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“What? Your bubble butt can’t handle sitting on the back of this bike for that long?” I throw the challenge out while dipping into a saddlebag to get her gift from Keanu. “Here.”
“Thank you.” She unwraps the Limbitless Tees logo-stamped brown paper to reveal a folded scoop-necked black T-shirt.
Keanu warned me to have my phone ready to take a photo when she saw what he had printed on it. So I do. I am prepared for when she shakes the T-shirt out.
“Oh, my—” A smile tugs the corner of her luscious lips, but she fights it all the way.
Snap-snap.She doesn’t even know I took two photos.
She goes to fold it back up, but I am having none of that. I snatch it out of her grasp.
“Hey!” Her face is red, and she’s scowling all pretty at me.
I ignore her shout and hold it up high to read. Then I am snickering at Keanu’s wit at using my surname on her T-shirt and the personalized meaning. In white lettering, he has printed:
TO LAUD OR TO LORD OVER A ROYAL?
THAT IS THE QUESTION.
The Real Ophelia
The T-shirt gets snatched back out of my grasp. She folds it up and puts it in the inside pocket of my jacket, muttering, “I will thank him for his erm… humor and gift.”
“I see he put a lot of thought into—”
“I get what he is saying. You don’t need to be smug about it.”
“Would you like to put it on for breakfast? I promise to turn my back. I can take a photo for Keanu to show him how much you love his gift.”
“I’ll take a selfie soon.”
“Well, let’s go get breakfast.”
“This isnotanother date.”
“Okay.”
Fourteen
PLAYLISTS AND AN AWAKENING LIBIDO
Ophelia
My arse can easily sit on the back of a bike for an hour and a half, although I would rather be in control of the bike. Sitting with my legs spread on either side of Tucker was enough on the short ride to the balloon field. Riding to L.A. will be hell on two wheels, but I can’t let him see what effect he has on me.
I didn’t want to let Tucker know that I rode a motorcycle in Australia for five years, and I have one at home parked in the barn. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I count having my legs spread behind Tucker riding to L.A. as a situation I need to turn around in my favor.
“One thing I didn’t tell you about me, I love to ride motorcycles. I have a 1970 Triumph Bonneville 650. I suggest your arse gets super comfortable on that seat”—I point to the passenger seat—“while you give me the reins of this black steed for the first half of the journey.” It is also a test to see if a man like Tucker can handle not being in control.
His mouth drops open.
“You’ve got a 1970 Bonneville, for real?”
“In British racing green and white. The custom paint job set me back a lot, but it was worth it—only two owners before me.” I sound proud because I am.
“Well, hop on, or better still, I’ll get on first. This bike weighs nearly nine hundred pounds, and I’ll steady the bike for you while you get on and start it up because Shamus won’t be pleased if I return it with a scratch on it. By my calculation, you would be one ten in a stiff breeze.”
I know this is a heavy touring bike—more than double the Bonneville’s weight, and I am a small woman. I do weigh around fifty-one kilograms, so his guess is pretty accurate.
