“Must be the writer in me.”
It seemed to take several long beats before they reached Tamale, Chloe’s stomach in knots as the realization she’d never been on amovingmotorcycle, hit her like a tsunami.
She observed Dylan, taking in his chiseled features, as he scooped up a spare helmet out of the bike’s back compartment. Passing it to her, he asked, “Ever been on a motorcycle before?”
Play it off, girl.“Yeah.” The one-word reply wasn’t a boldfaced lie. Truth of the matter, she’d actuallysaton a scooter back in college. It was something she contemplated buying to get around the large campus. Yet, no-risk-taking Chloe talked herself into buying an old, beat-up Volkswagen instead. “I almost bought a scooter when I went to UCLA.”
The look on Dylan’s face spoke louder than the words that accompanied it. Or rather the sniffy tone that accompanied the words. “Um, you do get that, a scooter is in no way like a motorcycle andsittingon a bike is not the same as—”
“Yes, I know,” she quickly interjected, fastening the helmet straps. After shoving her purse in the compartment she added, “That was a bad example. Anyway, let’s do this.”
Chloe tried her best not to be so obvious sizing him up as he mounted the Harley.
Burly. Sexy as all heck.
And once she was safely planted behind him, she could have sworn a smirk sprang to his mouth before commanding her to hold on tight. “I mean, that is if you don’t wanna fall off.”
“Is there ever a time when you’renotbeing sarcastic?”
“And what exactly makes you think I was being sarcastic?”
The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, along with the teasing quirk at the corner of his mouth, said enough. There was no denying, his smart-ass edginess had a way of making her heart plunge into her gut.
Tamale’s engine was fired up and throttled, then Dylan zipped onto Main Street, the sudden jolt causing Chloe to squeeze her arms around his shirt-covered six-pack.
Oh, my…
Visions of him wearing only a towel, swirled around in her head like a mini tornado. That close to him, inhaling subtle hints of cologne, leaning into his back, made her beam from the outside in. For a split second, she almost lost her mind; the desire to lift up his shirt, run her hands over those ripped abs, kiss the nape of his neck, came just as soon as it went.
Breathe, woman. It’s a ride home, not a trip down the freaking altar.
