Biker at Last: A Best Friends to Lovers, Single Dad, Small Town, Slow Burn, MC Cozy Romance, Rebel Dragons Motorcycle Club

A motorcycle club romance, but make it more Gilmore Girls than Sons of Anarchy.

She’s the one woman he swore he’d never touch.
He’s the man she never stopped waiting for.
And now? They’re out of time for second guesses.

For years, Loa Byrd was content-ish with her role as ‘best friend’ to the only man she’s ever wanted and refuses to see her as anything but off-limits.
Smith McKeller, single father and longtime officer of the Rebel Dragons MC, is as stubborn as he is silent. And when it comes to Loa, he’s been both for far too long.

But when fate—and a matchmaking son—throws them into each other’s daily lives, tension sparks into heat, and heat threatens to burn through years of careful restraint. Smith has his reasons for holding back. Loa has her limits on waiting. And neither of them is ready for what happens when secrets surface, past hurts resurface, and love demands something more than just proximity.

In a town where everyone knows your business, can two people with too much history—and too much chemistry—finally claim the future they’ve never dared to reach for?

Biker at Last is a slow-burn, best friends to lovers, small-town MC romance full of found family, smoldering glances, baked goods, and badass brothers. A love story years in the making.

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Chapter 1 : No Touch, No Koala

Loa age 28, Smith age 35, Bennett age 16

I watched him make his way through the dining room — as did many others. It couldn’t be helped. Smith McKellar was a presence. He held his fist up for a bump from Wren, my teenage niece, who helped at the bakery on weekends. My mother, restocking the bread rack, got a kiss on the cheek and a side hug. He passed through the market area to greet one of my sisters, Aya, who was busy working the fancy espresso machine. She got a cheek kiss, too.

Avis, Aya’s twin, was in the kitchen, cooking orders. Smith knew better than to interrupt her during the weekend rush — she might get stabby. So Avis got a “Hey” and a nod.

He sat down at the counter — his favorite stool, which was, of course, available. Like I was saving it for him. Which I was. He liked to sit at the end, closest to the wall, when he was alone. When he came in with Bennett, they sat at a table. But Bennett was here last weekend. Today, Smith was flying solo.

If he hit the river at sunrise and cast for a few hours, he’d be hungry by now. And if I had a habit of leaving my coffee cup on the counter to claim that spot for him? I’d never tell. Not that I had to. In this town, there were no secrets. Everyone knew everything.

Did I get a kiss, hug, or fist bump from Smith? Nope. Never. I’d known Smith McKellar most of my life, and we’d been best friends since I came home from college. But somehow, I was the only person in this town who didn't get to touch him. Not for lack of trying. I’d gone in for hugs, shoulder squeezes, even a goddamn high five — and he dodged every time.

And let’s be honest — I didn’t just want to touch him. I wanted to climb him like a tree, touch the places our bathing suits covered, and live my life clinging to him like a human koala.

Smith was a friendly man. A giant of a man. Tall. Thick. Broad-chested. Tree-trunk thighs. He filled out his flannel and jeans in a very satisfactory way.

Looking at him, you wouldn’t guess he was a numbers guy. But Smith McKellar was many things: Bennett’s dad, dog-dad to George the Newf, financial whiz, Treasurer/Chief Financial Officer of the Rebel Dragons Motorcycle Club — the organization that helped revitalize our sleepy mountain town. He was crazy smart, a passionate fly fisher, reluctant deer hunter, hiker, mountain biker, motorcyclist, builder of things around his mountain cabin, chopper of wood, generous of spirit, time, and money... My best friend.

And the unrequited love of my life.

“Thank you, Loa.”

Smith’s voice was a deep grumble.

He never wore his hat inside. He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to fix his hat-head and failing. I wanted to fix it for him. Not because it looked bad—it didn’t. It was adorable. It softened him a little, making the big, bearded man seem more approachable. 

But every time I tried to touch him, he deflected. My niece Wren, or literally anyone else in my family, could walk up to him right now, take him in a headlock, and give him a noogie. He’d laugh and return the favor. But not me.

Smith was old-fashioned. I knew that. What I didn’t understand was how his manners translated to me being the only person on the planet who couldn’t give the man a high five or a hug.

I had a theory about why he kept things platonic between us — even when I was pretty sure he felt what I felt. But that didn’t explain why I couldn’t even squeeze his arm in passing.

“Good luck today?” I asked, referring to his early morning on the river.

His lips turned up slightly. “A respectable amount.”

I gave him a side-eye. He wasn’t one for fish tales or extra words. He was stoic, humble, and annoyingly modest.

“So the cooler’s full, then?”

He nodded and pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket. Reading glasses meant he wanted to look at the menu. Sometimes, he rattled off an order the second he sat down. Other times, he studied the menu, which, let’s be real, he probably had memorized.

I handed him a menu from the stack under the counter. He was always so careful when I handed him something — always avoided even the tiniest accidental brush of fingers like I had middle school cooties, or the “cheese touch,” like in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books I used to read with Wren when she was little.

But we weren’t kids. I was twenty-eight. He was even older. We were grown-ass adults.

It was enough to give a girl a complex.

I didn’t bother with another customer while he looked at the menu. I knew to stay close — he wouldn’t take long to decide what he wanted. To eat, at least. Other things? Meh. I studied him as he studied the menu.

Bennett had talked him into trying a high-and-tight haircut with a hard part — one of those lumber-sexual styles the weekend tourists favored. Said it made his dad look younger. Teased that maybe now Smith could finally find a date.

