The Truth About Lennon

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry. Are you okay?”

The man fumbles with his helmet, his hands shaking, and after a few failed attempts to get it off, I reach out and help.

With one swift tug, the helmet pops off, and I’m greeted by the most gorg

eous set of dark brown eyes. On any other day they’d probably be warm and inviting, but as it is today, they look a bit menacing.

“Do I look okay?” he growls, glancing at his leg pinned under the giant hog.

“You’re right,” I say frantically, holding out a placating hand. “Stay right here. I’m going to call nine one one.”

“Where the fuck am I gonna go?”

His words are harsh, which is completely expected considering I just ran the poor man off the road, and they’re probably also fueled by an immense amount of pain, which is why I choose to ignore him.

“Right. Okay.”

Scrambling to my feet, I dart across the road and call for an ambulance, all the while praying I don’t get hauled off to jail, because if anything would make Daddy Dearest piss his pants, it would be that.

The dispatcher takes our location and encourages me to stay calm. She tells me a few other things, but I can’t concentrate because my damn eyes keep lingering on the sexy man across the street. The way his hair tumbles in front of his face. The firm set of his jaw and—

“Ma’am?”

“Huh?”

“Are you hurt?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“An ambulance is on its way.”

“Thank you.” I shove my phone in my pocket and run back across the asphalt.

“An ambulance is on its way.”

The stranger grunts, thanking me for for my assistance as he pushes up on his elbows, somehow maneuvering himself into an awkward sitting position.

He struggles to get his leather jacket off, so I reach out to give him a hand, but a low growl deters me. A couple of minutes pass. Sweat is pouring off of his forehead, and eventually the stubborn man sighs and looks over at me.

“A little help here?”

As delicately as possible, I help him out of his coat. “I’m going to pretend you asked me nicely.”

“And I’m going to pretend you didn’t just try to kill me.”

He has a point, although I’m too distracted by the intricate swirl of tattoos running up his arms, the way his red cotton shirt stretches tight across his chest, and the chunk of dark hair that can’t seem to stay off of his forehead.

No wonder they call this place Heaven. He’s like an angel wrapped in denim and leather.

And if that isn’t the most perfect kind of heaven, I don’t know what is.

“A little less staring, a little more help,” he says, grunting again as he tries to pull his leg out from under the bike.

I should be embarrassed that I got caught checking him out. Oddly enough, I’m not—not one bit. The old me would’ve been, but not Lennon St. James. No sir, she’s a little minx that will do whatever the hell she wants.

For the most part…as long as it doesn’t get her in trouble…or put her in danger.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the ambulance?”