His gaze skimmed her from head to toe and nodded in approval. “You wore boots, too. Good.” He swung his leg over and dismounted—is that what it was called getting off a steel horse like this?
Misty had never really had an interest in motorcycles, but with this bike, and, more likely, Denver and his leather standing in front of it… That could change. “That doesn’t look like any motorcycle I’ve ever seen. It’s way more—” She searched for the right word, and almost said “more” again. “—classy looking.”
“That’s probably because you’re used to seeing nothing but Harleys and crotch rockets.” Denver ran one big hand lovingly over the dark green tank. “This here is Roxanne. She’s a 1981 BMW R100RT, one of the greatest of the airheads.”
Misty had no idea what that meant. “Most women wouldn’t appreciate being called an airhead.”
That deadly grin flashed again, and she felt her internal temperature rise a few more degrees. “It means the engine is air-cooled as opposed to oil- or liquid-cooled, like more modern vehicles.”
Misty made a face like that meant something to her, then gave up. “It’s pretty,” she offered.
He laughed. Serious, monosyllabic Denver Hershal actually laughed. “Yes, yes she is. My dad and I rebuilt her together back when I was in high scho
ol.” It was obviously a good memory for him. “She’s perfect for a Sunday afternoon ride and the weather’s beautiful. You game?”
She eyed the seat, which didn’t seem to leave a lot of room at the back end. “Is there room for two people?”
“Sure. Gotta get you suited up first, though.” He stripped off his jacket and held it for her to put on.
Wait, did she really want to do this?
“What about you?” His t-shirt would hardly provide good protection in the event of a crash.
“We’re not going far or fast. I’ll be fine.” He waited until she’d slipped her arms into the jacket—the sleeves came down past her wrists—and zipped her in. It smelled of leather and man. Misty was still absorbing that, when he unstrapped a second helmet from the back of the seat. He eyed the baby roses in her hair. “Sorry about the flowers. They’re gonna get squished.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I own a florist shop.” She reached out for the helmet and slipped it on.
Denver crouched down, shifting, tugging, and adjusting straps, until he was satisfied the helmet fit properly. “All right. You ready?”
Her nerves jumped. “Is that rhetorical question?”
“Ever been on a motorcycle before?”
“No.” She shook her head for emphasis and felt like a bobblehead doll from the extra weight.
“You have the easy job. Hang on to me, lean when I lean. That’s it. Easy as pie.”
“Pie,” she repeated. “Right.”
“I’ll get on first, then you swing on behind me.” He put his own helmet back on, kicked up the stand, and swung one long leg over the back.
There really didn’t look like enough room on that seat for two people. As if sensing her reluctance, Denver scooted forward a bit.
Pie, she thought again, and swung her own leg over, using his shoulder for balance. She was right. There really wasn’t a lot of room on the seat. Left with the choice of leaving her butt hanging precariously off the back or snuggling up against Denver’s back, she chose the snuggle, scooting forward until the insides of her thighs bracketed his ass. It was a very fine ass.
Oh boy.
“You’re gonna want to hold on,” he said, his voice muffled by the helmet.
Misty closed the face shield and lightly gripped his waist. He cranked the bike and smoothly pulled away from the curb. This wasn’t so bad. Nice and easy, as he’d said. Then he shifted gears with a little jerk that had her clenching her hands tighter. When he leaned into the turn off Main Street, and onto the country road that would take them out to The Misfit Inn, she yelped and banded her arms around his waist, plastering herself to his back.
“Relax!” he shouted, laying a hand over hers, where she was probably squeezing the life out of him.
She forced her muscles to ease a fraction. As the bike gained speed, she tried to focus on something other than the terrifying sensation of not being surrounded by anything. What she focused on was him and the curious intimacy of riding behind him. Pressed close, she felt every shift of his body, every flex of his muscle. He didn’t have any of her tension. He was a man in complete control.
And Misty liked it. She also liked the defined ridges of abs she felt beneath her palm. This man was in shockingly good shape for a guy who worked in a bar, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit, she wouldn’t mind getting to know the rest of him a little better. She wondered if this had been his plan.
The ride was over too soon.