CHAPTER 33
Tristan
Birdie’s face lights up when she spots the new Ducati in the parking lot. “Is that a Superleggera V4?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sprints toward it like a child who has seen a Christmas present. I don’t bother reprimanding her for breaking protocol for the umpteenth time. Let her be happy for once.
Her fingers run along the sleek purple metal, and her grin couldn’t be any wider. Pure joy. When was the last time I saw that on Birdie? She has no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this—to give her something that isn’t just protection, something other than blood and surveillance and suspect lists. To give her freedom, even if only for an hour.
“She’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“Just beautiful?” I tease. “C’mon, use your words. If that was a scene in one of your books, how would you write it?”
She lowers her sunglasses and cocks a brow at me. “Oh. You sure you can handle it this time?”
I rest my back against the bike and smile at her. “Maybe if you go easy on me.”
“Can’t make any promises.” She circles around the beast and grabs the spare helmet. “It crouched like a predator in repose—sleek, angular, and unapologetically rare. The body was cloaked in a matte violet-black, a color that shifted with the light: regal in shadow, electric under streetlamps. Every curve of carbonfiber whispered of speed and precision, sculpted not just for aerodynamics but for desire.”
“Wow.”
She lifts a finger in an ‘I’m not done. Don’t you dare interrupt me’ warning. She’s still circling the bike, taking in every detail she’s just described, memorizing it, like I’m memorizing her. The way the afternoon light catches in her hair, the effortless grace in her movements, the passion in her voice when she talks about something that moves her.
Then her eyes pin me in place. “Gold glinted from the suspension forks and brake calipers, not garish but deliberate—like armor on a warrior. Even idle, it radiated majesty, as if the road itself were beneath its notice.” She inches closer, and my breath catches when her scent fills my nostrils. “Bold but refined, like a woman who commands attention without raising her voice. It wasn’t just a motorcycle. It was a statement—of wealth, of taste, of danger wrapped in elegance.”
Only Birdie Abel can make poetry out of steel and chrome that somehow gives a man a hard-on. “In other words, it’s you.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
My fingers move of their own accord and caress her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my calloused fingertips. “Always,” I whisper, a confession weighted with everything else I can’t say.
Flustered, she pushes her shades up her nose and looks around. We’re in public, and Abel is in the city. Even though I’ve secured the hotel parking lot before I let Birdie out of the room, there’s always a chance he’s following from a distance,taking pictures, twisting things around. I should have been more careful.
Pushing off the bike, I clear my throat. “Do you like her?”
She studies the Ducati one more time. “Well, it’s in my favorite colors, and it’s definitely different from your other bike.”
“Different how?”
A small smile plays at her lips, the kind that tells me she’s about to say something that will completely demolish my ego. “Let’s say this one is more sophisticated than your BMW.”
“Doyoulike it, Birdie?”
“Ilove it, Tristan. But if I’m being brutally honest, it doesn’t exactly scream Tristan Morra.”
Perfect. That’s exactly what I was hoping she’d say. “Then it’s yours.”
“What?” she laughs dismissively.
“I’m not a bike fanatic or an adrenaline junkie. I can survive a few weeks without riding. I got her for you.”
Her laughter continues, but she chops it off when she seems to realize I’m serious. She blinks rapidly, her hands open in the air, demanding an explanation.
“Ever since you told me about your car, how Abel chose it for you when you’d have preferred a bike, I wanted to take you on a ride with me, just for fun. But everything was happening so fast. I was hoping to do so when the garage sent my bike back, but we had to leave and come here. Then…”
I trail off to that moment in the dealership. The way the Ducati calls to me, not because I want it, but because I could so clearly picture her on it. Free. Happy. Fearless. Mighty. Herself.
