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I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t anything. I was flying. Because for the first time since the day my world shattered, I wasn’t paralyzed by my grief. Because for this one moment, I wasn’t thinking of anything but the wind and the ride and…

And because I had my hands on a man who wore red flags like they were his favorite color. I didn’t care that he was dangerous for me in every way that mattered because this felt really good.

Sprinkles became big drops of rain. In moments, my jeans were soaked. Spray from the road soaked my shoes, and my hair clung to my face. A laugh bubbled out of me even as my tears continued to fall. There was something cathartic about the wind, the rain, and the roar of the bike.

I wanted to let go of Brett, lift my arms in the air, and ride as if I didn’t live under the heavy blanket of depression. With the rain coming down harder, I was getting cold. Yet, I didn’t want to slow down, I didn’t want to exit off the highway, and I didn’t want to go home.

Brett headed north, and I pointed when he needed to take a left. The headlight on his Harley reflected off the drenched streets as we rode through my neighborhood. The gutters had become rivers of rushing waters, and puddles became pools at the corners of intersections.

After a few more turns, he pulled into the driveway of my house. Security lighting brightened the covered breezeway between the detached garage and the house. Lightning struck nearby, and the loud crack of thunder made me jump. I gripped Brett’s shoulders.

He chuckled and dropped the sidestand.

“That was close.” Still gripping his leather vest with one hand, I swiped water from my face with my other. Then I clutched his shoulder. Sheesh. His muscles were like solid rock. I tried not to fall on my face as I climbed off the bike.

Brett ran his fingers through his hair. He was soaked, and the storm was still gaining momentum. Wind whistled through the breezeway. With the engine idling, he lifted his leg over the bike, unbuckled the saddlebag, and handed me my purse. “Are you going to be okay?”

My chest was tight, and my tummy tumbled with cartwheels. I was never going to be okay again, but in this moment, I wasn’t thinking about my grief. I was cold, wet, and vibrating with an intoxicating high from being on his motorcycle. High from touching a man when I’d felt alone for an eternity. High from being attracted to a man who could wreck my life.

There were lines a teacher couldn’t cross, and yet, they were blurring.

Wet strands of hair clung to his chiseled face. His leather vest glistened in the overhead lighting. We were both dripping wet, but I was the only one with reckless thoughts. He’d done nothing more than stop for a stranded motorist and made sure I’d made it home.

He couldn’t be all red flags and danger.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “For stopping and for bringing me home.”

For making me feel emotionally lighter by putting me on the back of your bike and letting me put my hands on you. For surrounding me in your scent when you handed me your flannel. For not looking at me with pity, like I could break with the slightest touch.

Lightning brightened the sky. “Do you want to come in for coffee and wait out the storm?” I walked a reckless and dangerous line, but it was just coffee. Then why was my pulse tripping? Those warning bells were drowned out by the rain and the clap of thunder.

“Coffee sounds good.” He killed the engine.

I unlocked the side door to the two-story colonial. We stood close together in the small mudroom off the kitchen. I hung my sweater and purse, and his flannel on a hook on the hall tree cabinet and dropped my house keys into the bowl on the top shelf.

“You can take off your boots.” I braced one hand on the wall, slipped off my shoes, and peeled off my soaked socks.

Brett squatted down and unlaced his boots.

“I’ll get you a towel.” I flipped on lights and gave a quick scan of my kitchen on the way to the bathroom. Had I known I’d have company, I would’ve cleaned up a bit. At least there weren’t dishes in the sink, but mail was strewn across the kitchen counter, I had unfolded laundry in the corner, and the dining room table had become my office. There were folders, legal documents, life insurance and lawsuit paperwork, and the last family photo of Jeff, Matti, and I to remind me of what I was fighting for.

Once I had a couple of towels, I hurried back to the mudroom. We were soaked to the skin. I handed him a towel, and he rubbed it over his head. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the flex and pull of his forearms. With hard edges and muscles, there was nothing soft about him.

Looking at him made me warm. Too warm. I wasn’t a woman who imagined men naked, and with Brett I didn’t have to. His clothes molded to every sinful cut and groove of his body.

Oh my god. I was flushed. Heat in my center chased the chill from my flesh and the shiver slipping down my spine.

“You can come in,” I said, leading us into the kitchen. I scrambled to the island counter and gathered up a week’s worth of mail and stuffed it into a drawer. “I’ll get a pot of coffee started.”

Brett slipped off his leather vest and hung it on the back of one of the wooden stools at the island. My breath came fast and shallow. He seemed to suck up all the oxygen in the room. Maybe because other than my dad and my brother, I hadn’t had another man in the house since Jeff died.

The house was massive, but the kitchen felt intimate, too intimate to not feel the weight of his gaze as he tracked me across the room.

“It’ll just take a few minutes to brew,” I said as I filled the carafe with filtered water. Pots and pans hung from a mounted rack next to the double ovens. Whitewashed brick matched the white shiplap walls.

“I’m not in a hurry.” He sat on the stool and glanced out the darkened window to my backyard. Rivulets of water trickled down the glass. And the storm raged on. “Nice place.”

The house and yard were beautiful. Pool and jacuzzi. Outdoor living space with a full kitchen. Much too nice for a schoolteacher’s salary. Much too big for a single woman with no social life.