He frowned as he looked at them. “They’re too tight?”
“I wore them around my apartment all afternoon to break them in, but they’re still basically hand prisons,” I said, pulling a face and trying to wiggle my fingers.
He reached out, gently took one of my gloved hands in his, and inspected the fit like he was assessing a threat. Or something else that required the kind of focus guaranteed to melt me.
“They’ll be uncomfortable,” he said. “You’ll hate them by the end of the block.”
He opened a saddlebag (yes, I know what they’re called too, can I get another “smart girl?”), and pulled out a leather jacket and a pair of gloves. He then placed the jacket back in the bag before handing me the gloves.
“These’ll fit better,” he said. “My sister rides with me sometimes. Her hands are about your size.”
I just stared at him. Like a weirdo. Because . . . he brought me gloves and a jacket. He thought ahead. In case I didn’t know what I was doing.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more ruined by someone’s organisational skills and the way he planned to keep me safe.
I took the gloves and swapped them out. They were worn in and soft and slid on like magic. My fingers could move.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to act like he hadn’t just handed me the emotional equivalent of being seen and protected and ruined all at once.
Before I could spiral deeper, he gave me the matte black helmet that had been strapped to the back of the bike. I took it with what I hoped was confidence. And even though I’d googled “how to ride on a motorcycle” and “how to put on a motorcycle helmet” last night, I had no idea what I was doing. Was it obvious? It was probably obvious.
I managed to put it on facing the right way first go and adjusted the strap under my chin the way they’d done in all those YouTube videos.
By the time Jake had his on, I was mostly sure mine was right.
Then his fingers were at my chin. “Too loose,” he murmured, tightening the strap.
I think I stopped breathing.
His knuckles grazed my jaw, and I was 1000 percent sure I whimpered.
“You want it snug,” he added, his voice a little rough. “Safe.”
Right. Safety. That was definitely the part scrambling my brain.
Then it was time to get on his bike, and everything I thought I knew about attraction flew out the window. Because watching Jake swing his leg over that Harley? That’s a religious experience. But having him turn to help me on? That’s straight-up spiritual awakening territory.
“First time on a bike?” he asked as I settled in behind him.
“It’s that obvious?”
“You’re gripping my shoulders like you think you’ll float away.” His voice held a smile. “Relax, darlin’. I’ve got you.”
Then, after a quick how-to on mid-ride communication (apparently tapping his shoulder wasn’t just flirting), he told me where to put my feet and took my hands and wrapped them around his waist. The solid warmth of him under my palms sent electricity dancing across my skin. “Hold tight,” he said. “Trust me.”
And God help me, I did.
The city blurred past us, lights streaming like stars as we wound through the streets. Every turn pressed me closer against his back, until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. The vibration of the bike hummed through my veins, making my pulse race.
At some point, I stopped overthinking and just existed. In the wind. In the warmth of Jake. In the way his hand would find mine at red lights, fingers interlacing like he wanted the contact as much as I did.
Mount Coot-tha Lookout was quiet when we arrived, just a few other cars scattered about. I climbed off the bike first, trying to play it cool with legs that didn’t fully trust me.
Jake followed, tugging off his helmet and stepping in close. He helped me unclip mine with hands that felt way too gentle for someone who rode like that.
When he slid it off, his eyes met mine. And lingered. Like I was his favourite view.
“Still with me?” he asked, smoothing my hair from my face.
