Noah shakes his head.
“No, you don’t. Plus, it’s a trade, remember? You’re working on my bike.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rick waves him off. “It’s still not enough. I’m just popping some dents out. You rebuilt the whole damn engine.”
Our waiter approaches, and after a promise to call Noah as soon as his bike is finished, Rick leaves. The waiter takes our drink order, and I’m relieved when It’s just Noah and me again.
“So that’s who you hired to work on your bike?”
“Yeah, that’s Ricky. But I didn’t hire him; we worked out a trade.”
“Meaning?”
“A few months ago he fell on some hard times. His car broke down, and he needed it running because he has a young family, so I helped him. He’s returning the favor.”
Could this man get any more perfect? No really, I’m not kidding.
“That was nice of you.”
Noah shrugs. “He heard about the accident, and lucky for me, Ricky lives and breathes motorcycles.”
“So he works at a bike shop?”
“Right now he works as a janitor at the school. But his dad used to have a custom bike shop, and Ricky worked there until his father passed away. He inherited the shop, but he couldn’t keep it afloat. He ended up having to sell it to pay off all of his dad’s debt.”
I look in the direction Ricky went when he walked away. “That’s so sad.”
“Yeah, it is. He’s crazy good at what he does. A few years ago he bought a few pieces of old, rusted-out equipment, we got them going, and he started doing some side work out of his garage. I want him to build me a custom bike. We’ve even got plans drawn up.”
“So why don’t you do it?”
“Money.” Noah shrugs. “I’m not hurting, by any means, but a custom bike is expensive, and I refuse to let him work for nothing.”
“I know you said he’s returning a favor, but I’ll gladly pay him for working on your bike.”
The waiter stops by, dropping off our drinks, and we order our food. Once he’s gone, Noah shakes his head before taking a sip of his soda.
“Because it was my fault and all,” I say, giving him a sassy yet apologetic smile.
Sliding his hand under the table, Noah finds mine and links our fingers together. “He won’t charge me.”
“Well, if he does—”
“He won’t.” Noah pulls our joined hands to his lips and places a soft kiss against my knuckles. “But thank you for offering. Now,” he says, tucking our hands back under the table, “enough about me. I believe we were talking about you.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” I shrug. “I was born and raised in Manhattan, where I attended an all-girls prep school.”
Noah’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute. You went to an all-girls school?”
“I did.”
“So there were no boys at all?”
I shake my head, laughing at the confused look on his face.
“So you didn’t have boyfriends growing up? There were no proms or making out behind the bleachers after a football game?”
“Kids actually make out behind bleachers after football games?” I ask, fascinated. “I kissed my friend Anastasia in the bathroom my sophomore year. Does that count?”