Because Tommy’s there, down the long gray steps on the front drive, sitting easily astride a shiny contraption of chrome and steel like it was made for him, wearing work boots, snug blue jeans and a black leather jacket—looking so sinfully good it might actually be illegal.
A hazard to others. A moving violation. A beautiful disaster just waiting to happen.
I have to remind myself that I’m cross with him, and when I do, I march straight down the steps. His eyes alight on my boots, skirt and light gray sweater—the ensemble gives off an unintended “naughty schoolteacher” feel—and the corner of Tommy’s wicked mouth hooks up accordingly.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Are you mad?!”
He takes a moment to think it over.
“Not the last time I checked.”
“What are you doing here?” I hold out my hands. “And what is this?”
“It’s a motorbike.”
“It’s death on wheels.”
He chuckles. “My mate James loaned it to me for the day. The hills are beautiful this time of year—I thought we’d take a ride together. You wanted stress relief, didn’t you?” Tommy taps the shiny handlebar. “A ride on this is as stress-relieving as it gets—better than normal-bloke sex.”
I peer at him. Do I want to know?
Apparently I do, because I hear myself asking, “Normal-bloke sex?”
“Yeah.” He winks. “I mean it’s not better than how I do it—obviously. But the way an average bloke has sex—this is definitely better.”
I shake my head, folding my arms. “Do you have any idea how dangerous these things are? The statistics on motorbike fatalities are—”
Tommy covers my mouth with his hand.
His palm is warm, and so is his voice—a thick, sweet, honeyed tone.
“Do you trust me, Abby?”
After a moment, he takes his hand away and I gaze into those deep, dark eyes, falling into them so easily it should be frightening.
My answer is simple. True ones always are.
“I do.”
Tommy smiles fully, and my stomach flutters with that lovely swirling sensation.
“Then climb on.”
He places a helmet on my head, buckling the strap under my chin.
“And you might want to do it fast—your granny’s coming.”
I glance over my shoulder to see the whole family gathered outside the front of the door, a spectrum of curious and gob-smacked expressions plastered on their typically reserved faces. And my grandmother is indeed headed this way, her jeweled necklace jingling as she quickly descends the long slope of stone steps.
“Abigail!”
Her voice is high-pitched and harried—a tone I’ve never heard her use before, and one I’m not keen on exploring now.
“Right, then—have to be going!” I lift my hand and give them a thumbs-up. “Talk soon!”
Like a teenager running off with the town bad boy, I hike up my skirt and climb onto the motorbike behind Tommy. He clasps my hands together securely over his stomach.
“Hold on tight, lass.”
I do just that—squeezing my arms around his solid frame and resting my cheek against the warm leather on his back as he revs the engine to life and we pull away with a roar that vibrates in my bones.
And as strange as it is—or maybe it’s not strange at all—I’ve never felt safer.
* * *
Tommy was right—the hills were beautiful, and the motorbike ride was exhilarating—though it’s not something I’d want to do regularly. After riding for a few hours, we stopped to rest at a pretty glen in the middle of nowhere. Tommy brought a flannel blanket, wine, fruit and cheese, and we had a little picnic under a tree.
And then we were kissing and touching and the next thing I knew . . . all our clothes were gone. It was chilly, but Tommy kept me perfectly warm.
And that was beautiful too.
Three days later, I’m in my flat on my sofa, reviewing literature on the latest laparoscopic technology. Tommy’s coming over in a few hours—with takeout dinner and his computer, because he’s insisting I watch some American show from a few years back about a science teacher who goes into the methamphetamine business. Tommy swears that once I start watching, I won’t be able to stop.
There’s a knock on the door and I assume he’s arrived early. But when I open it, it’s not him standing on the other side.
“Grandmother.” This is the first time she’s been to my flat. It may be the first time she’s been to this side of town, ever. “This is a surprise.”
She strides in purposefully—that’s how she is—every move predetermined and planned and for a specific reason. Her chin is up, her nose high as she stands in the middle of the room, glancing at the décor with dispassionate eyes.
I close the door and face her.
“What are you doing with that boy, Abby?”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve craved her approval. She’s been my idol, my example—her control, her poise, her self-possession—everything I’ve always wanted to be.
“His name is Tommy Sullivan. He’s the owner of S&S Securities, the bodyguard firm we hired a few—”