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“Now you’ve earned your stripes, we can relax the rules.”
“So next time I can swing by IGA?”
“Sure.”
Solo rifled a hand over his hair and a little stab of pure want shot through her, knowing how soft those short spikes would feel under her fingertips.
“I can’t believe you and Ben stitched me up like this.” He was shaking his head now. “And that I subjected those poor guys to eating it.”
“It tasted marginally better than it looked.”
They exchanged glances, the undercurrent unmistakable, funnelling heat into her sex. The urge to reach up and actually run her fingers over his hair, pull his face down and kiss him was so overwhelming Polly had to bound into remedial action.
“You dump the cake; I’ll stack the chairs.” She almost sprinted around the room, grabbing chairs, feeling Solo’s gaze on her, before he turned and cleared the rest of the debris off the table.
They finished and Solo went to get his helmet and the empty container. Polly grabbed her bag and coat and they exited.
After she’d locked the doors, they stood together in awkward silence.
“We’ll need to do a de-brief of the group at some time,” she said, to fill the gap.
“Now?” he suggested.
A sudden spasm pulled her belly into a tight knot. If she spent a moment more in Solo’s company, it was practically a given that she’d drag him into bed. It would get messy, and she’d seen enough mess to last her a lifetime.
There were guys you got down and dirty with, and guys you worked with. It was rather like enemy lines. You never crossed them.
Polly shook her head. “No, I’m pooped.”
Did his shoulders stiffen under the leather of his jacket?
“I’ll be writing up the group first thing in the morning.” She tried to sound casual. “We could discuss it then.”
“No problem.” He swung his helmet under one arm and turned to go, then turned back. “Look, I’m sorry.”
Her breath hitched. “For what?”
“For hijacking the group. I realise you probably had an agenda for the session and I—let’s just say I… should have worked with you on that. So I apologise.”
A warm feeling spiralled around her chest. The guy was big enough to apologise. She blinked at the unbidden memory of warm hands cupping her face; the tip of her nose tingled, and instinctively she wrinkled it to try and dislodge the sensation of his lips just there.
Solo cocked an eyebrow. “What was that look for?”
“What look?”
“Like I hit a nerve or something?”
“No need for the psychoanalysis, thanks very much.”
He’d hit a nerve all right. Every nerve in her body, to be precise. Sure, he turned her on, that was a given, but this… this other pull, like she wanted to bury her head into his chest, feel his arms circling her tight. Christ, she barely knew this guy.
The fact was, being around Solo Jakoby made her feel vulnerable as all hell. And that was an emotion she’d promised herself years ago that she’d never let herself feel again.
Solo gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Seems I’m good at firing wide of the mark with you. Catch you tomorrow.”
She glanced at his features to see them drawn tight, and silenced the soft corner of her heart that yearned to say something, anything, to make it better between them. Instead, she watched as those long legs reached his bike and he slammed on his helmet, the actions followed by the throaty roar of the Ducati’s engine starting up.
Swallowing a weird lump in her throat, Polly located her car keys and stamped on the ridiculous urge to follow him home.