I liked the haircut because it revealed the streaks of gray beginning to show at his temples. His beard had a few silver threads too. The gray made him look even more handsome.

I really, really didn’t like the idea of Smith “finally finding a date,” but that was for selfish reasons. Bennett’s mom had been the last woman Smith brought to the cabin, and that was when Bennett was a toddler. Bennett was sixteen.

Ashley, Smith’s ex and Bennett’s mother, had long since decided cabin life and the MC weren’t for her. Sure, the cabin was more rustic back then, but that wasn’t the only issue. Smith had fixed up the place himself — one project at a time, usually with Bennett’s help during their weekends together and summer stretches. Ashley just wasn’t a mountain girl. She was more comfortable in town. Although Smith never said anything, other people mentioned she didn’t like MC life much either, especially how life with MC was back then, before they went legit. Very different from how the MC operated now.

“Huevos Rancheros. Short stack on the side.”

The man could eat after a morning on the river.

“Trout on the fire tonight?” I asked.

Smith peered at me over his glasses. I held my breath. I tended to do that when he looked right at me.

“Are you bringing something to go with it?” he asked.

“Like you even have to ask.”

“Same, Loa. Same.” He smiled.

Direct eye contact and a smile? Dear God. The man could reduce me to mush with minimal effort.

I walked away to put the ticket on the line and felt it — Smith’s gaze. Heavy. Unmistakable. A presence that followed me everywhere when Bennett wasn’t around.

It used to make me paranoid, like maybe I had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Now I was used to it. But I still didn’t understand it.

I’d known Smith forever, but everything changed the summer I came home from college. I noticed him. And I felt him notice me.

I flirted. He stayed stoic. I moved on. Sort of. But not really.

I dated here and there. Kind of. Really, I just hooked up with weekend tourists playing pretend-flannel-wearing biker-lumberjack types who wanted to be Smith but never would be.

Did Smith date? I didn’t think so. Maybe he hooked up at clubhouse parties when I wasn’t around, but I never saw him with anyone.

Still, I felt him everywhere.

He cooked fish, and I ate it.

I served him food at the bakery, and he ate that too.

I hiked and fished with him and Bennett. We ran into each other at the brewery, the library, parties at my parents’ house, and gatherings with other locals. He invited me to the motorcycle club BBQs, fundraisers, and family nights.

He was part of my life on the mountain. And I was part of his.

I reached above my head for clean glasses to prep a drink tray for Wren, and I could feel his gaze hugging my hips. There were plenty of hips and ass to look at, and when I knew he was on the mountain, I wore jeans or skirts that hugged my curves just right.

Did I dress for the male gaze?

Just one male and his very specific gaze.

And I did my fair share of looking, too. Every time I faced his way, I noticed how his thick thighs poked out under the counter, how his flannel stretched across his shoulders. It was a two-way street.

What would happen if I walked up behind him and wrapped myself around his back? Or climbed up on the stool and straddled his lap? What would it feel like to run my hand down his arm, feel the meaty curve of his bicep, the breadth of his forearm?

What would he do if I touched him — the way I wanted to?

It remains a mystery. He kept a physical distance. And I respected it.

Even if it was not so slowly driving me slowly insane.

I returned to the window as Avis placed Smith’s order in the pass.

“Huevos, stack, and don’t forget to serve it with a side of Loa’s best doe-eyes,” Avis teased.

I rolled my doe eyes and turned back to Smith. He probably heard her. Didn’t matter.

He knew how I felt. I’m sure everyone in our little mountain town (and parts of Rock City in the valley) knows how I felt about Smith.

I’m also pretty sure all that ass-staring meant he wanted my body.

The time we spent together meant he enjoyed my company.

The things he did for me — bringing me cheese from the fancy store in town just because, doing my taxes for free, managing my retirement account, talking up my digital design business — meant he cared about me.

But something was holding him back. And that hadn’t changed in the six years we’d been doing this dance.

We held each other’s gaze as I crossed to his end of the counter. We were stare-down champions. I set his food in front of him, grabbed the local maple syrup for his pancakes, the hot sauce he liked for his eggs, and twisted for the coffee pot to refill his mug — all without breaking eye contact.

“Looks good, Avis,” Smith called to my sister while still watching me.

Once, I thought maybe he’d be a good match for one of my sisters. Aya, maybe — also a single parent, closer to his age, similar stories. But it was never like that with them. They were friends. But not the way Smith and I were friends.

He tried to make it work with Ashley, his high school girlfriend. They broke up when he left for college, only for her to find out she was pregnant after he’d gone. He transferred to Rock City U, so he could commute, and tried again. It didn’t last. They were off and on until Bennett started kindergarten. Then co-parents. Different wants. Different lives.

Smith didn’t date after that.

I watched him take his first bite of eggs. Then the pancakes. I watched his jaw move under that dark beard.

He watched me watching him.

This was ridiculous.

I couldn’t go on like this.

Something needed to change.

Six years was enough.

“What time will the trout be ready?” I asked.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Sounds good.”

I turned on my heel and picked up another order from the pass.

Aya was waiting, arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen doorway like she had nothing better to do than silently watch all that passed between me and Smith.

“What are you going to do about that man?” Aya asked.

I smirked. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one sick of the unrequited longing.

“Him, Aya. I’m going to do him. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Aya laughed.

I didn’t.

There were things between me and Smith that laughter couldn’t touch.