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“A little help here?”
As delicately as possible, I help him out of his coat. “I’m going to pretend you asked me nicely.”
“And I’m going to pretend you didn’t just try to kill me.”
He has a point, although I’m too distracted by the intricate swirl of tattoos running up his arms, the way his red cotton shirt stretches tight across his chest, and the chunk of dark hair that can’t seem to stay off of his forehead.
No wonder they call this place Heaven. He’s like an angel wrapped in denim and leather.
And if that isn’t the most perfect kind of heaven, I don’t know what is.
“A little less staring, a little more help,” he says, grunting again as he tries to pull his leg out from under the bike.
I should be embarrassed that I got caught checking him out. Oddly enough, I’m not—not one bit. The old me would’ve been, but not Lennon St. James. No sir, she’s a little minx that will do whatever the hell she wants.
For the most part...as long as it doesn’t get her in trouble...or put her in danger.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the ambulance?”
“No, we shouldn’t,” he says tightly, glaring up at me. “Now would you give me a hand?”
I’m not sure what he thinks I’m going to do. I’m lucky if I weigh a buck twenty soaking wet, and this motorcycle probably weighs ten times that.
“What are you doing in Heaven?” Palms pressed flat against the bike, he pushes, but the heap of steel doesn’t move.
“I’m an angel, where else would I be?” I give my brightest smile, but Motorcycle Man only glares. “Okay. Not the time for jokes. Sorry.”
“You didn’t—” He huffs, pushing again. “—answer my question.”
“How do you know I’m not from Heaven?”
“Because I know everyone in this town. Plus,” he adds, blowing out a sharp breath, “the locals know there’s a curve on this road. Anytime there’s an accident, it’s a tourist.”
“Yes, well, I’m not a tourist.”
He lifts a brow, challenging me, and I clear my throat.
“Okay, fine. I’m a tourist, but not for long. I’m moving here.”
Temporarily, but he doesn?
?t need to know that
“Why?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Pressing my hands to the tank, I push, hoping our combined strength will be enough to move the bike.
It’s not.
“Well, I do.” Taking a deep breath, he blows it out slowly and gives up on trying to move the bike.
His forehead is pinched in pain, his eyes glassy, and I wonder if maybe he hit his head.
“Listen, I’m trying really hard not to pass out here, so if you could just keep talking and keep me occupied, I’d appreciate it.”
“Um...okay.”
Come on, Lennon. You can do this. When I think about keeping a man occupied, I think about giving him a toe-curling kiss, or slipping my hand into his pants, but I highly doubt Motorcycle Man here wants me crawling on his lap at a time like this. Plus, he probably has a wife at home. A really gorgeous wife.
