Sneak a peek at the grumpy biker! 👀
❤️ Hi there! How’s your week going?
I’m going to keep this email short and sweet as I’m having some eye-related health issues (not ideal for a writer). Here’s a sneaky peek at Chapter 1 of Grumpy Biker’s Bride, which is out next week. This story show’s the cozy side of High Vale, with grumpy/sunshine vibes and a hot grump who’s a secret cinnamon roll only for his girl!
Chapter 1 - Taryn
Whoever’s in charge of the baking for this place is showing off.
The pie under the glass dome is cherry, with a hand-cut lattice and fork-crimped edges. Hand-cut pastry cherries decorate the top and it’s dusted with multi-colored sugar. Grandma June would give it one slow nod, which from her was the equivalent of a standing ovation. I've been admiring it from my corner booth for the better part of an hour.
I like this place. Marvin's Diner is decorated in pink and red like the inside of a Valentine’s candy box, with chrome stools worn silver at the edges. The coffee is good and the bell over the door has a tinkly little chime anytime a customer goes in or out. Through the checked-curtained windows, the snow-capped mountains stack up green and gray behind High Vale and the air is fresh.
Keith was supposed to meet me at eight, but it’s now sixteen minutes past eleven.
Maybe I should be panicking, but the day can still turn itself around. Grandma June calls me an eternal optimist. Maybe Keith’s truck broke down on the pass? Maybe he’s had some kind of family emergency? It could be anything.
I know his handwriting better than his face; eight months of letters will do that. Keith writes like a man wrestling a pen two sizes too small for his hand, crossing things out instead of starting over. He’s more comfortable with old-fashioned letters than texting or talking. He once drew me a diagram of his back porch with an arrow labeled your herb garden, if you want one. I cried over that arrow right at the sorting table of the Bishopsdale post office.
People hear the word ‘matchmaking service’ and picture somebody desperate. I prefer the term ‘practical.’ My home town of Bishopsdale is sliding into slow decline, the mill gone, the diner where I cooked for nine years shuttered in March. And Grandma June's care home costs more a month than I ever earned in one, ever since her stroke. Keith has a steady business and a lonely streak as wide as mine, and he wanted a wife who could make a home. I wanted a future with June safe inside it. I liked Keith on paper but I'd planned on liking him more in person.
So here I am in High Vale. Waiting to meet my husband-to-be for the first time face to face.
“Can I warm that up for you, hon?”
‘Lila’ according to her name tag. She's been refilling my cup without asking and not putting it on the bill, which means she's clocked my situation and decided to be kind about it. Dark ponytail, red lipstick, probably my age or a little older.
“You're an angel,” I tell her. “Also, whoever made that pie needs a medal.”
She laughs. “You’re in luck. See that big guy at the counter? He stepped in when our pastry chef quit last week. Claims his grandma haunts the recipe.” She tops me up to the brim. “Your fella will be along. Roads up the mountain pass get real slow.”
I take a sip of my coffee and sneak another glance at the man at the counter. He sure doesn’t look like someone who makes cherry pie.
He takes up two stools' worth of space with his elbows on the counter. He stepped out to make a call about ten minutes ago, but then came right back inside. The guy’s built big: broad shoulders like a doorframe and thick, muscled thighs. Dark hair going gray at the temples, with a short beard past due for a trim and tattoos running down both forearms. Forty or so, and tanned like he earned every year outdoors. He’s wearing a leather vest with patches I can't read from here.
Twice now I've caught him looking. Both times I looked away first, which isn’t like me. Grandma says I'd chat to a fence post if it leaned my way, so there's no reason a large grumpy mountain of a man should be the one thing in this diner I can't look at straight.
I stare down at the crumbs of my pie. I can’t afford to order another, but I sure as heck want to. When I look up, the big guy is standing at my table.
He sets down two plates of pie and slides into the bench across from me. Then he pushes one plate across the Formica until it clinks against my mug, picks up his fork, and starts in on his own slice like we’re old buddies.
I stare at him. Up close his eyes are a hazel green and despite his closeness, he’s not smiling. It’s intimidating.
“Uh… hi,” I squeak, because somebody has to. “I think you have the wrong booth.”
“Nope.” His voice is low and rough, and he nods at the plate. “Eat.”
“That's very generous, but I'm waiting for someone.”
He keeps eating. “You’ve been watching your empty plate for thirty minutes, I could tell you wanted more pie. Now it's yours. Eat.”
Heat climbs my neck. I pick up the fork, mostly to have something in my hands, and take a bite. The taste of tart cherries and butter-laden pastry hits my tongue, and I have to resist making a moaning noise.
“Okay, that's criminal,” I say. “The pie is criminal, I mean. Not you sitting here and giving me pie. That’s very kind of you. I like cherry pie. I especially like this pie. How do you get it to taste like that? Magic? Deal with the devil, maybe?”
He doesn't laugh. But he stops chewing for a second, and that feels like a victory.
“You always talk this much?”
“More, usually. You're getting the tired version.” I point my fork at his arm. “I like your hawk tattoo.”
He grunts. I beam at him with the smile that gets reluctant farmers to part with their best tomatoes, and he carries on frowning at me like I'm a weather front rolling in over his picnic.
“Marvin tells me you’re waiting on a man called Keith Wells.”
“Yes. He has a hardware store up past the…” I stop. “Why are you asking?”
“Small town. Thought I might know him.” He sets his fork down on his empty plate and looks at me. “You got somewhere to be if he doesn't show?”
The polite Bishopsdale answer is that's my business, thank you kindly. But I’m more inclined to be honest than polite.
“Not even slightly,” I blurt out.
He nods, like I've confirmed a suspicion. He just stays put, filling the entire other side of my booth, one boot planted in the aisle, steady as the solid mountains out the window. And the weirdest part of all this is that my anxious mind goes quiet. Like him sitting here opposite me, grumpy and unmoving, is a comfort.
That's when my body weighs in.
It starts low and spreads warm, up through my core and out to my fingertips. My pulse thuds in my ears. My skin tingles as I take a deep breath, catching his scent of leather and pine trees.
I press my knees together under the table and sternly remind myself that I’m spoken for.
🔧 I’m starting work next week on the third book in the series, Possessive Biker’s Bride. If you’d like to read the updated blurb, it’s up now. This one is Wrench’s story. He’s the hot engineer who vows to protect the single mom who’s in danger. Can’t wait for you to read it!
Have a good Friday and a wonderful weekend.
🩷 Jessa xx
😍 P.S. I think grumpy/sunshine is one of my favorite tropes to write. It’s so satisfying to see the characters come together, especially when the grump is sweet only for the FMC. Enemies-to-lovers is my fave to read. What’s your favorite trope?
