AndstillI end up in my favorite old sweatshirt that has thefaded wordsPRESCOTT RUGBYacross the chest. The fabric is soft and worn, and it’s my favorite piece of comfort clothing. I put on a pair of black wide-legged yoga pants and realize that deciding what to wear is exhausting, and I am completely over it. I stare into the mirror at my reflection, trying to figure out where I would even begin if I wanted to put on makeup, or do something with my hair aside from putting it into my signature pony or wearing it loose around my face.
I don’t even own makeup except for a few tubes of mascara that are probably well past the expiration date. Makeup does expire, I think?
I’m honestly just… hopeless at most things that deal with being a girl. I never had much interest in makeup and fashion, and since I was raised by just my dad, it’s not something that he ever really knew anything about either.
So, I just brush my hair and toss it up in a high ponytail, and that is that.
Exactly an hour later, Cillian sends me a text.
Cillian:I’m outside. Bring a jacket.
Cillian:And a beanie, if you have one.
My brow furrows as I read the message. Ooookay.
I head to the front door, grab my keys from the bar counter along with my jacket and a beanie, then walk outside.
I realize the moment that I see him parked in front of my apartment exactly why he told me to bring it.
Becauseof coursethe tattooed British bad boy drives a freakingmotorcycle.
In New England.
In thedead of winter.
This is the most cliché thing I’ve ever seen and honestly, I’m not even the least bit surprised.
“Youwould,” I say as I come to a stop in front of him, my lips curved into a smirk.
He’s leaning casually against the seat of the sleek black bike, his arms crossed over his chest, that smoldering, broody expression a permanent fixture on his face. He looks every bit the bad boy that his reputation paints him to be. He’s wearing a dark gray hoodie beneath a thick black jacket with worn, faded jeans that hug his thick, muscular thighs.
Of course I notice the thighs.
He gives me a flat look. “I would, what?”
“You would drive a motorcycle. Fits the whole bad boy vibe you’ve got going on. Actually, where’s the leather jacket?” I grin as I tug the beanie onto my head, over the tips of my ears.
He extends a helmet my way. It’s midnight black with a dark glass visor. “Put this on.”
“Where’s yours?” I respond, taking it from him. I’ve never been on a bike before, but I’ve always wanted to. Yes, I too have fallen victim to the thirst traps on social media of hot bikers and immediately added this to my bucket list. Very high up.
Cillian jerks his head in a nod toward the helmet in my hands. “You’re holding it.”
“What? I’m not taking yours. You need one too, Cill—” I’m cut off mid-sentence as he tugs it from my grip and stepsforward, sliding it onto my head in one quick, effortless yet gentle motion.
“You’re wearing the bloody helmet, Rory. Now get on the damn bike.” His voice is smooth like velvet as he speaks, each syllable rolling off his tongue with precision.
Okay, that’s stupidly… attractive. Why am I turned on by this right now?
This growly, alpha energy.
I can feel the heat of his body as it brushes along mine, causing my nipples to tighten.
Oh God, am I falling…victimto the bad boy vibe? Is that what’s going on here? Like this isn’t already weird enough, I’m realizing just how attracted I actually am to him.
Perfect. Let’s complicate this a bit more why don’t we?
I blink rapidly, my brain short-circuiting for a moment before I clear my throat, nodding. “Okay, fine. Butnotbecause you told me to. Only because I’ve always wanted to ride one of these.”