle behind him. It’s comfy. And intimate. There’s nothing to hold on to except his hips. Not that I’m complaining. I give him my address, and like a clap of thunder, his bike rumbles to life. Bummer no one is out here to see how cool I must look. However, there are about a thousand vehicles who see just how uncool I look as he races down the road, making low to the ground hairpin turns. Yeah right, don’t touch the vest. I’d like to see someone try to pry my death grip from it as I cling to him, with eyes squeezed shut, waiting to crash at any moment.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper when we finally arrive home in one piece.

  Dune climbs off and removes my helmet. “I want to see you again,” he says, eye-fucking me. “Next Saturday.”

  “Okay,” I say, breathless. Even if I thought I was going to die on the ride home, being on a motorcycle was an unexpected form of foreplay. Every cell hums as if I just took a ride on a giant vibrator. My confused body wants to kiss the ground, thankful I’m alive, but also hump it.

  Like a gentleman biker, he offers his hand to assist me off the bike. “I’m going to take you rock-climbing. It’s fitting.”

  “How so?” Am I the only person who is happy with a movie and meal?

  “Because you gave me a rock. Well, your friend did. Now I need to give you one back.”

  Damn you, FriendsOfFriends Marketing Department. The earnest look on his rugged face prevents me from dashing his plans. One physical date won’t kill me, and I’ll be vocal if I hate it. Plus, there’s a possibility he’ll take his shirt off and I can discover if other ink treasures exist.

  “That’s sweet. Sounds exciting.”

  We exchange phone numbers and my heart races faster than he drove here when he runs the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip.