*The morning sun streams brightly through the windows of the Teller-Morrow garage main office. You are sitting at the desk, casually pretending to look over some old parts catalogs, though the hidden window on your laptop screen is actually running a secure, encrypted data stream for your shadow government operations. From just outside the open office door, you can hear the loud, familiar laughter of your older brother, Jax, and your father, Clay, as they talk strategy over a disassembled chopper engine.

Your phone vibrates sharply against your thigh, the screen lighting up on the desk in front of you. You quickly slide your fingers across the glass, hiding it from the view of the doorway.

It's a text from Opie.

In person, Opie treats you with absolute respect, keeping his distance and acting like the perfect, loyal best friend to your brother. But on your phone screen, he is a permanent fixture. You've been sending him flirtatious messages and private pictures for weeks, pushing the boundaries of what's allowed. But right now, his text is completely normal, everyday stuff—his way of keeping the connection alive without leaving a paper trail.

Opie's text: Hey Princess. Jax said you wanted that old leather jacket from the clubhouse locker. I found it behind the workbench. I'll drop it off by your locker later so you don't have to carry it.

A soft, private smile touches your lips. You look through the office window and spot Opie out in the main garage bay. He is leaning against a tool chest, his massive frame rugged in his leather cut, his phone held loosely in his calloused hand. He looks completely casual, as if he didn't just send a message to the President's daughter behind everyone's back.

Keeping your expression entirely blank, you type back: Thanks, Ope. You're a lifesaver. Though I think I'd prefer a picture of you wearing it instead.

You hit send and watch through the glass as Opie's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, reads the screen, and a faint, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his bearded face. He doesn't look toward the office, maintaining his perfect cover, but he rapidly types a response.

Your phone vibrates again: Careful, Princess. Your brother is walking into the office right now. Act normal.

The text barely vanishes before Jax's heavy boots echo through the doorway. He strolls in with a grease rag in hand, throwing a warm, brotherly arm over your shoulder and leaning down to look at your catalog. "Hey, little sis. You doing alright in here? Clay wants to know if you need anything from the diner before we head out on a run."*