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Relief smothered my pride, and I could breathe again. He must be a good person deep down. “Thank you.” I took a step toward him.
And then I stopped, feeling the restriction of my tight pencil skirt across my legs, and looking down at it in horror.
“Oh, that’s right.” His voice was like smoke. “Your legs are stuck together.” His smile grew broad and smug. “That’s what happens when you’re too uptight.”
Fury boiled up in me. He had seen immediately that I couldn’t exactly ride a motorcycle like this. I glared at him. “Too bad your lips aren’t stuck together.”
He laughed and saluted. “Touché. But, seeing how you’re not really dressed for riding, I better get going.”
“Wait,” I snapped, and he raised his brows as I considered my skirt. I could scrunch it up around my waist, but then it would get wrinkled and folded, ruining my pristine interviewee appearance.
Of course, I had one other option. I was wearing tights.
The voice of fashion set up shop on my left shoulder. Tights aren’t pants. And these tights aren’t even leggings, they’re just barely opaque.
Practicality took the opposing shoulder. Plenty of people still wear tights as pants.
You’re a failure, the inner voice whispered.
“Sorry, Rach,” Ryan drawled. “Best of luck getting to that interview.”
Damn that inner voice and the voice of fashion, too. “I said, wait,” I repeated, and then pushed out the three buttons on my skirt. “I’m coming with you.”
His shock turned to delight at my discomfort as I stepped out of my skirt. My cheeks flamed, even though it wasn’t difficult to ignore the side eyes coming this way. After all, this was New York. We’re brilliant at not seeing other people.
Ryan, on the other hand, watched without blinking while I carefully rolled my skirt up and placed it in my purse. He shook his head, grinning as his brows formed a disbelieving tent. “You’re insane.” He stared at my thighs—I hoped—as he got off his bike and opened up the attached trunk. “Completely mad.”
“I have an interview.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Jerk. I snatched the helmet he offered and pulled it over my head. I’d briefly dated an Italian boy during my junior semester abroad, and we’d blissfully zoomed around Rome on his scooter for two months. Then, of course, I freaked out by how very fast he wanted to go, and I sort of ran away. Still, he’d taught me the art of not crushing my ears under a full-face fiberglass bucket.
I tossed my purse in the trunk, and then threw my stockinged leg over the bike. Ryan lectured as I did, irritatingly amused. “Now, don’t be shy. You need to hold onto me, and tighter is better—”
I wrapped my arms around his stomach, sliding my hands over his jacket until they hugged the other side of his torso. My legs pushed forward until they pressed snugly against his, and after a moment’s hesitation, I flattened my breasts against his broad, corded back. I heard a harsh intake of breath, and a shudder ran through him. I smiled against his back. “I take it you’ve ridden a bike before?”
I felt a little smug. “I had an Italian boyfriend.”
“Course you did.” He revved the bike. “I bet he was just your type. Dark and handsome—took you to art museums. Maybe the opera.”
“Brought me bouquets and diamond necklaces, too.”
We bickered all the way to my interview. That was fine with me. It kept me from concentrating on how Ryan’s abs were warm and carved under my hands. He smelled like cedar and faint male musk, and his back was broad enough to block out the wind. And every part of me that touched him...wanted.
I let out a tiny sigh. Fantastic. I was officially in lust with a guy I despised.
When he stopped a block away and a street over from Trophy Press, I reluctantly peeled my body away from him, and drew off the helmet. “Thanks.” I swapped out the helmet for my purse, and shimmied back into my skirt.
He snagged me by my waistband, pulling me forward. “You missed a bit.” He tucked an edge of my blouse under the skirt.
Our eyes caught. His shone, pale and bright and crinkled at the edges. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my legs around his waist and have a good, long make out session. My gaze dipped to his lips.
They curved. He knew exactly what I was looking at.
Ugh. How h
umiliating. It was only because I was in that cursed horny part of my cycle, nothing more. I had to do something about this. I should just make out with someone at a club.
