My uncle left me his motorcycle shop.
And six months to find a husband — or lose it forever.
I have spreadsheets, a deadline, and a cousin circling like a vulture. What I don’t have is a man.
Then Beckett Holt delivers a part I never ordered, with hands shaped by fire and a quiet that does something to me. He’s the last unattached son of an MC legacy family — the one who chose hammer over patch, forge over war.
When I joke about needing a husband, he doesn’t laugh.
He asks about the tax situation.
We sign a contract. Separate bedrooms. Six months and out.
But Beckett kisses me like the paperwork was never the point. He builds things to last. And I’m starting to wonder if I’m one of them.
How do you walk away from a marriage that was never supposed to be real?
