15 Minutes (Time for Love 4)

Brock looked up and down the street, then back at me. “I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe you’d like to grab a cup of coffee.”

He hadn’t answered my second question, so I narrowed my eyes at him and cocked my hip.

“I don’t like coffee. Are you following me?” I repeated.

“I wouldn’t call it following, since I simply got on my bike and rode here.” He responded with a smirk. “Your sister told me where to find you.”

I made a mental note to speak with Abigail, but had to admit that although I was confused by his appearance, there was a small part of me that was thrilled to see him again.

I told that part to shut up.

“What is it that you want with me?” I asked, honestly confused by his pursuit.

“I want my fifteen minutes.” He brought his hand up to tuck a wayward hair behind my ear, and smiled when I shivered at his touch. “How about tea?”

“What?” I asked, my mind muddled by my reaction to him. Brock was not my type. Not in any way, shape, or form. I went for guys like Scott. Clean-shaven, well groomed, with a penchant for suits. Not tall, burly, mountain-men types, who looked like they wanted to throw you over their shoulder and drag you to their cave.

“You said you don’t like coffee,” Brock explained patiently. “So I was asking if you would rather grab a tea.”

“I don’t want anything,” I answered stubbornly.

Brock stepped forward, getting close enough that all I’d have to do was lean in slightly, and my body would be touching his. He brought his face down close to mine, and I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. I tried to ke

ep my expression blank, so he wouldn’t see the way my traitorous body was reacting to his nearness.

“Just get on my bike, Victoria,” his voice rumbled in my ear. “The coffee joint is a couple blocks away. You give me fifteen minutes, and if you’re not interested in going any further, I’ll bring you back to your car and we’ll be finished.”

He pulled back and looked into my eyes, waiting for my answer. Even though I knew I should just tell him where he could stick his fifteen minutes, that small part of me was refusing to shut up, and was begging me to at least see what happened next. It was sad, but the last two interactions I’d had with Brock were the most intense and exciting moments of my life, and I wanted to see what he had to say.

I nodded slightly, then my breath caught in my throat as his face broke into a wide grin. My heart started to pound, and when he held out his hand, I took it and let him lead me down the sidewalk.

When we stopped in front of a black motorcycle, my stomach plummeted.

“A motorcycle?” I whispered.

“Yeah, what did you think when I said bike?”

“A bicycle,” I admitted, tearing my terrified gaze from the motorcycle to look at Brock.

Brock laughed out loud, startling me as he asked, “Babe, what kind of guys have you dated?”

“I’ve never been on one,” I replied, gesturing toward the bike.

“It’s easy,” Brock assured me. “You’ll just sit behind me and hold on. I’ll do all the work.” He brought his hand up to my face again, this time caressing my cheek as he said, “It’s just up the road, Victoria, so it’s perfect for your first ride.”

I gulped and nodded, then wondered at the fact that Brock seemed to bring out a side of me that not even I’d ever met before. Even I could admit, when it came to relationships, I was usually the one in control, and if I didn’t want to do something … I didn’t. But Brock made me want to do things I’d never done before.

He picked up the helmet and secured it on my head, taking my mat from me and putting it in some sort of satchel on the side. Then he settled onto the bike, turning and offering his hand to help me get on behind him. The bike roared to life underneath me, and I began to tremble. Brock pulled my arms around his waist tightly, bringing my front flush with his back, but before I had a chance to enjoy the comfort of his warmth, we pulled away from the curb.

I couldn’t relax. My body was taut as the wind whipped against me, and I held on so tightly, I was sure I was squeezing the breath out of Brock.

I hated it.

What I’m sure was less than five minutes felt like an eternity, and when he finally pulled the bike over to park, I could barely contain my whimper of relief.

Brock stood up and helped me off the bike. He pulled the helmet off my head, then reached out to smooth my hair back. I was standing there stiff as a board, sure that my body was going to be sore tomorrow, when he said softly, “Not for you.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement, and I worried that I’d somehow failed a test of sorts. Brock was the kind of man who rode motorcycles and sang in a band. What would he want with an uptight debutante like me?