Risky Business

I take her pointed finger in my hand, pressing her palm to my chest though I know she’ll feel my heart pounding. “I’ll be good. You have my word.”

Her eyes drop to her hand beneath mine, and I swear I feel her press into me, her fingertips branding me through my shirt. I want to guide her back through the door she just exited and up to her apartment, but instead, I fight my instincts and pull her toward my motorcycle. I help her onto the back of my bike, where it’s a squished seat, and carefully adjust the zipper on her jacket. Her breath catches, turning the moment into something intimate.

“I know I said I’d wear my helmet, but I only have one,” I say softly. Lifting it up, I carefully place it on her head as her eyes search mine. I buckle the chin strap, and though I want to touch her smile with my fingertips, or my lips, I lower the face shield, giving us the slightest buffer.

I am fucking losing it for this woman. And that’s dangerous as hell. Not only because she’s the one person who might save me and Americana Land, but because I’ve never had anyone get under my skin like this. So fast, so deep, without even trying. Shit, without even wanting to.

But I’ve never been one to back away from a risky move. And I’m not going to start now.

I throw a leg over my motorcycle, giving Jayme a head tilt. “Hang on.”

There’s no hesitation on her part. She wraps her arms around me and presses her chest to my back as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and my body responds like she’s always supposed to have been there.

Before she can change her mind or give me any more rules to follow, I turn on the motorcycle, the rumble drowning out everything the way it always does. This is why I love riding, not some so-called bad boy image as Jayme suggested, but the way that it requires total focus while somehow allowing me to go completely mindless. Work deadlines don’t matter when I’m riding. Neither does family drama or anything else.

Except this time.

Nothing can distract me from Jayme and the whoop of joyful surprise she makes as I pull off into the dark of the night.

CHAPTER 7

JAYME

Clutching Carson’s torso, with my ass threatening to pop out on the shallow saddle created by his motorcycle’s seat, I’m trying hard not to scream. There’s a level of trust in letting him be in control like this, following his moves as he leans left and right, making turns through the nearly deserted streets. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I know I want to go.

This is so much more than a bad idea. It’s potentially self-destructive on a nuclear level. Not because I can’t get close to a client. Sometimes, that’s the best way to do my job. One of my best friends, Taya, is actually a former client I helped when she needed to soften some rough edges on her public personality. We go shopping and have lunch and tell each other outrageous stories that make us laugh until we’re crying and rolling on the floor. I know more about her than most people do, and vice versa, so we’re definitely close.

But this is different.

I don’t want to laugh with Carson. I want to dig deep under his skin and explore what really makes him tick. Scarier still, I want to let him into my own closely-guarded world. I boldly told him that I wanted all his secrets and let him think I don’t have any of my own. But that’s not true. Everyone does, including me.

I let the wind whipping past us take those worries away with every mile of road we cover. I want to enjoy this, however fleeting this moment and experience might be. Curling into Carson’s back, I can pretend we’re just two people out for a night ride with nothing keeping us from going as far as we want.

He drives us past the city limit sign, heading toward the western mountainous bluffs that are crisscrossed with trails and campsites. I’ve been out here before, when I thought hiking might be a good stress relief from my busy life that’s ninety-eight percent work. Instead, I discovered that ‘hiking’ is shorthand for walking in the heat and dirt, with annoyingly buzzy bugs as escorts, while panting for air and trying not to die, only to make it to your destination and have to turn around to do it again to get home.

In other words, not my favorite thing to do.

We roll back and forth along a winding road, moving in sync. I know this isn’t nearly as fast as Carson can push his bike. To him it probably feels like puttering, but it feels exhilarating to me. And it’s infinitely better than hiking.