Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,19

the right thing.

Jasmine was still pissed at me. And igniting the ire of your PR director during a scandal felt ill-advised, to say the least. But every time those thoughts crept in, I pictured Penelope in that kennel. Beck’s quiet patience with her.

“You’re not concerned about that?” Cameron asked, brow lifted.

She was my best friend, so I felt fine admitting, “Of course I am.”

“I trust your decision though. And you do love animals. Probably too much.”

I snorted. “Not possible. And regardless of his background, I don’t think Beck Mason would hurt a fly. He’s a gentle giant. Although he definitely looks like a terrifying motorcycle gang member.”

“Ah,” Cameron said, a teasing glint in her eye. “A nonprofit hunk, if you will.”

Beck Mason was the farthest thing from a hunk I could imagine. “Not so much,” I clarified. “He was a presumptive bastard in our meeting and he’s going to fight me tooth and nail the whole time. He’s the size of a house with this giant beard, arms covered in scars. Leather everything. But… he rescued Penelope. Which is amazing.”

“Your Penelope?” she asked, eyes wide.

“The one and only. He rescued my girl.”

“Beard and motorcycles, huh?” Cameron said. “Opposite of your type.”

“Completely,” I assured her. She knew that whenever I had the occasion to date, it was usually surf instructors that juiced regularly and wore hemp. They dressed in board shorts and smelled of salt water. Not that I dated often—too busy, too motivated, too on-the-go to really take it seriously.

But still—I’d never been romantically interested in a man like Beck.

Even though Beck’s grin beneath that beard was… intriguing.

“Luna, the camera crews have arrived,” Jasmine said, rapping on my door.

“My cue to leave,” Cameron said. She wrapped me in a tight hug. “You’re going to do great, Moon. This is only temporary, remember that.”

I hugged her back. The cheerful, sunny optimist believed her, believed in the natural ebb and flow of our careers. But I’d also seen the dramatic rise—and terrifying free-fall—of people like me; beloved by fans one minute, vilified for life the next.

“I will,” I said. “And thank you. For everything. As always.”

She squeezed my shoulder, then left.

I shook out my hair and grabbed my apology, prepared to face my attackers with a fierce heart.

“Ready?” Jasmine asked.

“Let’s do this,” I replied—with a confidence I didn’t much feel.

11

Beck

I should have been at the office, working on grants or trying to figure ways to get Lucky Dog fast cash so we could pay our bills.

But this morning I immediately recognized the feeling in my veins.

I needed to ride.

It was a tropical Miami morning as I sped across the Venetian Causeway. Heat shimmered off the road as I tightened my fingers on the throttle.

Speed equaled release. Always had, always would—it was the one thing my family hadn’t taken from me, this love for motorcycles. At first, after I’d done my last stint in juvie, I’d been wary of picking up a bike again. Except there was no separating who I was from being on this bike. And on the bike, I was half-man, half-metal.

My route took me past the old Miami Devils MC headquarters. It’d been long shut down now, the members moving from place to place, always one step ahead of law enforcement. Those headquarters had been my home, although a chop shop filled with gang members wasn’t a safe place to raise a kid. My parents thought I should be a Miami Devil through and through; I was the child of outlaw royalty and I needed to learn the ropes fast.

It was impossible for me to catch the scent of that place—I was going 90 miles an hour with a helmet on. But I smelled it anyway. Leather, grease, cigarette smoke, and tension. The Devils were half-family, half-enemies. Loyalties shifted like shadows depending on the day. As a kid, and later a teenager, the constant fear sent my walls shooting up—it was like being a junkyard dog, constantly on the defensive. I might have been Beck Mason, the future prince, but that didn’t mean I didn’t get fucked with constantly.

Rip and Georgie Mason were the kind of parents who’d toss their kid off the pier into shark-infested waters without swimming lessons. Because they believed that a kid’s survival instincts would kick in and they’d float, not sink.

And that sharks were a part of life.

Once I’d accidentally knocked over an MC member’s beer bottle, spilling the contents everywhere. I’d been eleven, all knees and elbows and height I didn’t know what