Chapter 11
Dylan Hawke.Of course he’d won.
And Chloe wasn’t about to hang around and hear him gloat about it. She was keen on slipping out unnoticed, as the crowd—mostly women—pounced on stage like a pack of hungry cougars.
Silly of her to think winning the manuscript back, could be that easy. Fact is, it would have been far less of a hassle for her to break into Dylan’s place and retrieve it herself.
Not a bad idea.
Come on, seriously? She knew better than that.
Goose bumps formed on her shoulders and arms as the cool ocean breeze whispered by. She didn’t mind walking back to the rental from Wilde Pirate. Fortune’s Bay wasn’t a dangerous place, and at only a little past 8 p.m., the sidewalks were still littered with people laughing and singing; albeit most were probably smashed.
Just a half a block into her journey home, she heard the all-too-familiarvroom-vroomsound of what proved to be Dylan’s Harley as he pulled alongside her.
“Want a ride home?”
“I’m not supposed to accept a ride home from strangers.”
“Oh, am I a stranger now?”
Okay, perhapsstrangerwasn’t the best word choice. But she’d walk, as long as needed, to avoid two things: mixing company with the man she lost karaoke to, and getting on the back of that motorcycle—no matter if Dylan Hawke was the sexiest biker her eyes ever fell on.
“Stranger than me,” she said, irritated something more sassy, or grammatically correct, didn’t fly out of her mouth.
“You’re upset you lost?”
Chloe kept trotting along, gaze straight ahead.
“I won’t let you walk home alone. I’m not that kind of guy.”
Picking up pace, annoyance moved through her body.Please. Just. Go.
Dylan pulled over, cut the Harley’s engine, hopped off, then unfastened his helmet as he hurried to catch up to her.
“What are you doing?” Careful not to look at him, Chloe high-stepped it, even faster.
“If you won’t accept a ride from me, I’m walking you home.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can make it just fine on my own.”
“Come on, Chloe. We’re going to the same place. Just hop on Tamale and we’ll be home in—”
Chloe stopped in her tracks. “Wait.Tamale?” She tried to swallow the impending burst of giggles as she faced him, but failed.
“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a guy naming his Harley.”
“Yeah, but Tamale?”
To her surprise, Dylan stretched out a beckoning hand as he stepped closer. “Let me give you a ride home. Plus, I’d like to turn over that manuscript you seem so desperate to get back.”
“You won it, fair and square.” Chloe turned on her heel, began that brisk walk again—a blatant stubborn streak was one of her flaws, this she was fully aware of.
Once Dylan caught up to her, he cupped her elbow; his subtle grasp was warm, sending her ocean-breeze induced goose bumps on a hike. “Please. I’m waving the white flag here.”
Slowly, Chloe pivoted, flicking her chin up to face him, meeting his gaze, soft and meaningful. On their own, those eyes, the color of brown sugar, were enough to make her heart flutterka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.But it was his proximity that sent a cold—or maybe it was a warm—thrill up and down her spine. The word “Okay,” sprung nervously from her throat. “Only if you promise to tell me why you chose the name Tamale instead of something like Blue Thunder or Mistress.”
“Wow, you’ve got quite the imagination there, Miss Davenport.”
