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“Tell me about your tattoos,” I blurt.
His eyes narrow, lips slam shut, and he shakes his head. “Nope. Next question.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says, attempting to adjust himself. “Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenched tight. He looks away as though he’s trying to hide his pain.
Typical man.
Scooting forward, I position myself behind his back and wrap my legs around his hips to support some of his weight.
“Here. Lean back on me. Take some of that weight off. You probably shouldn’t be sitting up anyway. I think you might’ve hit your head.”
Surprisingly, he leans back, the weight of his body causing the palms of my hands to dig into the loose gravel at the side of the road. I do my best to ignore the bite of pain because right here, with my legs wrapped around a stranger on the side of a coastal highway in a foreign town, I feel more comfortable than I have in a long time.
“I didn’t hit my head.”
His words are soft, and I decide it’s better not to argue with him, so I change the subject.
“Now that you’re situated and, you know, more comfortable, you can tell me about your tattoos.”
“No.”
“They’re really pretty.”
“Tattoos aren’t pretty.”
I shrug. “Mine are.”
That catches his attention. Biker dude cranes his neck to look at me. “You have tattoos?”
I nod, and he narrows his eyes.
“The henna ones don’t count.”
“It’s not a henna. I have—”
I’m interrupted by the call of sirens as the ambulance comes into view. It pulls up along the side of the road, and a couple of men jump out, bags in hand.
“Noah Fucking Cunningham.” The short one shakes his head as he walks toward us.
The tall, lanky one unloads a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. “Only you would wreck your bike and end up in the arms of the prettiest gal in Texas.”
Noah.
Noah Cunningham.
I wasn’t expecting him to be a Noah. He looks too rugged to be a Noah. When I think of Noah, I think of someone sweet, someone less leather and more…tweed.
But I like it. A lot.
“Shut the fuck up, Mikey, and get this goddamn bike off my leg.”
I nudge Noah in the arm. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“That’s all right, darlin’,” Mikey says, squatting down to secure Noah’s leg. “Noah isn’t very nice. In fact, he’s pretty damn grumpy. Unless Nova’s around.”
“Nova?” I ask, hoping it’s his dog. “Is Nova your dog?”
