A few more minutes pass, and I do it again — uneven pressure, catching the grain wrong so it leaves a swirl mark.
“Lyla.” His tone is patient, but there’s a thread of firmness underneath. “You’re distracted. What’s going on?”
I kill the sander and set it down harder than I need to. “Nothing. I’m just… off today.”
He studies me, arms folded across his chest. “Off enough to ruin a door we don’t have a replacement for.”
The comment lands sharper than I expect, and before I can think better of it, I snap back, “Sorry I’m not perfect today. I’ll try harder to meet your standards.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t bite. He just takes a slow breath, eyes still on me like he’s seeing more than I want him to.
Damien doesn’t move for a beat, just keeps watching me like he’s waiting for the rest of what I’m not saying to spill out.
Then he pulls his dust mask down, tosses it on the sawhorse, and says, “We’re taking a break.”
I blink at him. “We just started.”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, “and you’re not here. Whatever’s in your head is eating you alive, and sanding doors isn’t going to fix it.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Good thing I’m not.” He’s already pulling the sander plug from the wall. “Come on.”
I stand there, stubbornness warring with the part of me that knows he’s right. “Come on where?”
“You’ll see.” He heads for the front door without looking back. “Grab your coat.”
I follow him out into the sharp coastal air, and that’s when I see it — parked in the driveway like something out of a movie: a sleek, black motorcycle, all smooth lines and gleam, the kind of machine that makes you think about freedom and speed.
Damien’s pulling a second helmet from the saddlebag. He holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
I hesitate, the cold wind whipping against my cheeks. “Where are we going?”
His mouth curves, just enough to make something warm coil in my stomach. “Trust me.”
And against my better judgment, I do.
The helmet muffles the sound of the world, leaving me with the low rumble of the engine and the steady thud of my heartbeat.
Damien swings his leg over the bike, settles in, and glances back. “You’re gonna need to hold on tight.”
My arms circle his waist, but there’s space — a cautious, polite gap — until he reaches back, catches my wrist, and tugs me snug against him. “Tighter,” he says, voice low enough that it vibrates through my chest.
The warmth of his body seeps into me instantly. The broad plane of his back, the solid muscle under his jacket — all of it so unyieldingly male it’s impossible not to notice.
We take off, the world narrowing to the pull of the wind and the flex of his body when he shifts gears. The cold air slices against my cheeks, sharp enough to make me gasp, and that’s when I feel him loosen one of my hands from his waist.
“What are you—”
He takes my hand, slips it under the bottom of his jacket, and presses it flat against his stomach. Heat radiates from him, and my fingers brush hard muscle, ridges and lines that clench when the bike leans into a curve.
“Warmer?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Yes,” I breathe, though the word comes out more like a shiver.
The ride becomes something else entirely after that — not just motion and wind, but the awareness of my palm against bare skin, the subtle shifts of his abs when he moves, the deep vibration of the engine thrumming through both of us. My thighs tighten against his, instinct more than choice, and I swear I feel his breath hitch when I adjust my grip.
The salt in the air grows stronger as the road curves toward the water. My hand stays where he put it, hidden and warmbeneath his jacket, and I wonder if he knows that the heat in my veins has nothing to do with the cold.
