Mackenzie ‘Mack’ has nine days, eleven dollars, and a landlord already drafting the eviction notice. Her brother’s 1966 Harley hardtail—the bike she sleeps next to in the living room—is dying in the Sonoran Desert, and a whiskey commercial that pays enough to save her is shooting in exactly those nine days. The director wants that bike and that girl. No substitutions.
The only person who can fix it is Carp: a quiet, tattooed mechanic working out of a no-name shop on Sandario Road. He doesn’t smile much. He doesn’t make promises. And he has one hard rule about women—no one who might leave.
Mack has no intention of leaving the bike. So she stays. On a cot in his bay. For nine days of forced proximity, grease under her fingernails, and the kind of slow-burn tension that makes a man count the hours and a woman break every rule she ever made about not getting attached.
He’s counting down. She’s running out of time. And neither of them is very good at walking away from something that feels like it might actually hold.
A standalone contemporary motorcycle romance about grief, trust, hardtails, and the man who can put both the bike and the woman back together.
The only person who can fix it is Carp: a quiet, tattooed mechanic working out of a no-name shop on Sandario Road. He doesn’t smile much. He doesn’t make promises. And he has one hard rule about women—no one who might leave.
Mack has no intention of leaving the bike. So she stays. On a cot in his bay. For nine days of forced proximity, grease under her fingernails, and the kind of slow-burn tension that makes a man count the hours and a woman break every rule she ever made about not getting attached.
He’s counting down. She’s running out of time. And neither of them is very good at walking away from something that feels like it might actually hold.
A standalone contemporary motorcycle romance about grief, trust, hardtails, and the man who can put both the bike and the woman back together.