Reverse, no, forward.
Crap.
Metal crunches. The airbag detonates, slamming into me. Happy freaking birthday to me.
Stunned, I just sit there as the chemicals sting my nose. Who the hell put that stupid pole there? Great. Brand-new car. Crumpled fender. Maybe Jacob won’t notice.
Dylan strolls over, arms crossed, barely hiding his amusement as he surveys the damage. “Well, that’s one hell of an exit. Isn’t Usher supposed to be all smooth, not making women wreck their cars?”
I force a small smile, but my stomach sinks. Jacob’s reaction to this is going to be spectacular. “I’m not sure you can call it an ‘exit’ when I’m kind of stuck here.” I groan. “And what do you have against Usher? He’s one of my all-time favorite R&B artists.”
His grin widens. “Nothing against Usher, just more into country jams. But don’t worry, my cousin Louie can fix it and make it as good as new in a few hours.”
“I’d appreciate the help. But maybe don’t mention this to anyone. My husband doesn’t need to know about accident number three.”
Dylan chuckles. “Your secret’s safe with me. We’ll get that fender fixed, and maybe I’ll finally let you in on the hot chicken recipe you keep begging for.”
I half smile as I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out. “I don’t beg. I politely ask, and you hoard it like it’s a national treasure.”
He grins as he pulls out his phone. “Sorry, family secrets. But feel free to keep asking. I kinda like the sound of you begging.”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t stop my lips from curling up. “In your dreams, Dylan.”
“Every night.” He throws me a look, the glimmer of unmistakable naughty-fucking-ness. “I’ll call my cousin to pick it up. Probably best not to drive it.”
I follow his gaze to the motorcycle. My mind races with excuses, but something about this moment feels different.
I hesitate. “Are you sure? I could drive it to the shop,” I offer, trying to sound casual, though my voice betrays me.
Dylan tilts his head. “With a deployed airbag? Not a great idea. I can call you an Uber if you’d rather not ride.”
I hesitate. “I mean… I’ve always wanted to ride a moped. This is basically the same thing, right?”
He flashes me a look—like he knows I’m saying yes to something I might regret.
We walk across the parking lot, my eyes darting around, praying no one sees us. He climbs on first, starts the engine, and hands me a helmet from his saddlebag.
I strap it on and swing my leg over the bike, gripping his waist. His ridiculously solid, rock-hard waist. Holy fucking shit. The vibration beneath me sends a strange thrill through my bones. Then the world blurs as we take off, wind whipping against my skin.
And for the first time in forever, I feel weightless. Free.
Chapter 7: I Fuggen Love You
Jenna: October
The hum of the engine fades as we pull into the mechanic shop, but the adrenaline buzz still lingers. Dylan parks the bike, and I hop off, trying to play it cool. But my forty-year-old legs feel like jiggly Jell-O. He takes my helmet off, and that damn look in his eyes makes my heart do stupid flutter things it has no business doing. I quickly look away and follow him inside.
While my car gets worked on, I do something I haven’t done in months: I pull out a book buried in the clutter of my bag. I know I’ll probably never have time for it, but my brain insists I keep it there just in case. And today, I finally get to sink into a story that isn’t my own.
A few pages later, I can feel Dylan watching me, standing nearby. “Let me guess,” he says, teasing. “He’s dancing with her in the rain under a tree, whispering sweet nothings because she’sthe love of his life? But they should’ve been struck by lightning by now.”
I snort. “For your information, Mr. Hayes, she is in the rain, but she’s being chased by a serial killer who probably wants to cut off her ears for souvenirs.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Dark, but fun. I like it. Tell me more.” And then he chooses to sit two seats away from me. Did I forget deodorant or something?
Before I can reply, something moves on the table next to my purse and holy shit—a SPIDER. A squeal bursts out of me. I jump back, my chair scraping so hard it nearly tips over.
Dylan looks over, smirking. “So… you’re a screamer?”
