Tomorrow is the lunch. She’s going to be there. Whether by choice or by force.
I tighten my grip on the throttle, jaw clenching as I think back to that night after my fight, the way she sat behind me on my bike. The way she made that offhand remark about me never letting anyone ride with me. She wasn’t wrong; there’s a reason I keep that seat empty. That spot is too close. Too intimate. A confession made of chrome and leather.
Most of the guys bring women on their bikes because they know exactly where it’ll lead. But I never needed that excuse. I never needed a woman on my bike for things to go my way.
Candace, though? Fuck. If I knew getting her on the back of my bike would lead to her unraveling beneath me, I might rethink that rule. The memory of her body pressed close sends a surge of heat through my veins. The warmth of her thighs against mine, the way she held on as if she didn’t want to but couldn’t help it.
I shake the thought away and make another turn, scanning the dark houses out of habit. Lights flicker in a few windows, shadows moving behind drawn curtains. Then I spot her.
She’s locking her front door, completely unaware that I’m here. Her brow knits tight. Shoulders tense. Even from a distance, I can see the weight she carries. My gut tightens. She always looks as if she belongs somewhere else, as if she’s got one foot out the door, ready to run from this entire town. Or from me.
The moment she notices me, her entire body stiffens. Then, as if I lit a fire under her, she bolts for her car. My pulse spikes, but not with victory. With fear. One of these days, she really might run.
A slow grin spreads across my face.Too late, sweetheart.
I hit the gas just enough to cut her off, sliding my bike right behind her car, blocking her in. The tires grind softly against gravel. She skids to a stop, whirling to face me with a scowl so sharp it could cut glass. Hands on her hips, feet planted as though she’s bracing for battle, that defiant tilt to her chin making my pulse spike.
She has no fucking idea how effortless it is; how she gets under my skin without even trying. The messy ponytail, loose strands framing that stubborn face. That black tank top, clinging to heras if it was made for her. Those ripped denim shorts, teasing just enough to make a man lose his mind.
And that damn flannel tied around her waist? It’s as though she walked straight out of a fantasy. A reckless, wild thing begging to be chased. My fingers twitch around the handlebar as if they want something to hold on to. As if they want her.
I want her on my bike. I want her to hold on.
I want her to want me.
“What the hell do you want?” she snaps, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “Back off, asshole.”
I wet my lips, smirking at her. I know she hates it, but I also know she notices. “James has been trying to get in touch with you.”
She crosses her arms, shifting her weight. “Yeah, I know. Dad told me you guys are having a family lunch tomorrow.”
That catches me off guard. Chuck actually told her? Maybe he’s more self-aware than we thought.
“You’re going to be there,” I say, no room for argument, each word steady as my heart pounds faster.
She lifts a perfect eyebrow. “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what I’m going to do?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Instead, I climb off my bike, closing the space between us in long, measured strides. Boots crunch over gravel. The air between us vibrates with something unsaid.
She steps back. Just once, just enough to tell me she’s not as unaffected as she wants to be. Then she hits the car, and I can see the moment she realizes she’s trapped.
Her breathing hitches as I step even closer, heat rolling off her in waves. She holds herself as though she can take me. As though she won’t flinch. Her pulse flutters at her throat, and for a split second, I wonder how it would feel to press my lips there, to taste the defiance on her skin.
Fuck. I wonder what she’d do if I reached up, pulled that hair tie out of her ponytail. If I threaded my fingers through that wild hair and tugged just enough to make her gasp.
Her lips part slightly, and I barely resist the urge to find out.
“Can you stop hating me for one damn minute?” My voice is low, rough. “Maybe I’m trying to help you, Sour Patch. Maybe I’m trying to help your father,” I add, letting the teasing drawl linger just enough to get under her skin.
She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, cut it out. I don’t need your pet names. Or your help.”
I place my hands on her car, caging her in. My palms meet warm metal, my arms bracketing her in. Her chest rises sharply, and the soft brush of fabric against my body is enough to make my fingers twitch. My eyes flick down, andfuckthat tank top does me no favors. My pulse kicks, breath catching in my throat with raw hunger I barely hold in check.
Her voice hardens, but there’s something underneath it. Something I can’t quite pin down. “My father stopped wanting help a long time ago.”
“And you?” I murmur, leaning in. “You don’t need help?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. A strand of hair falls into her face, and before I can think better of it, I reach out, brushing it away. It’s as soft as I imagined. She inhales sharply, lips parting just slightly. For a second, just a second, I think she’s going to let me in.
