Her Older Biker (Daddy Knows Better Book 8)

She aged out of foster care. He owns a biker bar. Is she too young to be his old lady?

Emma
Growing up in foster care hasn’t been a piece of cake.
At eighteen, now I’m looking to make my own way.
When the owner of a biker bar hires me, everything changes.
He’s bossy, sexy, and gets my motor running.
But is it just a job or can the MC become my new family?

This is a Sweet, Steamy Short Story Romance. No Cliffhangers. This is the eighth in the Daddy Knows Better series, but it can also be read as a standalone. If you love short romances with steamy sex scenes and a sweet love story, then you’ll love this book.

“Forty-six…forty-seven and…thirty-eight cents.”
I tighten my shaking fingers around the pathetic little wad of cash—all I have left from the tiny check that the state gave me when I aged out of the foster system—and slump back into the front seat of my car. A tear slips down my cheek and I brush it away roughly.
I don’t have time to sit and feel sorry for myself.
Rising up on my knees, I twist around in my seat to rummage through the backseat, where all of my earthly possessions are piled high. I yank out my little makeup bag, along with a pair of tight blue jeans and a t-shirt that shows a little bit of my cleavage. Thrift store finds, but they’re the closest thing I have to sexy clothes. If I want to find some work tonight, they’ll have to do. I brush on some mascara, smear some blush on my cheeks before I hunch down out of view to pull on my jeans and t-shirt.
Across the parking lot, the blinking neon signs from the Saint C’s biker bar throw colorful lights through the deepening twilight, illuminating the low-slung bikes and the odd beat-up trucks that fill the parking lot.
For a girl who—as of this morning, when I got kicked out of my crappy little motel room—lives in her car, this getup is the best I can do, I think as I eye my reflection in my visor mirror and apply a last-minute coat of lip gloss. It might be a long shot, but I’ve heard that bikers are a little bit shady—maybe they would be willing to look the other way and let me sling drinks. I need cash, and I need it tonight. Tips would come in handy.
My stomach grumbles.
“No dinner for you tonight,” I sigh, and stuff my cracked old phone into my back pocket.
Showtime.
There’s no bouncer at the front door right now, so I slip inside unnoticed, eyeing my surroundings warily.
I thought a biker bar would be—well, dirtier, I guess, but this bar is surprisingly clean, with motorcycle-themed artwork everywhere, a bright jukebox in the corner, and freshly-wiped tables and booths. Leather-clad bikers in Raging Angels Motorcycle Club cuts and women in short skirts and skimpy tank tops laugh and play pool. A few couples whirl around the dance floor.
It seems kind of friendly, honestly.
Behind the bar, a petite middle-aged woman with hot pink hair and cat-eye glasses hustles drinks, juggling bottles and glasses with practiced ease, never once spilling anything. She hands out full glasses almost as fast as people can ask for them.
I sidle up to the bar and climb up onto one of the stools, leaning over the bar to get her attention.
“What’ll it be?” she says without pausing from her dizzyingly fast work.
“I—uh,” I start, unsure how to phrase the question. “I’m looking for work. Bartending, serving, whatever you need.”

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