By the time I reach the bar, it’s all I can do not to collapse into the stool beside Mystery Woman. Pulling myself together, I sit down and lean my elbows on the bar. Like I’m more interested in getting Moose’s attention than catching her eye.

My act crumbles the second she turns her head to look at me. I’m not about to play hard to get when all I want is to hear her voice.

Will it sound as good as she smells?

She’s fucking intoxicating. And she’s also silent, which means my mouth takes the lead.

“You looking to join the club? Because I gotta tell you, it’s a rigorous initiation process, and I’m not convinced you’re up for it.”

Her maple-brown eyes widen as she stares at me. “Which club?”

“The Dark Moon Riders.” I turn my back to her briefly, showing off the patch on my vest, then lean in close, doing my best to be subtle about the fact that I’m breathing in more of her scent. This close, I could easily drown in it and die happy. “You’re in our bar, you know?”

Some other guys here would add an edge to their voice. A warning.

But I keep my words light. She’s the last person I want to scare.

And why is that?

She glances behind me at the group that’s getting rowdier with every pitcher of beer, then scans the entire bar. There’s only a shadow of curiosity on her face. Not a single bit of fear.

Not that I want her to be afraid. But sometimes, fear is the smartest reaction to have.

“Is this a bar you all happen to drink at, or is it your bar?” She watches me, her fingers still moving, looping and hooking the yarn, as if all she needs is touch to create whatever she’s making.

“It’s mine. It’s ours. The Rabbit Hole is Dark Moon territory.”

I can’t take my eyes off her hands. The motion is hypnotizing.

I imagine her fiddling with her project in front of a warm fireplace, curled up in an overstuffed chair, the flickering light playing with the gold in her hair. And when the night grows cold and the fire isn’t warm enough to keep her from getting chilled, she’ll look around for a blanket. But I’ll have the only one, and she’ll have to crawl under it with me. So I can keep her warm.

“Territory? That sounds a little possessive. But I guess you’re not too restrictive on who you let in, right? Since the crochet club meets here?”

This stops my mind on its imaginary trip. I examine her face, trying to decipher if she’s joking. But there’s no playful smile or silly wink. She just watches me, waiting for a response.

“Crochet club?”