Coffee and the Sinner

I sell coffee out of a horse trailer and I have never once considered buying a leather vest. I'm thirty-two, I'm five foot two, and my feet hurt by two in the afternoon. I know all two hundred of my regulars by order. I do not know the man standing at the back of my line in a Widow's Sons vest who has clearly been sent to check my espresso grind and has clearly never ordered a coffee in his life. Ravi Chandran is forty-seven. He was a field medic. He roasts the club's beans and runs their legitimate business and slouches against my counter like a man who has decided his knees are somebody else's problem. He is nobody's idea of a savior, and I am nobody's idea of a biker's girl, and somewhere between the second and the two hundredth cup, we both forgot to be sensible about it. Then my nephew joined his club, my curbside spot got pulled, and the rival charter decided my corner was theirs. A curvy girl, age gap motorcycle club romance about two grown adults with full lives and a lot of coffee.